Bunker 69 Ch. 01

The vault door slammed shut behind Sam Russel, leaving him outside of Bunker 18 for the first time in his life. He cringed at each click of the heavy steel locking mechanism: they separated him further from his friends, his family, and his home. All of that was over now. He was alone.

Sam breathed in the air. He appreciated that it lacked the distinctive fishy smell of algae-circulated air, but it left a metallic taste in his mouth that told him the radioactive fallout was still dangerous. He donned his gas mask, locking it behind his head before pulling up his hood. He adjusted the goggles to filter out the harsh sunlight; if he wasn't covered head to toe in protective clothing, his pale skin would be sunburnt in no time.

He knew he needed to get the map out and chart his course. That course, though, would lead him somewhere he wasn't sure he could go. He wanted to put it off; youthful immaturity, maybe. He ventured through barren forests and hiked solid mountains. He watched a bright red sunset. He pissed outside for the first time. At the end of the day, though, he had to acknowledge it. He'd die if he stayed out here. It was beautiful and it was free and it was killing him. His world was hostile. The only shelter he could seek was the one bunker that accepted outcasts: Bunker 69.

The map marked the necessary headings to access his new home. Sam shivered thinking of it. He didn't know much about it, apart from the fact that they accept newcomers. Bunker 18 had been in hardwire contact with scores of other bunkers but Bunker 69 only ever sent necessary communication over telegram. That made it a bit of a mystery, though Sam suspected a boring truth. Bunker 69 was poor and collapsing and they desperately needed manpower. They maintained necessary contact with other bunkers but their people are living in squalor, probably dying, and they don't want the word to get out. Sam was 95% sure his life from here on out would be filled with poverty, mistreatment, and suffering at the hands of a small-scale tyrant. He'd be a peon in some wack job's medieval power fantasy. And he'd go along with it, because he has nowhere else to go.

He trekked for a few days, stopping periodically to eat or drink in the patches of natural shelter found along the way. He slept in a lead-lined self-sealer while it was light out and walked with a battery-powered flashlight in the night. His muscles ached. It gave him plenty of time to think. With every step, he got further away from it all. The trauma, the ostracization, the trial. It had driven him mad, and now the source of his frustration was miles behind him. He'd never deal with it again. It made the trudge bearable. The dread of what he would find, though, only grew as he walked.

At last, the red-rock canyon that housed Bunker 69 came into view in the descending sun. Sam found the solid stone to be nice on his sore ankles. He easily walked the rest of the way, finding the general area of the entrance before using an analog beacon to find the doorway. He had been expecting the door to be cobbled and ramshackle. Instead, he found it to be pristine, elegant and polished steel. He was suddenly very unsure of what to think. Should he get his hopes up? What does this mean for him? He didn't have much choice. He buzzed the door.

"State your purpose."

"I'm Sam. Sam Russel. I'm from Bunker 18 but I've come here to seek refuge."

"Are you looking to visit or relocate?"

Sam thought about all of his worldly possessions, now contained in his backpack. It wasn't much.

"Relocate."

There was a long pause before the steel mechanisms began to grind up. Sam awkwardly stood there, shifting his weight from leg to leg as he waited for the door to open. When it settled, he walked into the open airlock. It was similar to the one he'd walked through when leaving 18; what followed next would be the decontamination shower. He noted the plated white tiling around the airlock, and in the next room the decontamination shower was much more sophisticated than 18's. First he sanitized in his radiation suit, along with his pack of belongings. Then, he removed his clothing and decontaminated again. He looked for a gown like 18 had, but there was no such cloth. He assumed he might find it in the next processing room. He walked through the doorway and encountered his first humans. It was a relief for a moment: the first human face he'd seen in a week. Then, the strangeness dawned on him.

Inside the clinical room, there were two pairs of men. For each, one was bowing on his knees at the other's feet. They were all nude. The standing men were older and masculine, covered in tattoos that stretched around their body like spiderwebs. Their cocks hung low with ornamental jewelry around their glans, base, and testicles. They were muscular and their hair was short and neatly cut. Each one sported a helm of some sort, forming artificial devil horns near their temples. The helm left their nose and mouth exposed, but their eyes were hidden behind a visor.

The kneeling men were muscular too, but their tattoos were mostly words. It was difficult to make most of them out, though he did see a bold lettered 'SLAVE' on one of their rumps. One was older and the other one was around Sam's own age. He hadn't seen either of their faces, though. Just the tops of their subservient, shaven heads. Uh oh.

The closer man spoke, loudly and authoritatively. In 18, there was a commonly understood courtesy to keep your noise down. Everyone was sharing an enclosed space, after all. This place was different.

"Your name is Sam Russel, yes?"

"Yeah. Um..."

"Welcome to 69, recruit. Things work a little differently here. We'll be happy to show you the ropes once you're all good and registered. Sit."

The command was so forceful that Sam found himself walking to the medical table in front of the speaking man. His... companion... rose to his knees beside him but still averted his gaze. Sam found the relationships very odd. The other standing man moved to procure a variety of medical equipment. His own... equipment... swung wildly with heavy steel weights on his glans. It was especially big, from the ones Sam had seen in lockerrooms in 18.

"Let's begin. Your name is Sam Russel. Age?"

"20."

"Bunker history?"

"18 my whole life."

The other helmed man began to poke and prod Sam's naked body. His subservient man held some of the implements for him when he wasn't using them. The blood pressure and stethoscope were expected--the muscle measurement wasn't.

"Occupational path?"

"None. Student, I guess."

"Medical history?"

"Mother died of cancer, father's side of the family had addiction. I broke my nose when I was 9. Hey!" Sam exclaimed as the man pinched him with a pair of calipers. In looking back, he saw that the man's large cock was growing. Sam was uncomfortable but the other man quickly redirected his attention.

"Sexual history?"

"Uh... yeah, once. A year ago. Nothing happened, though."

"Sexuality?"

"Do I have to answer?"

"Yes."

"Bisexual."

The other man took hold of Sam's penis. He moved to grab it away and was surprised to have his hand batted off. He held it strongly at the base. Sam tried to focus his mind and keep answering the questions, but the blood pooled quickly in his untouched cock.

"Do you think you are subservient?"

"I don't think so. I think I'm too rough around the edges for that."

"Are you motivated to build a life here?"

"Yes."

The man's servant had set down the medical equipment and begun to blow him. The others didn't seem bothered so Sam did his best to acclimate. Once Sam was fully hard, the hand moved from his cock to his taint before finding his asshole. He'd never been opened up before, but he was getting a prostate exam before he even knew what was happening.

"Hnguuuh..."

The servant began to stroke Sam's cock, which gave him an unexpected shiver. The man asking the questions held him fast when he moved to scamper away.

"You're being milked, recruit. Enjoy it, it may be your last for a while."

"Wha-"

Both servants left their owners' sides and began to pleasure Sam. His heart rate and breath quickened as the arousal mounted. He shot hot, thick cum into the mouth of one of the submissives, panting in relief after he finished.

"Good. Load him in the scanner and then the media room. Hey Sam? The system has given you a brand new name. You're 654-256-119, or 119 for short. You're going to be a bottom slut, serving the bunker. And, maybe, years into your service, you may gain the privilege to compete to become an elder. But for now, all you have to focus on is doing what you're told. Behave."

Sam, or 119, stared back in bewilderment as the servant men led him away. He fought, but their bulky builds overpowered his tired muscles. Locked in a chamber, he was showered off. One of the servants was sent in to shave him; 119 didn't want him to, but he was told there was no choice. Hairless from the neck down and freshly showered, the slave scanned his penis. He covered himself but it was too late; the man had obtained whatever he'd needed.

"3D model complete. Proceed to media room."

The slave led 119 into the next chamber, which featured a throne-like chair in front of a tv with several other electronic devices lining the room. 119 was seated in the chair and the slave strapped him down. After accomplishing all of the assigned tasks, the slave leaned back and admired his work. The newbie was gagged, bound, and deafened with headphones. His eyes fixed on the tv, the slave left him in the room, closing the door behind him. He glanced at the 3D printer on the countertop, already 10% of the way through 119's new chastity cage. 'Welcome to 69, boy,' the slave thought with a grin.