Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Ryan could hear the word echoing in his ears, both in Sister Chastity's cutting tone and his own internal voice. Except that where her condemnation was tinged with amusement, his reproofs carried nothing but despair and loss.
He punctuated his self-denunciations by periodically pounding on the hotel bed on which he was lying. But that didn't bring any relief. The mattress was so soft that his fist simply sank into it, absorbing what little energy he was able to muster with his atrophied muscles.
It was strange, he reflected, but throughout the two years he had been trapped at the Convent, he would have killed for the opportunity to sleep in a comfortable bed. Yet so used was he now to his chamber's hard pallet, sinking into the surface of this bed almost felt like slipping under water.
Even if he had felt able to sleep, and bone weary as he might be, he knew that the unfamiliarity of the mattress would have kept him awake.
He briefly considered rolling over and punching the wall instead. But deep as he was in depression, he had not lost his sense of self-preservation.
There might be some temporary relief to be had from the damage he would do, the physical pain somehow easier to endure than the profound mental distress he was experiencing. But there would be no hiding his self-harm.
The nuns of the Blessed Order of Saint Pilarupta, the ones who had taken him into captivity after he had checked into what he thought was just an eccentric old hotel? They saw everything, knew everything.
They could and did inflict pain on him. He had come to know that intimately, especially at the hands and devices of Sister Felicity, the avenging demon who had once been his oppressed girlfriend. But the pain was theirs to administer, and hers above all. If he physically damaged himself, he knew, the retribution would hurt a lot more than bruised and bloodied knuckles - and last much, much longer.
So all he could do was hurl empty imprecations at his weakness. And try very hard not to think about what a second day of release from the Convent might bring.
Only thirty hours or so earlier, he had embarked on what he was told was a "field trip" to the city in which he had previously lived and worked. He had travelled there with Agnes, the delectable young novice with whom he had become reluctantly but irretrievably infatuated.
Supervised only by the handsome Sister Chastity and sour old Sister Patience, he had envisaged being able to use the crowded streets to escape their clutches, and somehow make contact with his family.
And yet even when he slipped away from his escorts, the control they had over him could not be evaded. Through some means he still didn't understand, but presumably involved a form of hypnosis, he had been conditioned to go where they wanted. And when Sister Chastity allowed him to call his father, he learned a shocking truth.
As far as the world was concerned, Ryan Seldon was a paedophile who'd stolen from his family and disappeared. There was no help to be had from anyone who had previously known him, least of all the man who had been the source of all his wealth and social advantages. The rage Ryan had heard at the mere mention of his name had convinced him of that.
So instead of the Great Escape, the trip to the city became what it was always intended to be - a chance to heap more humiliation upon him. To teach him more lessons about what the Order believed the superior sex had to endure.
During his enslavement, Ryan had been made to look, talk and act like a woman. And not just any type of woman, but the epitome of beauty and sex appeal. He was no longer Ryan, but Amanda. And the makeup, lingerie and ludicrously high heels that he now habitually wore all had one aim - to make him an object of male desire.
At the Convent, paradoxically, the sexual abuse he endured in this guise had all come from women. The senior nuns, those who wore the black, had used him unmercifully, just as they had the other male novices, initiates and servants.
Much of the time, that simply meant being called upon to finger or lick the nuns in the way that another woman might - though the pleasure was never reciprocated.
But for Ryan especially, it could also involve having to suck or be penetrated by huge dildos - and frequently endure large quantities of fake sperm being pumped down his throat, all over his face, or deep inside his ass. Sister Felicity had delighted in making him experience the treatment he had doled out to her and so many other women during his former life.
In the city, the lessons he had been learning were taken to a whole new level.
It had begun at the strip club to which he and Agnes, dressed in a parody of their usual outfits, had been taken to dance. Before they went on stage, he had been sick with worry. Yet it had been surprisingly easy to perform. Partly because they had been practising at the Convent. But mostly because he had been able to lose himself in the delights of the little blonde's nubile body. Their sex act, far more real than the watching crowd may have suspected, had helped distract and insulate him from the baying men around them.
But he should have known not to relax. Because the price of a successful performance was having to do a series of private shows, for which the men concerned had to bid just to get a booking.
And that's when the fun really started. Or at least what the nuns guiding and profiting from his efforts would have regarded as fun.
The first show was easy enough, for a smitten young man who was satisfied just with being able to watch and gently caress what he clearly thought of as some kind of goddess.
The second man was a different story. He wanted extras. And when Ryan quoted a ridiculously high price for a blowjob, he was willing to pay it. Which was how the captive and sissified young man came to experience, for the first time, a real cock in his mouth.
The huge size of the client's appendage had not disconcerted him. Large as it was, he'd had to wrap his lips round even bigger phalluses. So while getting it in his mouth was difficult, the physical act was manageable. He could even let the organ slide down his throat without gagging too much, to the delight of its owner.
"Fuck yeah Mandy," the man had exclaimed. "Swallow that big dick, all the way down baby!"
Even the inane commentary was somehow not too disturbing. But the feel and taste of what he was sucking was something else altogether.
No matter how realistically sculpted, the dildos to which he was used were completely inert. Even when they spurted cream, there was no sense of life, just motion.
The warm, pulsing flesh in his mouth was completely different. And so was the smell of the man's crotch. The overpowering, musky aroma was unmistakably masculine and far removed from the feminine scents to which he had become accustomed.
The first mouthful was nearly enough to make him throw up. Only his iron self-discipline, honed over what he had learnt only today was at least two years of captivity, prevented him from rearing back in disgust.
As it was, for a moment he thought of admitting to the client that he had made a mistake, of trying to get away with just a handjob. He would just have to accept whatever retribution would follow from the nuns, who were no doubt watching through hidden cameras.
But at this point, he was still committed to finding a way of getting his life back. And if that meant enduring this latest humiliation and continuing to build trust with his captors, while he kept looking for some chink in their defences, some loophole that might lead to freedom, so be it.
Characteristically, he let none of his turmoil show. Instead, he lifted his head to look up at the client and forced a lascivious-looking grin as he ran his tongue over the bulbous purple head. Ignoring the fluid that was already starting to ooze from the tip, he gave an appreciative "Yum!" and started bobbing his head up and down.
As he reflected later, his decision to endure the sensation of sucking another man's cock might well have been a turning point. If he'd rebelled then , he would undoubtedly have been punished, and severely. His life could well have turned out worse, in all kinds of ways.
But maybe he would have been spared at least part of the disturbing sequel to his shift at the club.
As it was, he proved to be surprisingly efficient at giving head. In only a matter of moments, and well before the panting and increasingly vocal client ran out of his allotted time with "Mandy," the throbbing shaft in Ryan's mouth erupted with a positive geyser of spunk.
The quantity of fluid was something the abused novice was well and truly accustomed to ingesting. But the taste was something else.
At the Convent, any fake semen that Ryan was fed was delicious. And so too, more surprisingly, was the real fluid that oozed in depressingly small quantities from the shrivelled remnant of his own cock, or that of the other "girls."
But this was different. It had a salty tang, with a rancid undertone that Ryan somehow knew would linger on his tongue and the back of his throat, even as he gulped it down. Was this what real men's cum was truly like? Or was there something wrong with this particular batch?
The one thing Ryan knew for certain was that he found it disgusting.
