The Drop - Chapter One

Was this all becoming a little, well, mechanical?

That’s a question I have asked myself on a number of occasions recently, for when a performance becomes overly rehearsed, and a sense of innovation and ‘ad lib’ is lost, the execution can disappoint, if you’ll pardon the pun.

I think the answer is that I retain a strong calling for this. My lust – and it is lust - to see young men handled in this stark fashion, is undiminished. I am careful to restrict myself to four of five shows per year. Any more, and it would indeed become a production line.

The passageway floor is bare concrete. My boots are heavy leather. The sound of my purposeful strides ricochets off the bare walls. The occupant of cell number one will have heard my approach well before I arrive at the door of his place of captivity, and fiddle for the key. All quite deliberate. It really is about the suspense, here. I check the spy hole before opening the metal door. The boy is looking out of the cell window.

I say window. It’s not much more than a slit of toughened glass, one and a half feet wide by eight inches deep, located high on the back wall of the cell, and deep into the thick stone brickwork. It gives limited natural light, but for the purposes of viewing, is useless for most boys. Chris is 6’1” however, and by standing on tiptoe on his bed platform, and craning his neck, he will be able to see something. Probably little more than sky.

Interesting, at this stage, that he’s still bothered about ‘outside’. He can’t be totally resigned to his fate. He may still resist. Observing boys, understanding boys, is pretty crucial in this game.

“I need your clothes now, lad.”

He turns around, having hitherto ignored my presence in the cell. He remains stood on the bed platform, giving him a good 18 inches height advantage over me.

His deep brown eyes are saying a lot. Not actually resistance, I think, but not resignation either. Fear, certainly. That and a belief there must, surely, be a way out for him. A reprieve from this insanity.

“Chris, I need your clothes now. I need you to strip for me.”

I have time, and have patience. At this stage, I always allow a buffer to avoid being rushed. As a last resort, I could encourage him with the cattle prod, and he knows it, but best for all, surely, if that stays by my side in its holster.

He steps off the bed, and broad height parity is restored. Reassuring.

“Your clothes?”

They aren’t much, of course. The white cotton T-shirt is a little stylised. The sleeves are extra short, such that they stop barely two inches over the shoulder. The neck describes a deep ‘V’ extending to the cleft in the kids pectorals. The garment is tight and thin. His tit nubs push the fabric provocatively.

The shorts are of the same material, and only a little thicker. I have always believed shorts should do what they say on the pack, so they are, indeed, short. The bottom hem broadly marks the transition from butt mound to upper thigh.

Both garments have a small, simple transfer in black. ‘Correctional facility property’. They stay with me.

I designed the uniform, and I designed it around my love of boy skin, boy muscle. I would not have tolerated a T-shirt that did not afford a bicep view. At the same time, although I contemplated a 100% nakedness policy, I know how clothes give comfort to a boy in despair, and I am prepared to give that comfort. When men and women refer to the depths of my sadism, they should not overlook this.

As he slips the T-shirt over his neck, I catch a nice pit glimpse. I am glad I let him retain nominal pit fuzz. It really isn’t overdone, and it sets his upper body off nicely. His boy titties erect a little as they are exposed to the cold, dank air. Actually, it may be more than that. Chris has fear-induced tittie erection, which I had observed at a much earlier stage in his captivity.

“Here.”

I beckon for the T-shirt. It won’t be washed and re-used, as it has value. Chris has been in this one for three days, waiting, worrying, sweating. It is a little damp, and it smells distinctly of him. As intended.

He looked at me, silently. The unasked question, with the answer he already knew, was left for me to resolve.

“The shorts too please, Chris.”

That’s it. No drama needed. No punishment. And the boys call me ‘unfair’.

He edged the material carefully over his chastity at the front, and then down his meaty butt mounds to the rear. It tumbled down long, lean, smooth, tanned thighs and to the floor, whereupon the youth stepped out of the last piece of clothing he would wear.

“Pick them up.”

The kid bent down, fished up the skimpy shorts and without moving from the spot, held them out for me to retrieve. He really doesn’t want to be near me.

These were fresh yesterday, but, frankly, seem ranker. At the front, they are yellowed with strong-smelling fear piss. Entirely expected. These, likewise, have value.

“Now the watch.”

He had asked to keep it, so he could better keep track of passing hours and days in the cell, where otherwise existence was pretty timeless. Well, that’s what he said originally. Then, whilst we were talking in the gym a few days later – there is always a degree of interaction between boys and I, the extent of which depends largely on their desire to unburden themselves – he let slip the watch was a birthday present from his girlfriend. I had already guessed as much. In the absence of photos, this was the nearest thing to an item of sentimental value.

It was out of course for me to let a boy retain an item of jewellery, principally for fear it could be used either as a weapon, or in a suicide bid. But I’ll repeat myself – this process is all about understanding and knowing boys, and I judged I could safely leave Chris with the chunky silver-strapped watch.

Of course, however, it was a temporary reprieve. Now it must go, both physically and, with it, the emotional connection. This interested me.

“Do we have to?” In the circumstances, his tone was well controlled.

“Yes, we have to. All part of the preparation, I’m afraid.”

“But what difference does it make, now?”

I was surprised, actually, that he wanted to stand and argue with me over a chattel. As he himself said, what the hell difference did it make now? So, I will admit, I was fairly blunt.

“Because, Chris, people are paying good money to see total, complete, bare-assed nudity from you, and that is what I will fucking give them.”

Predictably, he welled up. Chris wasn’t the worst gusher I’d processed – not by a long way – but he was a perfectly emotional youth, and nothing wrong with that.

“Come on, let’s not make it hard. Hey?”

Good cop and bad cop all in one, me.

Hands shaking, he undid the metal clasp, and pulled the watch over one long, lean hand with the other. He offered it to me, and I accepted. I pointed to the ring of slightly paler skin on his left forearm.

“Look, a watch line.”

He was past caring.

One of my guests once asked me whether I cared about the boys I processed here, and the answer was an unequivocal yes. I am with them for, typically, five weeks before the end. There is a bond. Most of them need to talk, to try and understand, and I am happy to be part of that. Even the solid, near-silent ones capture my heart with their deep masculinity and courage.

Sometimes, the harder the initial ‘breaking down’ process, the deeper the ultimate bond becomes. I think of that as Chris, at my instruction, raises the bed platform to the wall and secures it with the chains designed for that purpose. As he bends fore and aft, lifting the wooden slatted platform, his butt cheeks push back towards me. My audience will not be able to see the faded-to-near-extinction welt marks on those creamy mounds, but I can still trace them, and Chris remembers the strap, remembers the cane, remembers the whip burning his bare flesh as I tamed the 21 year-old on his first few days here. I was rough with him, even by my standards. He would not have understood my discourse on the cathartic nature of punishment and discipline, so I spared him, but he certainly understood me better once welted-up, and I him.

******

The cell is now empty. The bed platform is locked up. The toilet, in the other corner, is locked down. Out of use and out of bounds for the tall, smooth kid.

I let him chose a meal, two days ago. It was his last meal, although there was no point in raising tension by labouring the point with him. He chose chicken and chips. I tried to imagine keeping chicken and chips down with the stress Chris was living under and, frankly, couldn’t begin to imagine. But it was his choice. He started enthusiastically (I had not given him breakfast that morning), but was soon playing with the food, pushing it with the plastic knife from one edge of the paper plate to the other. He grazed on the chips by hand. After 90 minutes, I removed the left-overs. And that was it. In case my partner in this, or our solitary guard, should visit the cell and forget the timetable, I placed a precautionary warning sign on the cell door. ‘Strictly no solids’.

The process of digestion took its course, and yesterday, Chris came with me to the medical suite, was strapped to a gynaecological chair, and we spent a morning in each others company, undertaking his evacuation.

This is what I describe as a full evacuation. By which I mean, bag after bag after bag of (usually) lukewarm water, pumped deep into the youths lower intestine. Big bags, the contents of which make his belly swell and the thin, stretched skin become translucent with sweat. The young man holds the water for me.

Ask yourself this. What is worse for a boy – retaining a big bag, anus plugged, abdomen distended, perspiring like crazy, unable to move in your chair due to the tight bondage, legs strapped high in front of you. Or the alternative – taking bags in quick succession, a constant filling, hurting, explosive evacuation, filling, hurting etc. I’m not sure, because it’s not something I’ve ever experienced. I can only say, I like to see a boy experience both, and Chris did over what must, for him, have seemed an endless morning.

This, I guess, is why they say I’m cruel to my teenagers and young men. Sometimes, I deliver cold water enemas too, and that, I agree, is strictly unnecessary.

The tall, tanned youth, writhed in his bonds as he was flooded with cold. Teeth gritted. Toes curling, finger nails digging into the plasticised wrist-rests of the chair, head shaking as far as it could within the limits of his neck restraint.

I liked to watch him when the bag was fully emptied deep into his man passages. Watch his eyes follow me around the room, watch him waiting for signs that I was about to turn on the tap to allow his evacuation, watch his cheeks puff read. Watch his suffering. See him despair until, without warning, I would roughly release the valve and a high-pressure torrent of intestinal-water would clatter into the metal pan below.

He was clean, really, after four large enemas. The stinking, shitty water started to run clear. Chicken and chips all gone. He knew it, I knew it. But he took ten for me. A nice round number.

On the eighth, I spoke to him. His breathing was a little ragged. This was hard work for a kid.

“I’m going to fill you, but not plug you, baby. If you can hold it in, walk over to the toilet and dump the water in there without spilling a single drop, we’ll call it a day, yeah?”

I love motivating boys with talk of ‘the end’ to whatever they are suffering, and after three and a half hours, this kid wanted nothing more than for this to be over. Yes, he must have wanted to tell me to fuck off, but he had an end in sight and, what boys love best, a target.

He didn’t manage my challenge first time. I gave him a very full bag, then withdrew the hose and wiped dry his anus and groin. I let him contemplate for ten minutes. He could see the toilet in a side room from where he half-lay, half-sat. Not too far, he thought.

“Okay Chris, when you’re ready, you may purge yourself in the toilet.”

The boy hardly made it out of the chair. He simply hadn’t prepared himself for the pressure he would need to apply to keep his anal gates tightly closed for the short dash. As he got up, the water sloshed around his tender insides like an unstable ship in a storm.

His feet touched the floor, he bent double with the cramp and made to run, but got just two feet before flooding the ceramic tiles with the full load of anal water. Into which he collapsed into a foetal coil and sobbed loudly.

I said nothing, but merely placed the mop, bucket and floor cloth beside him, and let him recover composure. I don’t believe in rushing a boy when he has totally lost it.

Twenty minutes later I re-commenced the long refill. Maybe a few words of wisdom were required?

“Clamp the anus tight. No sudden movements. Focus. Yeah? It’s very important that a boy focuses, but too many are bad at that. I want you to succeed, Chris. So focus.”

He hadn’t asked for help, but nodded anyway. Maybe it was a help. It was the growing bond between us.

The second attempt was so much better. I thought he may have cracked it. His movements were slower, more deliberate and, yes, more focussed on the toilet bowl just a few metres away. The effort, the pain, saw him shimmering with sweat from his calves to his forehead.

But as he crawled towards the toilet and began lifting himself delicately up, I saw a rivulet of water running down his left thigh. It wasn’t sweat – the track it made was much thicker. The boy voided himself in the pan, all the while looking at me, waiting for me, maybe, to lift this particular cloud.

“You felt the leak, didn’t you?”

He had. He didn’t bother to lie. He knew I saw everything. The athletic 21 year-old sat naked, shitting a torrent of intestinal water, head buried in hands.

On the third occasion, Chris performed. It can be done. Giving up and failing – that’s unfair.

After his successful internal cleansing, Chris took a shower, which was directed throughout by me. Boys here are permitted non-scented soap only, but it does work up into a nice lather. Even then, there are places even the best groomed straight lads tend to miss or avoid through, straight-lad laziness. Between the toes. Behind the ears. Behind the balls. The cock head – inside and out. The anal ring. Chris did all of these areas twice, soaping, probing, rinsing, than starting again. He thought one finger up his anus would be sufficient to get it really clean. I suggested three. We agreed to go with my suggestion.

At this stage, towels are banned for boys, because the of the cotton flecks they tend to leave behind. Chris drip-dried for twenty minutes standing legs apart, arms stretched above him and apart, in the style of an X, on the cold floor of the medical suite.

I had removed his chastity device to allow a thorough shower. He had not abused this privilege, but no chances were to be taken, and I placed his flaccid uncut boy-meat back inside ‘the brig’, the stainless steel cock cage which imprisoned the sexuality of my imprisoned boy.

He really did look ready, now. We had spent some time working on his body hair. Chris was relatively smooth to start with, so the task was manageable. When we needed to make progress, I waxed, but generally he spent two or three hours a day with me, or my partner – who I must say has a particular expertise in this field – undergoing electrolysis. If I felt there was a point to be made, or a lesson to be learned, he returned in the afternoon or evening for a second session. I prefer the look of electrical epilation on the legs, so we concentrated our work here and, of course, within his ass crack and on his balls, where our work was especially painstaking. What can I say? There were lots of tears.

My 21 year old was left with three flashes of dark brown hair to match that on his head – two in his pits, and a token trimmed fuzz above his cock. Many will consider only total epilation acceptable for a boy facing Chris’s fate. I’m afraid I’m not with them. If a boy is prepared to work with me, to cease fighting me, I will leave him with a small reminder of his masculinity.

*****

“Look at me, Chris.”

The youth fixed my stare. His eyes looked deeper now than upon his arrival, a few short weeks ago. Still a rich, hazel brown, but sunken and tired.

“We’re going to take a short walk, now. I would rather we just did this sensibly. But I will give you a real choice. If you feel angry, if you think you might lose it, if you’re worried about keeping it together, I can chain you. If you can’t lash out, you won’t hurt me, and if you can’t hurt me, you won’t need to be hurt yourself.”

He seemed to be genuinely mulling it over.

“Err, could I ask something?”

“Anything, baby.”

“Could I go for a piss, before we…..you know? Because the toilet has been locked.”

No shit, Sherlock. The toilet has been locked because I locked it, I thought. 

“Sorry, kid, not now. Just manage it, hey?”

The boy may have been off solids for 48 hours, but I had given him plenty to drink. Entirely deliberately.

“Err…..we don’t have to do this, you know? Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Please…..not this!”

I placed a finger over his lips, which were only averagely full, but quite wide. He looked hot when he smiled, although he hadn’t done that here. His brow furrowed into a deep frown.

“Make it easy, Chris. Make it easy.”

And to be fair, the pleading went no further.

“But you’ve not answered my question, about the chains, Chris.”

Oddly, he still seemed unsure.

“Ankle to ankle. Wrist to wrist behind the back. If that makes any difference.”

“Yeah….I guess…..I would rather be chained.”

“Okay kid, I understand.”

So, Chris became the first (and only, to date) lad who requested chains for the walk to the unnamed room where he had an appointment. Not the first, I might add, who had ultimately needed bondage, but the first to request it. I wondered whether pride was a factor, whether he wanted everyone to know this final walk was not taken voluntarily. If so, he was brave to be thinking about statement-making at this juncture.

As I retrieved the chains from outside the cell where I had left them, just in case, the youth faced me, spread his legs a little, placed his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, as though to say ‘go on, do it’. I think I was right. One final statement.

The walk was a long one, from one side of the building to the other. Along corridors, up stairs, down stairs. The ankle chains did not restrict Chris’s movement to a great extent, but without use of his arms, for balance, he took the stairs gingerly. I didn’t rush him. We were early.

It was a walk taken in total silence, which was always the way unless the boy had something to say. Just my boots, and his chains on the concrete.

I placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder to hold him back. We were there. I doubt he had noticed the nondescript door before. Today, a notice had appeared.

‘WARNING – boys MUST be naked beyond this point. Strictly no clothing on boys in this room’.

We had already covered this requirement in the cell, of course. The guests liked these little touches.

“Chris, look at me, and focus.”

Now he really was trembling, and his eyes showed little but fright.

“When we get in there, it will be dark, so I will take your shoulder and lead you. Just concentrate on following me, and minding your step. Switch off anything else you hear or see. Can you do that for me, Chris?”

He nodded.

In we went, the journey so many boys have taken with me. Pitch black. Up the short flight of stairs, one by one, ankle chain rattling. Along a flat stage, which Chris could recognise from the little splinters as being wooden. We stopped.

“I’m going to take your ankle chain off now, Chris, but want you to spread your legs, and spread them quite widely.”

No response was needed. Passively, the kid let me replace the chain with simple ankle cuffs attached to bolts in the floor, about four feet apart. Almost no movement was possible.

I turned my attention to his wrists, which were moved from being bound behind his back, to cuffed over his head from chains descending, unseen from the ceiling.

This, essentially, completed my work with Chris. Others would soon take over. For the moment, however, the boy stood, spread and tied, in the darkness. Waiting.

 *******

To be continued