Thursday, 23 July 2015
I have only one cell here. There is space for a dozen, but that would be dangerous. I could fill a dozen cells with teen and twink meat, but then the temptation, or necessity, would be to hold boys for long periods.
Having just one cell requires discipline on my part. Take a boy. Strip him and break him. Reconcile him to his end. Deflower him and enjoy his pain. Maintain his physical fitness and attractiveness, despite his crushing fear. Then, at the appointed time, end him. End him before sentimentality warps my judgement and corrupts my business plan.
Sometimes it’s four weeks to the end, normally five. Now the cell is required again, there is a new boy who needs to stay, and that means saying goodbye to Chris.
Part of me would like to tell you that we needed the kiss of the whip, or the temporary paralysis of the cattle prod, to encourage Chris to mount the stool. Often we do, and that certainly adds to the show. This kid, however, opted to maintain a quiet dignity. Derek and I each held one side of the stool, whilst Chris climbed aboard the metre-high, three-legged wooden affair. The seat – not that the youth would ever be sitting on it – was flat, and twelve inches in diameter. Stood a metre off the ground, hungry and scared, with size ten or eleven feet, those twelve inches never seem generous.
The spotlights adjusted to train their beam on the kid, who, with the additional height of the stool, appeared as a giant to my guests in their arm chairs below and in front of him.
High in the eaves, a motor whirred, and pulleys delivered a rope directly above the stool. Derek, meanwhile, had positioned a tall set of step ladders ready to catch the end of the rope, and was up them in seconds. The kid was eye-to-eye with his tormentor again.
“Eyes straight ahead. Do not move a fucking muscle. Got it?”
I thought for a moment that Chris hadn’t ‘got it’. He made to ignore Derek. Then, out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the huge palm of a hand ready to deliver a stinging slap to his cheek.
Too late. The force of the blow badly de-stabilised the kid, and the audience gasped as he made to wobble off the far side of the stool. Derek, however, was ahead of the action. He grabbed Chris’s left bicep and hauled him back to vertical. His face now looked odd. One rosy-red cheek, with the imprint of a flat palm and five fingers, and one ghostly white cheek.
The boy regained his composure, to an extent. By that time, however, the noose at the end of the rope had been pulled roughly over his head, and was being tightened by Derek.
“Is that nice and comfortable, batty boy?”
Derek guffawed at his crudity.
Of course, it was precisely tight enough. Which meant the kid could feel the coarse fibres around the circumference of his smooth neck. At present, however, discomfort was restricted to the scratchiness of the rope, and a strange sensation of its weightiness.
“Okay, listen bitch, and listen well. You’re about to go for your first lift. In front of you, at the back of the room, is a large digital stopwatch. You see it?”
Chris went to nod.
“Hey kid, at this stage, best not to move your head at all, yeah? If you don’t understand anything, just shout, instead.”
He continued his well-rehearsed script.
“The stopwatch will count down, from thirty seconds. Then, the lift will start. When you’re lifted to where we need you, the stopwatch will start counting down again. But maybe not from thirty seconds!”
He gave a dirty laugh, and some of the audience joined in.
“Anyway, when we reach zero, you get a nice break baby. You see, we’re thoughtful right to the end.”
Derek clambered down the ladder. He turned back to the noosed boy.
“Here’s some free advice. Keep nice and still. Let it happen. No panic, just bravery. That’s what we want to see, kid. Prove you’re a man!”
With that, he removed the ladder, and himself, from the stage.
The silence was punctuated by a clunk, as half the spotlights were extinguished. This scene was getting darker, in more ways than one. Chris could now barely make out the figures in the audience. They, of course, could still see him well enough.
The kid wobbled from one foot to the other, testing his (inadequate) purchase on the varnished stool seat, and ignoring in the process Derek’s sound advice to remain stationary. All the while, he kept one eye on the digital stopwatch, similar to that at an athletics meeting but with thoughtfully illuminated numerals.
The youth was starting to feel a little faint. They all do at this point. Hunger comes into play. Nerves too, of course, plus the gradual drip-drip loss of blood from the countless needle and pin punctures in his tits, breasts, thighs, and scrotum. The wooden surface on which the boy balanced precariously started to turn crimson, as little trails of blood fell upon it, making it, of course, a little more slippery.
Was all hope lost, Chris wondered?
Maybe not. Maybe these bastards have enjoyed themselves so much they will beg for a repeat showing, and grant a temporary reprieve. And a reprieve would mean a chance to plan an escape, or, maybe, a chance to try and talk Ben out of the whole thing. Fuck, where is Ben? Come on Chris, don’t give up. Breathe deeply. Try and chill and…
Clunk. The countdown had started.
What was going to happen? The kid realised he wasn’t sure. What had the black beast meant when he talked about a ‘lift’.
But let’s be realistic, Chris thought, this is going to be bad.
Worse than anything he’d been made to endure so far.
The motors whirred again, and the pulleys clattered into motion. There was very little slack in the rope, and this was reeled in slowly, inch by inch. Within twenty seconds, the rope was at taut vertical.
Tipping point. The point at which all slack is gone, the rope can do no more, and the noosed young man abruptly becomes a burden. The point at which, perhaps for the first time, a kid really gets a true impression of his own weight. The point of shock and panic. The fabled edge.
Click, click, click went the pulleys. Chris formed an involuntary arrow-straight vertical, as instinct activated calf, thigh and back muscles to give himself an extra millimetre of height, here and there.
Click, click, click. The kid rocked forward onto the front of his feet. The tautness of the rope was such that the back of his soles no longer had a purchase.
Click, click, click. The 21 year old was flushing crimson in the face, red in his neck, but the rest of his body remained ghostly pale.
Click. The boy ‘leaned into’ the noose a little, throwing him slightly off vertical and towards his appreciative audience.
Clunk. The countdown had started again. 90 seconds.
90 fucking seconds!
The youth tried to cry out, but nothing happened. He didn’t really understand why. His vocal cords were not totally useless, even with this much stress on his neck.
Then, exquisitely, Chris started to piss. Not a dribble, but a fire-hose strength torrent of almost clear piss. After his departure from the cell, he had forgotten about his full bladder, denied release for too long. He had bigger things to worry about. But the physiological need to empty out had continued to build.
Most of the audience members moved a little nearer the stage, delighted to bath in the fountain. Those who desired were able to take a face full of weak, snuffee fear-piss from the hoisted young man towering above them.
The choking snuffee, meanwhile, realised he had lost control. They had now taken his bladder motions too. Really, it was at that point he accepted all hope was gone.
Clunk. Zero on the clock.
Click, the pulleys dropped the kid back onto the balls of his feet, as always working more swiftly on the release phase than the tightening phase.
The straight young man just sobbed. That was it really, just sobbing.
In the short interlude, those audience members who were not already naked got out of the last of their clothes. The chairs were pushed to the back of the room. There was a need, towards the very end, to be so very close to the action. There was a desire to reach out, in an entirely futile fashion, and try to understand how desperate, hoisted flesh really felt. There was a desire to read every horrific facial expression on the hoistee, and take in the frightening palette of colours on his face and neck. So they stood on the piss-wet floor in front of the youth, and waited.
The boy had rustled up enough strength to ask for a saviour. A bogus saviour who would no longer be answering his pleas. Not now.
Instead, he got Derek again.
“Okay, kid. Well done on that last lift. You are truly impressive. But now we have a harder test. Boys who piss all over the stage, and the audience, progress from the standard lift to what we call the punishment lift. Now, there’s nothing new for you to learn, so please don’t worry. Just chill, baby, like you did last time.”
There were a few groans of pleasure from the audience. The anticipation was building.
“I’m not big on this psychology stuff, but I’m sure if Ben were here now, he’d be telling you to use this punishment lift positively, to reflect on why your self-discipline has been so poor, and ask what you’d do differently next time. If there was a next time!”
Derek reached up and stroked Chris’s left calf, wet through a cocktail of sweat and piss.
“Good luck, baby.”
The boy could do no more than whisper.
“No, no, no.”
The countdown started immediately, this time, but Chris was no longer focussing on the digits. His perception of time was now a little wrecked. He was mentally overwhelmed.
The punishment lift is a very different scale of challenge, and I want to be candid with you about this before you read on. There is edge activity – akin to the standard lift – of a kind one might, just about, encounter in BDSM play in the dungeons of
Berlin, Prague and San Francisco.
The punishment lift, very deliberately, takes a boy to the head fuck of a no-mans-land that exists between life and death. Boys who experience the punishment lift are not, generally, going to die during it – although the margin of error is so very narrow – but they will feel as though they are at the end. If they thrash around too much, they are endangering themselves substantially. If they keep some composure, well, they should be okay.
I also want to tell you how cathartic it feels, to witness a boy undergoing his punishment lift. Cathartic, that is, for the small group of men and women whose sadism runs so very deep, and who cannot see a very attractive youth on the street without wishing to put him through ‘the process’ that has lead Chris to his stool.
Finally, if course, it is intensely erotic. Obviously. Hence the well-paying audience and my ability to purchase these substantial, remote premises.
Click, click. The pulleys are off again.
The boy pulls to the vertical, lifts off the balls of his feet, leans into the noose again.
Chris thought I might be his saviour. He cannot see me up in the eaves, operating the pulleys that hoist him, maintaining constant eye contact with Derek, on the stage. Of course, nothing is said between I and my torturer friend. We communicate via little nods.
Derek has to be the one on the stage. He will nod to me when Chris is hoisted sufficiently. He pushes a boy harder, further into the darkness than me. He is not insane, but he is merciless. I would probably have nodded and stopped the winch now, with Chris on tip-toes on the stool. I waited for Derek’s nod, but it didn’t come.
Click. One little further lift.
My smooth little hero of a kid is on the very tips of his tippy-toes. They are taking his entire body weight.
Clunk. 360 seconds on the clock. Six minutes.
My youth is a millimetre away from total suspension by the neck. The digits on his feet claw desperately at the slippery wet wood, nails scratching the varnish. The flesh isn’t making much contact at all. I think he may be literally balancing himself on his short toe nails
I’m not sure he understands how long he needs to hold out. He will be struggling to see vividly now. He will be blurry, maybe blacking out intermittently. This is a punishment, after all, and such is the nature of punishment for boys I work with. Did some of you think that spanking or belting constitutes a suitable punishment for a 21 year old boy?
One of the audience noticed, before I did, that Chris’s penis was becoming erect. You certainly cannot guarantee a final erection, but neither is it unknown.
It’s an interesting phenomenon, the noosed erection. It is presumably involuntary, and triggered by whatever thoughts an oxygen-starved brain is generating. Strictly enforced chastity, from the day a boy arrives here, must surely be of benefit.
Chris’s dick rises firmly to the horizontal, raspberry beret pointing like a stick at my audience, who are highly appreciative. With the pins in his balls, this has got to be causing Chris some pain.
Derek shouts, unscripted.
“Cum, and thirty seconds will be taken off your punishment tariff.”
Obviously there is no verbal response from Chris. All we hear from him now is an odd gurgling, and frighteningly strained short breaths. But he moves his left hand, quite perceptibly, and Derek, like me, can read a boy very well.
“Yes, kid, you may use your hands to masturbate.”
Remarkable. He has just enough lucidity to understand, still.
At the first attempt, he has insufficient energy to reach his dick with his hand. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the kid frightening himself by attempting to move too quickly, and almost throwing his balance off its delicate equilibrium.
But second time around, he has a firm grip, and who knows, maybe finds some reassurance in holding his member tightly.
I have not seen anything quite like this before. The kid is teetering on the very edge of existence, face purple, neck red raw through rope burn, a strawberry glow now spreading down over his shoulder blades. Tiny little breaths. Bloodied eyes, pupils outrageously dilated.
But there he is, pumping away at his dick as hard as he can. If the audience would just pipe down, they would be able to hear desperate lustful little moans.
“That’s it, baby, enjoy your punishment, enjoy your last bit of fun, really work that cunt stuffer!” Derek exhorts.
We have gone from a horizontal half-mast to a 45 degree blood-engorged hard-on. Chris’s ball sac is shrivelling. God knows what those pins must be doing to his gonads, but surely now his mind is in a different place, and he is able to float over the intense pain of it all.
His ejaculation, when it comes (with one minutes fifty seconds still on the clock) is still that of a virile young man, rather than a tortured piece of meat. Slick white cum shoots up, and whilst the majority is deposited on his heaving chest, a string lodges itself, really so erotically, on the kid’s chin, where the string grows as though it were elastic, back down towards his tight, stretched little six-pack of a belly.
Three of the men in the audience simply can’t contain themselves, and cum in unison with my boy, wasting themselves before the end game. But, if we are honest, that was not a bad scene to cum too. Asphyxiation orgasms from snuffees are very rare. They have had their monies worth tonight, already.
Chris flaps his cum-soaked wanking hand again. I know what he’s trying to say to Derek.
‘Please, I’ve cum, let me down’.
But it’s not yet time, even on the discounted tariff. Derek stands by, watching, along with the audience, as the boy drifts out of consciousness, spit drooling from his lips, cum dripping from his chin.
And so, we have reached the end.
At this point, the boy is unable to stand unsupported, so the pulleys that drop him back onto the balls of his feet stop whilst there is still some tension in the rope to assist his standing position. Strange really, in the end, that the rope has become his friend.
In the long term, what Chris has suffered already is likely to have left a degree of mental impairment. Too much oxygen has been denied. Ending him, now, is the kindest thing to do.
Even if he remains unresolved to his fate, he appears to have no will to fight it. We leave him in peace for a few minutes, to see what composure will be regained without the terrible pressure on his neck. He still knows where he is, I believe. He still knows he is suffering for us.
On the back wall, a large LCD screen bursts into life. It flickers for perhaps twenty seconds. Chris kind-of watches it, his muddled mind still alert enough to be interested in a distraction. On-screen, a young female figure appears. She appears to be at some kind of news conference.
“Chris, if you’re watching, please get in touch. We all miss you like crazy. If you’re upset about something, we can work it out together. Please just call the police or me or the family, and let us know you are safe, even if you don’t want to come back for the moment. Love you, babes.”
The pert-looking blond girl then dissolved into tears. The camera stuck with her for a few seconds, then reverted back to the start of her little missing persons speech. It was on a loop. Chantelle, Chris’s girlfriend, was on loop.
We let him watch the clip five times, because in his current state, he’s unlikely to have understood first time around. But now he realises it’s her, and it’s his turn to sob, chin almost resting on the heavy rope as he cries uncontrollably. We leave him in his misery for a minute, then the screen flickers again. I am speaking live to camera, back stage.
“Hello Chris, it’s Ben. I want to say a few words, before we part. You probably realise, this process is designed to be very hard on a boy. Very hard indeed. That’s the right way, in my opinion. My role is to hurt, to punish, and to take young men to the edge, but also to understand their emotions along the way. I have enjoyed working with you, Chris, and I want to thank you for allowing me to use you to the fullest extent. But, I think that final spectacular orgasm was for Chantelle, and you have truly done her proud, young man. You won’t be together, physically, any more, but you can rest easy that you have been as brave as possible, for her. We, and she, couldn’t have asked more from a straight kid.”
I stopped for a moment, needing to catch my own breath and overcome the stomach butterflies that always hit me at this point.
“In just a moment, you will be lifted again. Don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as the punishment lift. You see, we need to lift you a little to drop you. All you need do is stay nice and still, nice and relaxed, and go with it. Whilst this happens, I’m going to put Chantelle’s photo back on the screen for you. The Drop, you see, doesn’t need to be unhappy. Only you can make it unhappy, kid. Try and enjoy this, if you can. It really is better that way. Okay, kid, it’s time for me, for uncle Derek, and for all of us here, to say goodbye.”
There was no stopwatch now. The winch powered immediately into life. Chris made the familiar journey up off the balls of his feet, and onto the end of his soles. Not quite tippy toe this time. Not quite a punishment lift. The winch stopped, and suddenly it was quieter than anyone in the room could remember.
From Chris, there was a little noise. Some sniffing. That gurgling again as the veins in his neck became engorged and terribly constricted once more. Fairly pathetic little ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ as vocal cords permitted. Once more, his body was covered in a sheet of sweat.
Derek approached from the rear of the stage. Chris couldn’t see him, but the audience alerted him to his tormentor’s presence.
The Drop. I wonder if my insertion of that phrase had confused Chris, as it had so many youths before him. At this point, many expect one clean lift off the stool, to their choking death, but we play complex games here and there is one final head fuck.
Derek pushed the stool from behind with a booted foot, and now, inevitably, Chris understood The Drop. The boy hung onto the edge of the stool for dear life with crunched up, clenched toes. There, we dramatically paused. One last chance for the audience to take in immaculately tight boy muscle, every part of his body straining so hard to assist his toes, but especially his meaty buttocks, the dimples accentuated by the particular nature of his stress position. His neck looked so long in the rope noose, forced, as he was, to look up towards the dark eaves. I think, however, he will have seen Chantelle from the corner of one eye.
Derek removed the stool with a mighty kick, and it flew over the stage and down into the pit below.
My boy took his drop. My audience ejaculated to the sound of a crack as his neck bone went. His last breaths were accompanied by a final episode of limb twitching, and his purple tongue emerged from between his lips.
Another one ended. Another journey concluded for a wonderfully virile youth, whose misfortune was to be too perfect, and in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Derek moved in to commence the disposal process, about which I don’t wish to elaborate further here. You know where to find me.
My audience went to enjoy long baths or showers, before we ate communally, and extravagantly, later in the evening.
I, meanwhile, felt drawn back to the cell. Here, I could still smell Chris. The last one in always lingered for a few days. I folded his T-shirt and shorts carefully, and placed his watch on the top of the pile. In their place, on the bed platform, I deposited the data folder of Phil, who is currently being held off-site, ready to start the process, ready to take The Drop.
Posted by Gay BDSM author at 17:41
Wednesday, 22 July 2015
Who was there?
There was certainly someone out there. The kid could hear whispers, and shuffling. He could see nothing.
He had made things easy for me. No big fight. No final showdown. He hadn’t needed to be dragged here. So, we were running early. Curtain-up is at 20.00. Chris has been ready, staked, for twenty minutes. Only two more to go.
I am behind my boy, reviewing the reasons for my initial attraction. Those firm, high mounds, alabaster against the tan hue of the rest of his frame. The deep crack, unexplored when he arrived here – a total waste. The strong, but lean, soccer limbs. The thin waist. The flat tummy. The defined pecs with their so-sensitive tit nubs. The elegant Romanesque nose. His age, too, of course. I have done younger, and a little older, but 21 is nice. They’re not stupid at 21. They know there are bad people out there
I grab his right mound, and the impression of my fingers glow strawberry on the pale skin. I whisper into his left ear.
“You’ve been good, baby. Now just move onto a new place, mentally. Let your mind go, let your body go. Just focus on that, honey, and know that I’ll be with you on the journey”
I retreat a few steps. His head has dropped. The waiting is too hard.
The black curtain rises on quiet motors. Now my boy can see a little more. Tall armchairs facing the stage, largely filled with human figures of indeterminate sex. The room remains unlit but for two sets of candles on the back wall.
The spotlights, four of them, switch on simultaneously. All trained on the star of the show. Chris has become accustomed to the cold of the cell for five weeks. Now it feels very hot, and he flushes. He tests the two or three centimetres of movement the ankle cuffs allow. He is going nowhere.
The kid can’t see the tall figure approaching him from behind, but the audience can, and a peel of hearty applause rings out. They have been spoilt, again, with the choice of boy made by the correctional facility on their behalf, and Derek, the tall man, is a firm favourite for ‘the end’.
None of the guests have met Derek. I am the middle man in this, and I don’t get my hands properly dirty. All they know of Derek is what they can see, namely a muscular giant of 6’5”, with a deep brown skin tone perhaps from
Big hands, big cock. They cannot see his face, sheathed as it is in a leather
hood, but they notice the glint in his dark eyes as the spare beam from a
spotlight hits them.
Chris knows Derek is there only after he delivers a crushing leather-gloved spank to the kids left butt mound. He leaps as high as his chains allow, steel grazing his ankles before the rebound. I believe, from the sound, he felt he had been shot. It must have felt like it, anyhow.
Derek and I work well together. He would be no good for the prep work which I delight in, whilst I, frankly, need to hand over at this stage. Our partnership shows how broad the term ‘sadist’ runs. Yes I hurt, but I am sensitive to a boy’s emotions and feelings even if, often, I simply play with them. Derek is cruder, harder and overwhelmingly shocking in every sense. He is simply dangerous. You cannot prepare a boy, mentally, for working with Derek.
Chris’s chastity device crashes to the floor in a metallic thud, and Derek throws both it and the key to the back of the stage.
The youth has been in chastity since day one, five weeks ago, barring his final tip-to-toe wash. He did not ask for it to come off at any time, and very few boys do. It is the least of their worries. But I know boys. I know there are times, alone at night on that narrow sleeping platform with the hard, thin, plastic-coated mattress, when he would have relished some relief, and would have loved to take it in hand and cum to the thought, perhaps, of love making with his beloved girlfriend.
But there is no room for ‘love’ of any kind here, and there can be no fantasies for our boys – only grim reality. He will have come to understand that.
Chris’s cock droops placid. It’s not unimpressive, but more in the girth than the 7” length.
Seeing it again now, I am pleased I left him a well-trimmed pubic bush. He looks as he should. A masculine young man in deep, forced submission.
The kid is in pain again. Derek has grabbed, and squeezed his ball sac in one hand whilst tracing the veins in his neck with the other. The kid can feel Derek’s breath on his cheek, just centimetres away.
“Oh yeah baby, oh yeah.”
Derek likes a nice neck, understandably. He breaks off and addresses the dark auditorium.
“Gentlemen…..and lady…..before we go any further, I’d like to invite you on stage. Can we say two at a time? This is your chance to look, to touch, to feel, to prod some tight boyflesh. No need to ask permission, Chris is fine with it – key kid?”
I could only watch. Come on Chris, respond kid, respond.
At that point, Chris discovered Derek is not me. Just one, well aimed scissor kick up into the groin, catching his tender balls full on. One guttural scream from the 21 year old.
“I said you okay with that, cunt!?”
He had never called me Sir, and Derek had not asked him to do so. But the survival instinct had kicked in, for what worth. He now knew Derek.
The laying of hands was always an interesting experience to watch. Perhaps contrary to expectations, the vast majority of guests are content simply to slide their palms over sweaty, straining boy skin. There is some delicate feeling of young muscle definition. Several run their hands through the residual pubic bush.
The reason for my thoroughness in the final wash is to enhance the quality of the laying of hands. There is no smell but sweat and fear.
There is some tweaking of titties, and some massaging of cock and balls. There is some circling of butt dimples with scrawny fingers and surprisingly youthful fingers. There is some spreading of cheeks and worship of so-tight straight boy butt hole. In truth, nothing rough. Thus, for the first time in five weeks, Chris has experienced delicate hands.
Bless him, one older guy even drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped Chris’s glistening brow, albeit whilst mumbling some vulgarities into his ear. I liked that.
Without exception, the guests wished to admire Chris’s smooth, strong neck. Like the rest of him, lean but with not a hint of fat. That made sense.
The solitary female pair of hands caressed the kid extra-gently. One long finger, with one long fingernail, slipped between his crack and probed his anus, exploring then penetrating the rosebud, massaging his young rectum whilst the other hand slipped over his shimmering chest, squeezing and pulling his nubs.
Jessica, our domme guest, withdrew the anal finger with an audible pop and fed it to Chris, who sucked the digit without prompting, tasting his own shit chute, which now meant tasting nothing beyond his own fear. As he did so, his cock rose to half mast, and his stimulated nipples grew erect from his chest.
It was a tender moment, but it was over before it had really begun. One large teardrop ran down Chris’s cheek. He knew it was all downhill, now.
From stage left, a double bed is wheeled onto the stage. It is a simple affair, being just a black metal frame, and a mattress covered with a white fitted sheet. Each corner of the frame has short pillars, on which eye holes suitable for cuffs are mounted.
Derek unties the youth from his ankle and wrist restraints.
“Let’s fuck, kid.”
Chris is straight. Sexuality is investigated in excruciating detail in what is known as ‘the interrogation’, which takes place in the first week a boy is imprisoned here.
The interrogation is emotionally demanding, because I need to know everything. What the boy studied at school and the grades he achieved; where he now works or studies; involvement in sport; fitness regime; relationships with family and peers; whom he first fucked, when and how; all subsequent sexual encounters; whether he has strayed beyond ‘vanilla’, and if so, into what. If the boy has a girlfriend, we of course examine the relationship in great detail.
The interrogation lasts as long as I deem necessary. We continue until I consider I have full answers. I have a tall armchair, positioned in front of the boy, who will be seated on a stool, under the glare of two spotlights. I will walk around, stretch my legs occasionally. The boy will remain on the hard wooden stool until I say otherwise. Sessions can easily last five hours. Often we return for another, although the threat of that usually encourages a boy to be a little more forthcoming.
Talk of long-term girlfriends, in particular, and my relentless pumping for more information about the relationship and the sex, typically engenders an emotional response. Some boys try to hide girlfriend history from me, but they normally break if called back for a second or third session. Third sessions are less relaxed, anyway. Third time around, the boy is wired for electro, and I crank until I have answers.
Chris, of course, couldn’t hide Chantelle from me, as he had already told me she had given him the watch. So I pushed hard for every last detail of their lives together, and the kid, twice, held his head in his hands and sobbed on the rickety stool, whilst I watched him redden under the glare of the spots. And when I got bored of it, I placed a hand on his substantial thigh, and spoke to him gently.
“The sooner I know everything, the sooner you have dumped everything you’ve experienced and felt, well, the sooner we can end this for you. Shall we push on?”
Chris is at the bottom corner of the bed, standing legs apart, one foot on the floor, the other up on the mattress. The position he is holding removes most of the protection his meaty butt mounds offer his anal crevice. So many straight lads have those athletic, muscular butts which are simultaneously provocative whilst seeming to shout ‘no entry’.
Here, however, there are no one way streets. Boys open up willingly, or they are taken.
I had Chris’s cherry. I gave him some pointers before we started. Push out. Chill out. Hold on tight. I even lubed, although that was more for my benefit than his. As an experience, it was little different to most straight boy fucks. That is to say, there was little reciprocation or effort on his part to turn his raw sphincter into an erotic tool. For him, it was about dealing with a largely painful new experience. The feeling of being unnaturally stretched inside, the feeling of a need to dump a large turd that was, actually, my cock. His innards gripped me vice-like, warm and unbending, desperate for it to end. As I increased the pace and depth of my penetration, his knuckles turned white as he held the bedclothes for dear life.
Emotionally, the anal rape was no easier to deal with for Chris than any other straight kid. I had him under my thumb, and he knew it. His masculinity, everything he believed about himself, was being stripped away. Part of him blamed himself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, allowing him to be taken, to be imprisoned, to be raped, and yes, ended. I encouraged this self-guilt wherever possible. His boy pussy was being plowed, and it was his own fault.
Now Derek grips Chris hard above the left hip with one hand. In the other, he has a clump of the kids short, brown hair, pulling his head back hard. He pumps away at the protesting anus. An entirely mechanical fucking of the kid by 10 inches of raw Afro dick, and a mechanical fuck which has only two speeds, fast and relentless.
The grunting is coming from the youthful fuckee, through gritted teeth, rather than the fucker. This rape is not testing Derek physically, but Chris feels split asunder by the cruel invader. He wants to throw his head back and forth, in time with the piston in his anus, but Derek has him gripped tight. His long toes are screwed up into little balls of stress, the nails on his left foot scratching away at the wooden stage.
The guests are enjoying the spectacle. Every ending here has a fuck. It’s oddly ‘vanilla’, you might think, for an audience who pay to see a boy taken to the edge then thrown over. In my view, however, there is nothing more intimate than deep penetrative sex of a young man who struggles to cope with it. The guests feel that too, and are stimulated by what they see. There are occasional cries.
Changing position, he has the kid on his back, legs right back over his head and ankles tied off to the bedstead cuffs. This is a great position, I find, for the full appreciation of the boy butt, reared up in the air, the highest point of the lean frame. Also a punishing, vulnerable position for the rectum of the fuckee.
Now the audience can see Chris’s face. Really, a look of panic and horror. Mouth so wide as he pants away, trying to get his breathing under control as black rod lances creamy-white mound and the pink rosebud within. He can see his audience too, of course. Maybe he should look away, look straight into the eyes of the rapist above him, but at this stage, it hardly matters. So he looks at the small, varied group of men and a woman enjoying his debasement.
The bed frame squeaks in protest with each rhythmic thrust from Derek. It is, literally, inching across the stage, such is the violence of this assault. The top struggles to grip Chris firmly. He is dripping with sweat, and hands slip off smooth, wet, skin.
Derek will not ejaculate. He will feed the kid his dick, when he is done, and Chris will clean away the pre-cum and understand, again, the taste of his own innards. His hole will be left raw, distended. The hole of a boy slut, not a football jock. An important step on his journey towards the approaching end.
Chris is being pinned up.
Pinning does not feature in every adventure here, but the guests routinely request it, and I oblige. It’s a rather subtle activity for Derek the brute, but he adds interest by rattling through the process at some speed.
Derek has a tray, the opening contents of which number:
10x small pins
25x medium pins
15x large needles
The small pins are for the nipples. The medium for the testes. The large needles for the thighs and breast meat.
Mentally, most kids can cope with the tit pins. To an extent, they can deal with the needles. But – and this is true without exception – I have never seen a boy accept the inevitably of the ball pins without shouting, cursing, chain rattling and a futile attempt at escapology.
Chris is staked again, and tightly. Derek works primarily from behind the kid. Dark hands reach around his glistening torso, and slide pins through his tit nubs, five each side. There isn’t much room, for the boy’s tits have not been properly worked. They have never experienced weights, and they have never experienced electricity. They have missed the kind of BDSM basic training that, ideally, a hot kid should be introduced to by 15 or 16. So Derek rolls the nubs roughly between calloused fingers, which does induce modest nipple erection. Before the titties subside, he introduces the pins quickly. Tiny rivulets of blood flow down over Chris’s shaking pec meat.
The application of the long needles is a more time-consuming process. Suitable skin has to be located on the thighs, and on the pecs. The muscle underneath has to be massaged and prepared for the insertion. What little body fat exists on the 21 year old has to be rolled up by strong fingers, and a sharp needle rapidly inserted. Then the exercise is repeated fourteen further times. Needles dropping vertically through breast meat criss-cross those inserted obliquely. The same story on his thighs, with needles pushed up from bottom to top, and down from top to bottom.
He is being quite brave, really. He has sobbed continuously throughout this exercise. Yes, it is painful, of course, but the total lack of control is what’s freaking the kid. This now, but what next?
When Derek starts interfering with the kids nut sac, he knows ‘what next.’
Sure enough, we have the desperate rattling of short ankle chains, and much chafing of skin around the wrist and ankle cuffs as the straight kid struggles.
Then a surprise.
The youth knows me as Ben. It’s not my real name, just a short forename to go by over his weeks of captivity. I am usually ‘Ben’ to the teenagers and twinks who have been resident in the dark cell. Sometimes ‘Nathan’. It hardly matters.
This hasn’t happened before. I’m not supposed to have any involvement at this stage, I just wait, literally, in the wings.
Derek, pin in hand, turns and nods at me. This is not in the rules, and I am normally a stickler for the rules, but something, somehow, has made me drop my guard. Derek retreats three paces, and I take his place.
“It’s ok, baby, I’m here.”
I reach out, and cradle his right butt mound in my palm.
“He’s gonna put those in my balls, yeah?”
“Yeah Chris, he is.”
He feels frighteningly clammy, now. Not hot, just fetid moist.
“Please, can you stop him, I don’t want that, I can’t take it!”
Salty tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, and dripping in streams onto his needled pecs.
“Baby, you can take it. You can take it because, as I’ve proved, I’m here for you. But think of this. I also want you to take it for Chantelle, yeah? She would want you to go out putting up a fight, not wimping out. At least that’s what I think, hey?”
He became incoherent with emotion for a bit, and I was patient.
“Chris, it’s like I told you when you came in here. You have to put yourself on a different level, mentally, yeah? Switch out the pain….”
“It’s bad, yeah?”
“Yeah, pretty bad, but pain is just in the mind. I was saying, you have to switch out the pain. I want you to concentrate on two things whilst you’re being pinned. Can you do that?”
“Well, first, I’d like you to look the audience in the eye, as the pins go in, and show them how brave you are. Show them that you don’t need to cry through ball torture, and you don’t need to scream. Second, I’ve let your dick stalk go free. I want you to use that opportunity to think of Chantelle, baby. I want you to think of the good times you had, and the sex you had. I want your imagination to get really dirty. If you can show the audience how excited Chantelle makes you feel, I might ask uncle Derek to leave the last five pins.”
He looked at me with those doe eyes.
“Ten….could he leave ten?”
Cheeky fucker. Pleading, and so near the end.
“Three, Chris. I need to be fair to the audience, and you need to show them how disciplined a young boy can be. Remember, I know boys. I know you can do it!”
I moved my mouth within millimeters of his left ear.
“OK kid, lots of effort, work for that reward, and good luck!”
I love the study of the musculature of a boy in pain. Of course, Chris can barely move his limbs. His long legs are spread and cuffed, his wrists hoisted and tied off way above his head. But his calf muscles are flexing. His thighs are bulging in and out. His biceps are so tense and domed. His back is trying to arch.
Despite all of this, the kid is looking through misty unfocused eyes at my audience, as suggested. Probably he’s not really seeing, but they appreciate his effort. These aren’t really a youth’s eyes any more, merely sunken, tired, scared, wet prisoners eyes.
Chris’s scrotal sac has been pierced and punctured by eighteen pins. Derek is holding his balls tight, at the base, and pulling them away from him body obscenely to aid application of the small instruments of torture.
Chris has screamed - and shouted - but mostly just screamed. He is hoarse and dribbling, his juice-maker being rapidly pricked into uselessness by Derek’s quick, uncaring hands.
And yet, despite everything, I and my guests can clearly see a little excitement in his dick tube. Oh, it’s not a full hard-on, by any stretch of the imagination, but it has grown maybe an inch in length, and is now saluting at quarter-mast, the raspberry red helmet bobbing away. I feel vindicated. I have denied the boy for five weeks, and the desperation for release has overcome the centres of pain in his tits, thighs and balls. I have given him a pep talk, because now I am his only hope, and he has listened and understood. Try and imagine how it feels, taking a boy to the edge in a NC scene, and feeling his total dependency.
Now we have twenty pins.
Chris has been counting. I look at his wretched body, a thing of great beauty punished so mercilessly, just for being hot and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Little trails of blood cross his torso, some actively dripping, others losing impetus and emulsifying.
There is value in carrying over his sexual arousal to the end. Derek knows, and retreats for a moment.
When my big black sadist returns, he is carrying a stool. The stool. The rest of the stage has been cleared.
I feel an urge to return to my staked boy.
“Baby, I think you know, it’s time to finish this.”
To be continued
Posted by Gay BDSM author at 17:36