Short Stay - Chapter Four (MM/m; NC; WS; FF)

‘Look at me, Kaden,’ I said.

I was perched on the stool, in front of the trio of clasps securing the kid’s wrists and neck. He was downcast and still upset with me about the brutal fisting, no doubt. He wanted to look at the floor and not level with me, boy to man.

‘Kaden. Look at me, and not down.’

The arrival of my party had been a further setback for the boy, for sure. This was the beginning of his end, he knew it, but that must be compartmentalised for tomorrow. Today there was still work for Kaden: hard, important work.

I grabbed a clump of his hair and yanked his skull up with it, hitting the hard stop of his steel neck bondage. I stood over Kaden’s upturned face, his eyes wide and furious but looking right through me now.

I slapped the athlete once over both cheeks, hard, making him ring like a bell. He sought but failed to turn away from my open palm.

‘Everything you’ve learnt about penetrative sex with me, you will reproduce for my friends, yeah?’

I had Kaden by his hair, still. He blinked hard, and possibly in acknowledgment. He puffed, nostrils flared, loud enough for the indignant gust to be heard across the room.

I let go, and the skull slumped.

‘Best behaviour, yes?’ I suggested.

‘Everyone?’ Kaden croaked.

‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘Not forever. Ninety minutes, and I reckon they’ll all be spent.’

‘At once?’ Kaden asked.

‘All in the room, yeah,’ I said.

‘Maybe… no… keep them off me,’ Kaden babbled, pleading for some sort of compromise, I think.

‘You got this, son,’ I told him.

*******

For my party of guests, I had a rousing peroration after the minimal ground rules had been established. Rhetoric for the frat house, you might say.

‘Ten dicks, and a fist each. Balls aching to be drained, and bladders swollen with my hospitality. Just two boy holes. Ninety minutes to take without consent, and to test the quality of my training.

You’ve worked hard to afford your tickets for tonight, gentlemen, so I beg each of you not to let this opportunity pass without creating memories for your lifetimes. Work individually, or as tag teams, but – please – make sure my Kaden knows what it is to be treated with less regard than a dirty rag. Picking up the pieces afterwards will be my burden, not yours. Are you up for it?’

My call generated a chorus response of ‘yeah!’ and ‘fuck, yeah!’, loud and instant. They wanted to be back with my boy, in the room in which I’d reorganised furniture since asking them to vacate temporarily.      

It was true for Kaden, as it had been for many of his predecessor boys, that the ninety minutes of freestyle action required a pioneer. Most of my customers were no longer British, but they were in England and appeared to have absorbed historic local courtesy at the airport terminal. As a gang – every man naked, now – presented with a boy in a state of total availability and a countdown ticking, there was the customary minute of embarrassed milling around and ‘no, you first, please!’ faux politeness, as cover for fleeting pangs of conscience or simple lack of initiative.  

An instigator was required: a man not bashful at the notion of being watched by nine others, to kickstart proceedings. Getting things going was a job for a guy with an exhibitionist streak, whereas his followers could acquire anonymity in the freneticism of the gang bang.

I was relieved when the reliable Reza stepped forward, as a veteran of my events. The stocky Anglo-Iranian was in his fifties, now, but could throw a great fuck when presented with a boy hole younger than his two eldest daughters. Lifestyle issues (fine food; a ten-a-day cigarette habit, and too little exercise) meant the hirsute Reza carried excessive weight all-over, but he knew how to drill a boy as an object rather than a lover, and that’s what the rest of the gang needed to see to shed their own reticence. Thankfully, this brick of a man retained the stamina to persist with deep anal penetration, whilst his technique was spot-on.

Reza’s demo fuck was conducted with a level of aggression that got the ungagged Kaden reacting, hard. As the hairy beast punished the boy with his fat tube of a dick, Kaden bucked on the bench and screwed his face in anguish. Taken to Reza’s hilt, over and over, Kaden screamed protest.

‘Ahhhh… no!’

‘Ahhhh… FUCK!’

With Reza working between the boy’s parted and bound legs, at Kaden’s utterly exposed ring, the apparatus groaned protest at the Anglo-Arab’s pumping action.

He was very far from a thing of beauty, Reza, but there was a certain aesthetic to his relentless drilling of the athlete less than half his age, and to the agonised reactions it produced, that got the other men stroking their pricks and forming a tighter circle around the mounted youth, now eager for a piece of his ass.

Reza’s leadership having proven it was legitimate and hot to use the non-consenting boy in this way, from then-on both of Kaden’s holes were plugged near constantly in perpetual rotation.

In the gang, which could so easily have descended into a rabble scrapping over juicy boy cunt, a better sense of organisation developed than in many of my prior shows. ‘Turns’ were loosely agreed for Kaden’s ass, and for his mouth, with the expectation that a few spent men would need to absent themselves from active participation at any one time.

The cuter of my guests understood, quickly, that an early orgasm allowed sufficient recovery time for them to return for a second helping of straight hole, later, therefore it was advantageous to shoot quickly. Others, though, took a different strategic approach to the gang bang, edging themselves in Kaden’s holes before withdrawing, immediately pre-climax, such that they were ready to re-enter him from either end almost immediately: or, more realistically, when the next access ‘slot’ presented itself. This take on forced sex required a non-universal level of self-discipline.

Kaden had been taught the passive gay role by me, though Marco had also tapped him a few times with my blessing. That had been the limit of his experience of service, starting from base camp six weeks ago. I will say more later, but Kaden found ten new fuckers devastating on every level. When I strolled to his head end to check-out what was going down orally, the boy looked up from the latest dick choking him and across to me, as his guardian with the power to stop – or at least moderate – the frenzy of cruelty. Expressionless and saying nothing, I walked on.

For most of the hour and a half Kaden was unable to speak as a succession of pricks plugged his throat; just daring him to bite down in raw, instinctive reaction to events at his other end, where alien shafts plunged into his ass without compassion.

The boy was accustomed to my size and my method of making love in his holes, but now here were men variously longer, girthier, and with ten different styles of foreskin (or lack thereof) to adjust to, immediately. There were guys who took Kaden’s ass with slow, hilting strokes – the fullest penetration – and others who jabbed him twice per second, for two minutes straight, in frenzied rabbit-fucking assaults that had the apparatus squealing.      

Before his torso was polluted by piss and cum the boy became enveloped in a clinging sweat, the product of his exertion and deep distress, that hugged him with its slippery sheen. Men’s fingernails slipped and slid as they sought purchase for their fucks, about Kaden’s moist hips.

The ass pounding barely stopped until the fists started. Guests jostled at Kaden’s rump ready to berate queue-jumpers, but order of sorts was maintained.

When his mouth hole was vacated for a few brief seconds between men, Kaden would be forward in screaming at us to stop, ‘cos it hurt so bad, until energy for protest withered and the interludes were marked by his bovine lowing.

The favoured deposit box for cum was Kaden’s ass snatch, into which orifice it was shot with such force that had him whining at the breeding, regularly. Not just the ass, of course, for before long Kaden was gargling with spent seed of multiple origin, which also hung lazily from his chin and matted as gloop over his forehead locks. Back at his rear the kid’s mounds had been blasted with cum, then smeared-in by the brutal manhandling of his subsequent fuckers. That juice which had found the arch of Kaden’s back laid undisturbed, white, and sticky.

When the dithering of men presented rare opportunities, I nipped-in to catch backflushed cum – a constant – direct from Kaden’s spluttering asshole into a small plastic food container.

My rearrangement of the props, earlier, included the wheeling-out of two identical staircases. There were just three risers, for the necessary height gain was modest. Beyond the third riser was a level metre with a slip proof surface, whilst a guardrail to the rear provided something to grip and averted backward toppling. These were my piss platforms, positioned one to each side of Kaden’s mount and braked securely.

From height, men urinated over Kaden. Their bladders topped-up by the contents of my bar, guests pissed alone and as duos, choreographed in makeshift fashion, working to both flanks of the young athlete.

Golden showers, arcing, pelted the boy’s back, with men wielding their hoses intelligently to ensure the kid was doused from his neck down to his reared ass. At times, Kaden’s deluge from the piss platforms was much more than a shower: it was a hard rain.

The youth barely registered this peripheral indignity amid the coordinated assaults upon his holes, but it added to the sense of misery being experienced down there, on the fisting bench. The opportunity to use Kaden as a piss trough kept otherwise spent men in-play and amused. In time, tightly aimed blasts of gold jet-washed splattered cum from the boy’s back, and piss became a cleansing agent.  

In the second half-hour of Kaden’s service, fist work started in earnest. Handballing became a seed-saver for men in the post-orgasmic comedown and recovery phases, keen to stay active and obtain value for money from the boy.

The kid’s ass was so utterly bunged with cum slime that lube was barely necessary, but applied nonetheless as far as wrists, which was the permitted limit of penetration by limb under my ‘light touch’ rules. There was a need to balance the experience of my guests with benevolence towards Kaden, after all.

Generally, my gang was more tentative in its approach to fist-to-ass than I’d been that day, and there were a couple of novice youngsters, unsure whether they’d do more than watch the spectacle where fisting was concerned. I was, as always, eager to ensure complete satisfaction and five-star reviews for the marketing portal, so encouraged the newbies to take a turn with a fist, under the tutelage of me or one of the men with skill and the patience to coach the art of digital penetration.

This became a time of new learning for Kaden also, forced to adapt from my long, slim hand of the last fortnight over to short but chubby digits, and thick wrists. There were men with prominent knuckles at their finger joints, which ground into sore rectum so badly as they curled, and a preponderance of right-handers – I am a lefty – who corkscrewed with a subtly different style in Kaden’s anus, hurting him in novel ways.

Experts – I am a generalist, rather than a fisting specialist – gave masterclasses in boring-out boy, demonstrating marginal extra cruelties in the ways they entered, twisted and exited Kaden’s mess of a cunt. Rarely, fisting devotees would persuade the man in Kaden’s throat to hold back, just for a moment, such that the assembled voyeurs could listen to the sound of fisting pain inflicted by a true professor of the craft:

‘Awwwww…. Fuck. FUCK. FUUUUCK!’

But beyond words, the noise from the head end was mostly animalistic with Kaden under immense pressure from the best fisters of the night. It was a cacophony of groaning, honking and obscene grunting: so piggy in sound and vision that I saw men with throbbing hard-ons turn away just in time, to preserve their seed for a boy orifice.

In his mouth the expectation of Kaden was deepthroat, all-round. I had been a constant in the kid’s oral development, but now the horses riding his larynx changed repeatedly, with no respite to speak of. It was an awful lot for the boy to manage.

Generally, Kaden’s performance observed the lessons I’d taught. Neatly aligned teeth, still white, were kept clear of dick meat despite the strain it imposed on his jaws. The tongue had a discerning active role, lapping at the underside of shafts and showing devotion to variously shaped crowns in raspberry hues. The back of the throat countered its instinct to close against shoved members.

There was a great deal of reaction from Kaden as ten men cycled through his mouth hole, and some returned for more. The use of his ears – shapely shells, slightly larger than average – as grabs for the leverage necessary for total oral penetration, was the root cause of some of the boy’s tears as the tender flesh was gripped until beet red and distended from near-constant twisting.

Kaden knew he must eat cum, when fed, but sometimes what went down was offset by stuff coming up and out, in the form of globby man seed diluted by his oral swill, and puke in sorry portions rather than great eruptions.

The boy gagged and choked on new (to him) dick, more liberally than I’d have liked given his behaviour reflected on my training. I tried to make allowances for the simultaneous punishment fucks underway at his ass, but my standards weren’t always reached.

The fisting frame was never stationary, rocking at its joints under the shifting mass of a boy under anal assault tending to propel him forward, but also an oral drilling, the force of which set-up an oppositional directional motion. When Kaden was gone, I’d need to attend to that mount with the Allen keys, securing its structural integrity ready for the next youth. Gang bangs could be so destructive of apparatus.

Kaden was awash with sweat, well before his halfway time in the saddle. There was more piss from his caged dick and, as the hour mark approached, filth from his ass when a withdrawing fist, turning the boy’s ring inside-out, drew with it a dash of liquid shit. The fister, Charlie – a fierce young Chinese with a chiselled jawline and pecs cut in a series of abutting straight lines – looked over to me, almost apologetic.

‘Nah, you’re fine,’ I reassured him, as Kaden’s turd crud splattered to the floor.

‘Awwwww… Sir! Please… no more!’ Kaden implored me between throat fucks, briefly.

The involuntary defecation heightened my consciousness of the demands the gang bang was placing upon Kaden physically, and of his deteriorating psyche.

‘Mostly acceptable so far, honey,’ I said. ‘Just keep putting-out, and your time will zip past before you know it.’

‘Too much… please? Stop… now?’

‘It’s okay, K. I’m here for you. I’m not gonna leave you,’ I said, with confidence.

A subset of my guests – those not immersed in carnal moments – picked-up on my dialogue with the boy.

‘Should we, like, go easy for a bit?’ asked Nathan, a 24-year-old Dutch biracial who’d taken Kaden vigorously from both ends; was edging towards the top of the queue to fist him, but felt a spasm of sympathy or – more dangerously, perhaps – a pang of conscience.

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s meant to be hard work, for him. I’ll pick-up the pieces. Everyone as they were, yeah?’

*******

There were, I suppose, three or four famous names on the guest list, but I doubt many would recognise more than one or two. I consume little television, for example, so getting excited that so-and-so was in the first series of The Crown might earn you my riposte that I don’t know who he or they are: never heard of them!

I keep-up with the business pages of The Times, though. Call it force of habit because when I was salaried, I was expected to be up to speed with the latest developments in commerce and to talk knowledgeably about them. Such insight hasn’t been necessary for seven years, since I switched to self-employment in the events industry, but I like to keep an active mind and – anyway – I have cash to invest in suitable opportunities beyond sex.

The richest man in the room with Kaden, was Elliot. He knew that and I knew that, but neither of us told it because Elliot was an unassuming billionaire, and I was an ultra-discreet host. In fact, there was little doubt Elliot’s wealth exceeded that of the rest of the gang – and me – combined, but he participated anonymously beyond ‘do I know you from somewhere?’ flickers of recognition as a couple of guests took sly second glances.

Elliot had made his money in cloud computing, which – I thought – sounded so boring it must be a great way to stay rich and unknown, if that’s what you wanted from life. I believe Elliot may have remained off my business-attuned radar, were it not for his (rare) tweet of autumn 2020, expressing concern at the appreciation in value of cryptocurrencies fuelled by amateur investors/speculators stuck in lockdown. It was all a giant Ponzi scheme, Elliot implied, and folk with little financial resilience stood to lose everything. Here was a billionaire with a conscience, said the press corps, lauding the timely intervention of a quiet man. 

Predictably, the crypto bros went apeshit on Twitter and bulletin boards, and the furore made the pages of respectable newspapers, which is how I came to see the picture of Elliot, age 37 (said The Times), and therefore know of him, vaguely, before he made contact via my TOR presence interested in ‘dark shows with boys’. And I was able to have my little joke with Elliot, noting his scepticism of bitcoin and presuming, therefore, he’d be paying me in hard currency: I accept USD, GBP, and EUR.

The Texan, perma-tanned, flew in and out at the bookends of each show, never lingering in the UK. With other guests he was genial though never over-familiar, and if conversation turned to line of work, explaining he was ‘in computing’ would normally be sufficient to move the dialogue along without further questions.

With boys, however, Elliot was always one of the most aggressive men in the room, exhibiting behaviour bordering on entitled, without ever losing self-control or causing me embarrassment by breaching of one of my few red lines around conduct.

When able, Elliot liked to use a handsome boy as his toilet. That’s not a statement that can be finessed to take the edge off its impact. It wasn’t a fetish I shared particularly, nor one in which I gave training, though I did punish boys in this way occasionally. For Elliot, interpreting why a boy has a mouth was at the core of his identity as a sadist.

‘Is he allowed to do that!?’ I heard called, from the floor, whilst distracted by proceedings at Kaden’s black hole of a gaping ass.

It was a plaintive cry. If this was a permitted activity, then my questioner would like to have known at the outset and not seventy-five minutes in. Obviously, the snitcher was attending his first event, and hadn’t taken me literally when I briefed-out that everything was in order, except if specifically prohibited. Lack of imagination amongst the gang wasn’t my problem.

Elliot had the tip of his dick balanced on Kaden’s bottom lip and incisors, and was delivering instruction.

‘Gonna give you a drink, and you’ll gulp down every drop, yeah?’

The boy was non-responsive. His sodden hair was yanked from close to the roots, to engage him.

‘You understand, yeah? You don’t spill my apple juice?’ Elliot harassed him.

‘Yeah,’ Kaden affirmed, under the duress of a flattened palm held close to his right cheek, ready to sting.

‘Okay, son. Just relax, now, and become my devoted trough.’

The prospect of urinal service being demonstrated drew a few onlookers to Kaden’s head end, though work on his ass continued uninterrupted.

Respectfully, I ushered Elliot aside for a moment so my boy and I could have a one-on-one pep talk. I crouched to align our faces and leaned in close.

‘We’ve hardly done piss before, Kaden… but still… I expect you to make this work, mmm?’

He stewed silently but was careful to retain a sight line into my eyes.

‘It will probably hit you like a flood, so… you just keep accepting…. keep gulping hard… keep swallowing until your man is spent pissing, hmm?’

‘Yeah…’ the boy whispered, barely audible.

‘You’ve got this, I know it!’ I enthused, rising from my haunches and drawing back to let Elliot return into Kaden’s face space.

As we parted I made to ruffle Kaden’s hair as a small morale booster, but found it so wet as to be unrufflable, with cum making a gluey porridge of his forelocks.

Elliot – tactically astute – hadn’t pissed over Kaden from the platforms, but two large glasses of mineral water and a dopamine hit of sexual adventurism had left him with a full and ready bladder.

The lean billionaire kept the boy on edge, waiting, brown eyes as wide as his mouth sewer. When he started, though, the hosing was instantly full force: the flick of a switch, not the turn of a dial. From the audience, there were gasps.

I know how hard Kaden tried, because I was stood directly behind and to one side of Elliot, watching. My boy made a solid start, rippling his Adam’s apple to clear his mouth as quickly as it was filling with that bastard’s rich brew. Elliot’s piss was shot at close range to Kaden’s throat, from where it ricocheted around his mouth pre-swallowing.     

My guest exercised no self-control. Elliot might have abated his flow to let Kaden play catch-up, but not once did he offer respite from the torrent. I knew the man to be exceptionally demanding of his toilet boys, whatever the activity. It was Elliot’s prerogative to behave in this way, at my events.

Feeling that drowning sensation, Kaden gulped Elliot’s straw-coloured waste tenaciously. The gang murmured, awestruck (with Elliot) and appreciative.

‘Keep it going, K!’ I encouraged.

I ill-judged my timing. The youngster choked on the weight of piss swirling in eddies around his mouth and ejected – rejected – a whole load of it, over Elliot’s meaty prick. Panicking and still spluttering, Kaden allowed his jaws to close in front of Elliot’s crown, though not biting it: a tiny saving grace.

When you’re a boy, and especially a pretty and athletic boy, and you’re asked to be a drain for Elliot, then you don’t close your mouth against him without consequence.

‘Asshole!’ Elliot shouted, frustrated.

Elements of the crowd tutted and dispersed.

I levelled with my boy, again.

‘You’re better than that, Kaden,’ I said. ‘This is a serious setback, right?’

*******

My cane for bastinado was carried in a bastardised flute case with a lining of purple velour. It wasn’t an instrument Kaden had seen, before.

A convenience of the fisting frame was the way it splayed a boy’s legs, allowing ass work to continue unimpeded even as I delivered retribution to the kid’s bare soles. Both of Kaden’s feet were to be kissed by the whippy rod, requiring me to dart behind a fucker or a fister to even-out the stinging.

Kaden had no experience of this form of pain. I caned harshly, respectful of the fact this was not a training detail but punishment. There are spots of especial sensitivity on the soles of the feet, and I made sure I found them repeatedly. Whilst there was a lot going-on in Kaden’s world, with his boy hole well on the way to prolapse and his puke oozing around the latest prick to stuff his throat, the gang became quiet and drew-in close to the bench, watching how the incremental agony of bastinado would impact the kid.

There was a serious amount of noise from the mount, and a terrorised violence to Kaden’s yanking of his restraints, the like of which I’d never witnessed from this boy.

The athlete wailed long and hard, barely muffled by whichever dick slab was stuffing his gob from time to time. His howl became perpetual as I caned, drowning-out the satisfying snapping of wood against the undersides of his feet: flesh already roughened and scaled, in parts, after six weeks of Marco’s grossly excessive demands of Kaden on the gym treadmill.

Though Kaden’s reinvigorated fight for freedom was futile, it was instinctive. My guests saw, and appreciated, another level of desperation in the way the boy self-inflicted sprains and put himself at high risk of dislocations, in his epic struggles to rid himself of a hand in his rectum and the new abomination of the fire I’d lit across his soles. Ankles chafed to the point of bleeding as they tried to swivel feet away from my short cane. Every attachment of Kaden’s bondage, and the frame itself, groaned in distress under a pounding almost as extreme as that being experienced by the boy mounted to it.  

As I turned his soles into red messes, caning on and on indefinitely applying bastinado without a communicated parameter for the punishment, Kaden’s face likewise became a red mess of tears, flowing freely until diverted by the cum distributed above his lips. I saw that boy face in the mirror occasionally, when men receiving oral service switched, and it gave me fresh strength to continue his trial, always.

In the room there was masturbation from those who were able to get aroused for a third or fourth time, jerking in a crude circle around the pitiful boy. There was no objection; no attempt to temper proceedings: no kindness. It was a fine gang, staying emotionally removed and leaving me the sole arbiter of what was, or wasn’t, enough for Kaden. If the boy was to have an ally, it could only be me.     

*******    

Time became short, and the gang bang wilder still. There were a hardcore posse of men with cum still to expend, being event veterans who’d learnt the right rhythm to squeeze-in multiple orgasms before the close: subject to available holes, which became hotly contested with jostling for Kaden’s service.

As the ninety minutes elapsed, I permitted those already inside Kaden to shoot their loads without egocentric delay.

Empty at both ends – an extraordinary feeling for this whore – the boy groaned on his mount, loud and in a deep pitch. Kaden’s chest continued to heave, and muscular spasms shot down his legs, causing tic-like jerks in his bondage. The youth was soaked in sweat, drenched with piss and sticky with cum from face to ankles. Several strings oozed from his farting, bubbling asshole, thinning as they stretched elastically towards the floor.        

It's so hard for a boy, the group sex segment. Not just the most searching sexual work-out imaginable, but also a physical Everest. It’s why I train for six weeks and let Marco loose on them, before well-paying guests gain access to trusted hole.

It was my turn for access, and time for others to revert to observer status as they recovered, letting their panting subside.

I’d not put both of my hands into Kaden’s ass, before: not at the same time, anyhow. Therefore, this was new to him on event night as it had been to his predecessors Tyler, Sam, and Oli, etc. Double fisting had never been a welcome development, it’s fair to say, but it would happen with my familiar hands rather than those of strangers; with my known temperament for Kaden to work with, and now when his rectum had never been more ‘open’. This would be an exemplar DP, or there would be repercussions.

I told Kaden my intentions, calmly, though without the courtesy of addressing his face because I was already poised at his leaking, quivering rump. The boy understood what it meant, well enough.

‘FUCK! NO!’

I was impressed by the resolute voice he found, after all he’d endured in his throat. The gang murmured, equally surprised.

‘Be nice and cool about it, Kaden,’ I said. ‘Just let it slip in…. let it happen.’

‘CUNT!’ he cried.

My entry technique was textbook though my delivery had to be forced, regrettably. Leading hand advanced ahead of trailing hand, in prayer with palms pressing but offset and thumbs tucked carefully. I found a sodden mess of a cum dump inside Kaden’s ring, reflecting that there might be – what? – fifteen or even twenty loads drying slowly in his anal clutch. Truly, a quagmire of breeding pools.

My K-boy was miserable with me and loath to submit, for he’d done his full shift on the frame. If this shit was going to continue, like, forever, then – fuck it! – what was the point of accommodating my plans? He might as well close-down and shut me out, now.

There was backchat aplenty, from the mount.

‘Nah… not two!’

‘FUCK off!’

‘STOP IT… yeah?’

Kaden’s vocality in turn prompted derisive verbal objectification from the floor.

‘Open that asscunt, bitch!’

‘Let him in, son!’

‘Open-up, fag!’

Taken as a whole, the commotion was tawdry and bathed nobody in favourable light, but it seemed to spur momentum. The digits of my trailing hand barged through the boy’s sphincter, and I had traction in double penetration. Kaden thrashed and screamed, delirious. I mulled the merits of a gag to deaden his noise but concluded his natural soundtrack would entertain amusingly.

After all he had undergone, anally, there remained a remarkable corrugated rigidity to Kaden’s ass. A precious boy, and a benefit of starting training from the point of virginity.  

I had both hands inside Kaden, twisting carefully, probing deeper. The lips of his ass were spread so very thin, gaping where my wrists wrenched them brutally wide. My guests appeared to be enjoying the show as comedown from their active participation, so I became self-indulgent in the time I spent with Kaden’s battered box, extracting my hands whilst making soothing ‘game over’ noises, before punching back to get him honking, again.

My hands became bloodied where they grazed Kaden’s rectum. No crisis: just smears of warpaint when I pulled out, marking my victory in battle. Later came the patter of crimson droplets when my withdrawing hands broke their ass seal, creating a void through which trapped blood fell.       

Some of the gang were jerking again, which was flattering. However, it was time to break that cycle.

I was in Kaden more fully than ever, now finding his filth with my fingers. He’d stopped the shouts of protest but not the constant bellowing that was the defining facet of DP fisting, for so many boys.

‘Well done, baby,’ I said.

*******

I hope you're enjoying my latest fiction. Chapter 5 will be published here by the end of September. Any feedback will be greatly appreciated. If you wish, you can email me at ryanauthor@protonmail.com     Thank you. 

Short Stay - Chapter Three (M/m; NC; FF)

 About fisting.

We’d had words about this, and there was a festering difference of opinion with both sides being vehement.  

Kaden thought it was plain wrong of me to put a hand up his ass. It was wronger than the many other ways I’d forced open his boy cunt, and he’d let me know it.

In turn, I’d contested that glove-puppetry of the boy’s sweet, tight, hole was an entirely natural progression of his training.

I’d been screwing fists into Kaden during the final fortnight of his residence, having taken a full month beforehand to develop him anally with the broad category of objects I referred to as ‘toys’, retrieved at the start of each learning session from the chest I called my toy box. Starting from the pathetic baseline Rochelle had gifted me in the form of the miniature plug, I’d demanded daily improvement from Kaden in the depth and breadth of his stretch, and in the number of hilted impalements he undertook on repeat. We’d achieved together in a logical and vaguely linear progression, tackling something new each day and overcoming his sometime furious objections until the plugs and phalluses he’d labelled ‘way too big!!’, were somehow made to fit, and then made to fuck.

It would have been easier if he’d enjoyed the anal stimulation, of course, but even in the absence of his pleasure there had been lessons for the athlete to learn around technique: knowing when to push the sphincter; when to squeeze down; how to grind-out a big shaft; and my method for exiting a toy with a pleasing pop as the anal dilation snapped shut. There were no textbooks or laboured tutorials but just relentless practicals, day by day, on prongs working up the sizes in retailers’ catalogues from S to XL.

So long as I had Kaden’s co-operation – hesitant or petulant, even – then we made progress in a sensible way, adding gradual increments to his anal challenge, sometimes barely perceptible to him. When the boy fought me, pronouncing a determined ‘NO!’ to the latest column of flared black latex I’d drawn from my box of anal insertables, then we missed interim staging posts and took double jumps in the level of challenge presented, bringing Kaden back into line attitudinally. His spittle-flecked rants and puce, vascular throbbing at his temples had been more a feature of the kid’s first fortnight with me than his second, even though his anal work programme was substantially tougher as the month rolled on.  

I got through prodigious quantities of lubricant, with Kaden; literally, buckets of the stuff as the straight boy took harder rides. Some bad men ration lube as a privilege, not a right, but my total focus had been upon Kaden’s achievement, and his sense of achievement, as the dildos became outsize and cruel. My priorities in exercising Kaden’s boy cunt had been size; total hilting; size; repeat fucking; and size. If the lube had to be splashed like wallpaper paste to make knobbly shapes force-fit his sore rectum, then so be it.

One month of training accomplished, Kaden possessed an ass with capacity to accommodate and a suite of skills to manage large insertions, totally against his proclivities. At that point it was time to introduce the boy to my hands, and to accelerate his anal development by limb during our final fortnight.

Fisting with coercion isn’t glamorous, and it’s not pretty. I suppose there are some who fantasise of day one punch fucks but it’s an illusion to believe you can tackle a captive boy in this way, unless you’re up for immediate ruination including incontinence. Whereas one of my goals for boys is longevity – of weeks, at least – which requires forcing them in a determined but measured way.

Boys hate my hand in their ass and they’re shit-scared of my hand in their ass, perhaps more than anything else I throw at them until their last day. When they’re petrified, they won’t open-up, and no amount of screaming at them changes that. If they won’t open their back door then you face an ugly battle just to insert fingers, but my ambitions run deeper than digits.  

So, in initiatory fist training I dial down my rhetoric and the fear factor. Sure, they’re tightly bound on bespoke apparatus with rump reared for me and no wriggle room, but the lights are dimmed. There’s soothing music coming from the loudspeakers – generic acoustic muzak – and I even make the fisting chamber smell pleasant by use of diffusers, distributing a rich, woody, masculine scent to overwhelm the prevailing odour of basement dampness.

In the early days at least, I act predictably and speak softly. I explain what I’m going to do with the boy’s ass, and how, and the sort of cooperation they might give me to make things easier for them. My hand is going in, regardless, but often it’s counter-productive to make that threat directly. After a month or so with me, boys know the score anyway.

I deploy specialist fisting grease to my left hand and to the boy’s hole, in quantity.

They are rigidly stiff about their sphincters, to start, with dogged reluctance to give it all up for their boss man, but rather than chastisement and anger I offer encouragement, and praise for their acceptance of the most trivial advance of a slick forefinger into their rectum. It’s a start, at least.

We have little time to train from fist virginity to proficiency, and it would be easy to get lost in a shitstorm of deadline panic, but if there’s a trick it’s to keep things so placid that progress is made without the boy properly noticing another finger has been slipped in, or, later, that the second knuckle of the fingers (plural) is starting to breach the youth’s inner sphincter.

What it never becomes for straight boys – however long their training – is natural or acceptable, and nor would I want it to be.   

*******

By the way I intended to bind him over a particular piece of furniture, Kaden knew what was next, and he protested.

‘Aww, man! Please…!’

The skeletal steel frame thrust Kaden’s rump back, high, and – in both senses of the word – proud. The boy knelt on two long cushions faced with black vinyl, broadly spaced and thereby forcing his thighs to part wide. Ankle manacles were applied, tightly, linked to short chains that were, in turn, secured to D-rings on the frame structure itself. The athlete’s bare soles formed secondary points of sexualised interest when viewed from his rear, turned flat with shapely toes pointing straight to the floor.

Kaden’s core draped along a further frame-mounted cushion, trimmed in the same black material but wider than the knee rests to accommodate the boy’s muscular upper torso. This section of the frame, and the padded cushion attaching to it, was angled downwards from Kaden’s abdomen to his neck; the slope being perceptible, but not acute.

At the bottom of that slope, welded to uprights integral to the frame, a trio of steel hoops were closed around Kaden’s wrists, and his neck. The metal bondage was inescapable, being tight at his raised wrists but downright trapping and chafing around his sturdy neck, which – unhelpfully for Kaden – expanded in girth with his angry vascular throbbing. At the bottom of the neck hoop, a modest pad in the vicinity of the boy’s throat was a token nod to his comfort during what could be a sustained session of anal work.

With the principal restraints in situ, I roped-off Kaden’s calves and chest to the underside of the relevant frame panels, seeking to clamp down upon potential wriggle room proactively.

I had the boy as I wanted him, with those muscular ass mounds thrust back towards me at a height geared to my comfort. The spread of Kaden’s knees – enough of itself to strain his hips when maintained for fifteen minutes or more – afforded me unfettered access to his smooth rump from behind, whilst the forced gaping pose parted his ass crack, partially, before I’d even started to interfere with the straight lad’s chute.

I can snap-shut manacles and bind rope to a boy’s trembling torso, but the one thing I can’t do for them is take the first fateful step: the act of mounting my frame, kneeling, and finally laying along the torso cushion. They know – well, on their second and subsequent appointments with the frame, they know – that my purpose is fisting, and their usual objections boil down to two:

1.            1. I hate this.

They suggest or offer we do something else, together. Maybe they’re willing to be caned again; to rim my ass; or to see how much weight might be hung from their tits. Possibly they’re okay to fuck with toys, or to be fucked by me. I’ve had all sorts of generous offers from my legacy boys, if only they might swerve my fist.

My stock response is that life doesn’t always deliver to a boy’s preferences. The needs of others must be considered, and at that moment my need is to feel ass velvet with my wrist. My plans – my impulses, even – properly override a boy’s reservations.

If it’s necessary to elaborate further, I point-out the boy has hated everything since their involuntary submission. Hate is never a good reason to avoid slamming away at mental boundaries, testing grit, and nurturing stoicism.

2.            2. Please can I not be bound so tightly?

They’re scared of my bondage – the neck restraint, particularly – because there’s absolutely no recoil room if I went mad with my fist. It’s a given that they’re going to hurt, badly, but my construction of their fisting scenes, I have found, leaves boys feeling uniquely vulnerable. There is no other exercise quite like it, over the six weeks, in generating a profound emotional response.

I start by acknowledging their concerns, to defuse some of the tension between us. I realise it hurts a lot when I fist, and it must be scary. I accept that the way I’m asking them to settle over the apparatus, ready to be locked-in, doesn’t leave much space to writhe. (In fact, the multi-faceted bondage renders a boy practically immobile, but there’s no need to concede their neurosis entirely).

The need for the tight bondage, I explain, is rooted in lack of trust between us. If I could rely upon the boy to be receptive to my fist – to keep nice and still and open-up for me, generously – then maybe I’d contemplate a looser sling arrangement, but with no assurance of a static bullseye target for my hand, I was forced to be more controlling.

I respected the way Kaden mounted the fisting frame, after a fortnight of near-daily – and occasionally twice-daily – practice with the discipline. Obviously, he’d be on it eventually one way or another, and by ready use of force if necessary. There had been days, early on, where I’d needed to encourage and cajole the act of mounting. On two occasions the boy had slumped to a squat, burying his head in his hands and sobbing before the apparatus, overwhelmed by processing what was to come and faltering at the last step I needed him to take of his own volition. With these meltdowns I had been patient and calm, stooping to level with the straight athlete eye to eye, but ultimately insistent as to the action he must take.

Yes, I’d used forms of force to instigate several sessions, though: I guess, typically, on those days where Kaden’s prior fisting lesson had been especially ‘developmental’ and the memory lingered on, in the rawness of his vocal cords and the savage soreness of his ass. The boy was scared to go again, but I was having none of his recalcitrance.

Anyway, on his penultimate day, Kaden didn’t cause a big fuss.     

‘Aww, man! Please…!’ he said, shrugging his broad shoulders despondently whilst grimacing at me and shaking his head. In his body language, though not his stature, Kaden was the 13-year-old told by dad to wash the car before going out with his friends.

‘C’mon,’ I said, evenly, tapping the fisting frame with a rattan cane for emphasis.

‘Fuckin’ asshole!’ Kaden blurted.

‘C’mon, let’s not make each other angry,’ I responded, still calm.

The youth was deliberately languid in his walk of a few paces to the frame, and I found his petulant, flat-footed stroll to be as hot as ever: it flicked a switch with me, as the perfect erotic preliminary. Likewise, Kaden’s arrangement of his limbs and core across the frame was slow, and not because he was shooting for some rare perfection in the way he draped himself over the bench, but to frustrate me though I refused to be baited.

The steel structure creaked modest complaint as Kaden landed himself and settled.

‘Chest down, ass UP, wrists in the hoops!’ I drilled.

There was a puff of compressed air as the kid’s chest pushed onto the long cushion. Once Kaden’s ankles and abdomen were secured, I removed his shock collar and replaced the grip at his neck with that of the steel circle, closing on its hinge to trap him there, and by his wrists.  

*******

After a fortnight of incrementally challenging practice, there was no need to be tentative in the use of my fist with Kaden. The boy knew perfectly well how to open himself up to me as best he could, but when I became rough there was a battle of wills.

I remained generous in the use of Crisco smeared as lubricant over my hand, and upon his tender ring, but exceptionally mean in the way I launched into Kaden’s ass without warning, briefly with three crossed fingers but escalating to an all-digit assault mere seconds later.  

I got him absolutely honking with pain from the get-go. The noise a boy makes with fist in ass is quite unlike the sound he makes under any other form of duress, in its animalism. Here was my latest pig, ass reared with pinky hole punch fucked.

‘AWW FUUUUUCK!’

‘Open for me, Kaden!’

In my exploration of his rectum I was mostly harsh, now, twisting and jabbing at Kaden’s passage and pushing ever deeper. It hadn’t always been like this: in the days of mood music and sensual aromas I had been mostly tender, even respectful within the strict parameter of needing to push the boy to better anal places. Only recently during Kaden’s fortnight of fist training had I changed from hard coach to pure sadist, slamming my knuckle into his back door, flexing and extending my fingers broadly inside his hot box.

When I changed, I ceased to be receptive to Kaden’s hard agony signals, like the uncontrolled bucking in his bondage and, mostly, his desperate pleas.

‘STOP… PLEASE!!’

When my wrist went in, Kaden fought me with his sphincter, but I won the battle and wedged a slice of forearm through his ring, catching him off-guard.

Kaden pissed uncontrollable, over the frame and to the mop-clean tiled floor, below, with tinkling splashes. He’d done this before, a few times, and it’s okay with me. Stress upon the bladder was indicative of an invasive session of fisticuffs that was actually getting somewhere.

Once through the clamp of his sphincter I found the boy incongruously, velvety soft inside. A warm, inviting purse of a snatch, standing in contrast to his chaotic, thrashing resistance.

My hands are long rather than broad, with rangy digits perfect for probing but less good for gaping. I overcame the disadvantage of lack of plumpness by making my hand into a bigger fixture, forcing my fingers to spread inside of the kid’s anus and rotating the wrist half-circle, tenaciously, to find new traction and pour petrol over Kaden’s flaming soreness.       

I flexed the knuckles of my bony fingers, furling and unfurling them deep inside of him, and as I did so the straight boy was a picture; open-mouthed and howling almost silently, for he emitted just a tortured, disbelieving squeak.

From time to time I extracted myself from Kaden’s bung hole, letting his ass lips re-form, slowly, from their gape into the tight kiss that was practically all they had known, pre-training. When I was out of him, the athlete bombarded me with pleas:

‘No more, please!’

‘It’s tearing me inside!’

‘Please… no more!’

As Kaden begged I hand-spanked his ass mounds with a series of firecrackers, setting-up a challenge between us as to who could summon the greatest volume and drown the other out.

I punched back into the boy’s rosebud and Kaden stressed the poor frame, the mass of his torso leaping then landing in shock.

‘It’s not week three anymore, Kaden. Offer-up your ass properly, like I know you can!’

‘FUCK you!’

It wasn’t even week five, anymore, but his penultimate day with commensurate expectations. As he tried to clamp down against my total access, I could justify to myself the fist rape of Kaden’s ass that I’d avoided when introducing his dump chute to my limb.  

I jabbed and twisted, forcing more forearm inside the boy. Kaden pissed again, but just a single urgent spurt this time.

‘Please… just help me!’

I executed several full withdrawals and rapid re-entries, leaving not enough time for his babbling crisis talk to re-commence.

I tried to spread my thumb and little finger fully, such that the tips of the digits were aligned on a horizontal axis inside Kaden’s rectum, and of course this was a stretch too far, but the act of trying – and at some depth in his guts – ignited his worst panic yet.

‘Just… make it STOP!’

My actions made my captive sound at least ten years younger than his true age, and it was as satisfying as ever to reach that dark state of affairs with a boy.

With my hand I described in sequence the shape of a cup; a knuckles-first punching fist; and an array inside of Kaden’s filth hole, morphing between structures unpredictably and at length. I opened the lad wholesale such that if all I wished to do was slide into him, fingers flat together with thumb crossed out of the way – early days stuff, basically – I was able to glide in with dampened resistance, finding the boy had shed some of the tautness at his sphincter as a positive legacy of my work.

What Kaden never became was sloppy, at his boy cunt. I’d yet to reduce a straight boy to sloppy fuck hole status, and wondered if it were even possible to do so: it’s not in their hetero nature.

‘PLEASE, just staaawwwwp!’

There was a tall dressing mirror on a trolley, two metres in front of Kaden’s face. Working with my arm screwed up his ass I could register my impact by reference to the tortured reflection I saw in the glass, if his desperate cries were not feedback enough. Equally, Kaden could watch his own tears welling and weeping, but unless he shut his eyes was also obliged to watch the lower two-thirds of me, naked, drilling away at his ravaged cunt. The boy had an imperfect view of me, obscured in part by the frame structure and his own mounted torso, but it was good enough to see me darting about, fleet of foot, as I exited his ass and punched back, whilst the boy himself was fixed almost immobile and utterly vulnerable to my whims.

‘Please… help me? No more?’

Yes, there were tears, which Kaden licked with his extended tongue as they rolled to his lips. Even in the context of everything he’d experienced to date – me; Marco; training; pain; impossible demands – this was overwhelming to the point of brokenness.

‘Keep nice and accommodating…. nice and receptive,’ I purred.

More of my forearm was in Kaden than out of it. When I withdrew his ass lips turned inside out, raw, suction clamping to my limb and trying to follow its exit path like a sleeve.

Full of phlegm the sobbing boy sucked air into his mouth, briefly making the realistic sound of a pig, oinking to the inbound punch of my curled fist in a moment of total perfection that reminded me why I persisted with this game, boy after boy, though it could be stressful for me.

‘No more….’ Kaden sniffed, beaten.

‘Harder than your last time on the frame, yeah?’ I checked, still wedged inside his rectum. 

‘Oh fuuuuuck!’

‘Hate me like Marco; or more, now?’

‘Mmm!’

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

At their cue my guests entered by the only door, single file, transforming their view of proceedings from a live stream watched next door, to the in-person experience they’d paid handsomely for.

Ten men arranged themselves against the back wall of the fisting studio, evenly distanced like we were in some sort of pandemic, and respectfully silent but gazing lasciviously at the rump I had snared with my left arm, deep.

‘No!’ Kaden whined, for he’d watched some of the line move across the back of the chamber, in his mirror.

‘Hey,’ I cooed, caressing ass meat with my right hand. ‘Sshh!’

******

About diversity.

I could sell the maximum ten places per show to an entirely domestic audience. There are enough high net worth bastards on an island of 65 million to clear the tickets in an evening of exposure to the UK marketing matrix, leaving further names on a waiting list, disappointed but retained under my influence with the promise of a highlight reel, post-event, and early-bird notification of the next live show.

That’s how I ran the first few events, finding my feet and making good money. I didn’t need to spend hours as my own PA, answering secure messages about currency conversion (until bitcoin scrubbed that problem), or whether they’d be better to look at Biggin Hill rather than Farnborough to land the private jet (I don’t know. I run boys, not airports!).

Between boys 7 and 8 – Jack and Tyler – I had an epiphany. My audiences were predominantly a parade of chinos and cashmere sweaters: old money men, of a certain age. It was easy and safe to accept their repeat custom, but lazy. I had a notion that better balance amongst my guests would add electricity to the shows or, at the least, help retain my drive to ‘go again’.

Balance meant fewer spaces for old British wealth, and a reach into the creative sectors and tech. And organised crime, also, if I’m honest. There is more category overlap than you might imagine.

I embraced internationalism, but gave myself a whole load of due diligence to undertake on new names, before they could be admitted to the inner circle.

The second step I took, to diversify the faces in the room, was very successful. I had been turning-away approaches from men in their twenties who were totally up for watching boys in sexualised distress, but had little money. Mine was a business and not a charity, after all. The fact was, though, that by the time I’d processed Jack and accounted for the various live and recorded income streams on the back catalogue, I was richer than I’d ever aspired to be and each additional dollar would have little bearing on my lifestyle.

So, I introduced the concept of subsidised places – two per show – made available at 5% of the usual rate, to men between the ages of 17 and 30 who could prove they were genuine, and deep and knowledgeable in their passion for the hurting of boys.

My subsidised guests are hosted with the same generosity as those paying the full fee, as their equals. When they survey the tortured boy nearing his end, they are every bit as pushy for the denouement as their elders. The alignment of age between victim and two audience members might have created affinity – that was my original expectation for the new dynamic – but instead it seemed to layer-on cruelty for the bound, helpless one, now taunted by his peers.

The changes I’d made left the average audience younger, blacker, and more interesting to circulate amongst during after-dinner drinks. Again, contrary to my preconceptions about millennials and their predilection for cancelling the immoral, the level of sexual aggression in the room had tended to increase, and often markedly so. It was a harder place to be a Tyler, a Sam, or a Kaden, with multiple voices catcalling for escalations and just me – the boy’s sadist – as his protector, and only if I was so minded.

That’s the explanation for the jeans, sweatpants and t-shirts in Kaden’s audience. The question was, could I remember which of them had won the raffled opportunity to go first in the acclimatisation session? It was time for me to call him forward.

*******

I put Kaden in a ball gag for this pacey half-hour of the schedule. It wasn’t the sphere he wore on the St Andrew’s cross that fateful day I acquired ownership of him, but something appreciably bigger. In the interim he’d been stretched all-round, of course. This gag bit gaped Kaden’s jaws into an aching state of spread from the off, and he dribbled drool from the corners of his mouth just at the thought of the insertion.   

Each of my guests had three minutes with Kaden – one-on-one – to discover him, with the order of procession determined by the drawing of tickets, earlier. Meanwhile the rest of the audience huddled, sharing a fine Australian Shiraz, bottled craft beer or mineral water, to taste. My events are the only gatherings of men I’ve known where the water needs to be replenished before the alcoholic beverages, typically. Spirits are off menu on day one of the show.

My rule for the acclimatisation time was a straightforward ‘no penetration of any orifice, by any means’, but I didn’t need to police it heavily because three minutes was hardly any time (deliberately); my law commanded respect; and in reality most men don’t approach a boy in gung-ho style when freshly introduced, before alcoholic dampening of inhibitions sets in. I was able to spend time with my guests as affable host, working them with a certain swagger like I was on the corporate networking circuit, in a manner I’d had to learn because it wasn’t in my nature to be gregarious. The fisting frame was usually in the corner of my eye, with half an ear on it, also, to ensure each man was thoroughly enjoying their three minutes of close-quarter appreciation and touch.

I’d left a dispenser of body oil on a stool, close to the frame, and an advantage of the first turn won by Dishon, a 26-year-old grime artist, was the ability to pump prime that bottle and apply sheen to Kaden’s blank canvas, though not a dry one for he was perspiring intensely in consequence of my handballing, still.

My objective in facilitating the three-minute sequences was to give men confidence around Kaden. I was conscious there were some new faces in the room, keeping things fresh, whose practical experiences of sex might have been limited to those gained by consent, whatever their sordid fantasies. Also, there’s an arrogance associated with age, commonly, that some young guys haven’t grown into before they gain an invite to my events. All my guests needed to know Kaden was fine to touch, anywhere. He was good to caress but equally to hand spank, hard. Kaden’s genitals and his ass crack weren’t private places but there to be cupped, and squeezed, and probed. His body was theirs, to enjoy.

Under multiple unfamiliar hands the youth shifted in the fisting frame, but it was a slow heaving of his mass this time and not the startled jerking he exhibited in response to my fist in his boy hole. Around his gag Kaden moaned and – just occasionally – shouted incoherently at his violation by wandering palms, or an especially sharp slap to his rump. The less experienced young men, watching elders, heard Kaden’s objections and in the mirror could read the bloated fury writ across his face, but these were not reasons to stop the laying of hands and there was no need, even, to acknowledge his distress.

Tentative guests watched and learned from the boldness shown by old hands who’d done two or three boys with me, previously: oil applied lavishly way up into Kaden’s groin; his ass crack parted roughly and my ‘no use of orifices’ rule tested in its interpretation by the pushing of fingertips at sore ass lips; the firework explosiveness of each open-palmed spank of Kaden’s mounds; and the sheer crudeness of some of the language:

‘Yeah, flesh feels so good, bitch!’

‘Get that pink pussy winking for me!’

‘Fuck yeah… you were wasted on that cheap whore Libby!’

(I was gratified at least one of my guests had digested the comprehensive Boy Briefing pack, circulated to invitees just prior to the event.)          

I had alarms set on an iPad, notifying each guest when their acclimatisation session was up. Three minutes was never enough, and often I had to steer men away from Kaden’s bound and gleaming meat; discreetly given the value of their custom, but there was always another guy waiting in the wings for his ‘get to know’ time with our straight captive.

Once done with their fleeting appreciation of the athlete, men tended to linger by his frame rather than return to the makeshift bar and small talk with strangers. Individually, my customers leered at the boy whilst others degraded him with their own hands, and in pairs and small groups they swapped notes on the smoothness of his skin and the suppleness of his bound muscle. Ice duly broken between fellow perverts, conversations veered to ‘What I’d like to do to him/What would you like to do to him?’ circle-jerk staples, sotto voce until I reminded the room in general these chats should be heard by Kaden, ideally, and that – by the way – they weren’t unobtainable fantasies, this weekend.

Over a mutual interest, youngsters bonded with their peers, and knots of young men melded with grizzled boomers holding court on how this boy was one of the best – maybe the best – yet, and why they should prepare for a spectacular day ahead.

In the room, as the tenth man fondled a slick and almost translucent Kaden whilst peppering him with the most provocative sexualised banter, I saw the same connections – the same feelings – I’d developed for a shit-scared boy left cuffed to a St Andrew’s cross by his ‘bit on the side’, six weeks ago. 

Not at my instigation but naturally, with leads taken from first movers, my guests had stripped over the course of the half-hour, naked in some cases and down to underwear and socks for the most reticent, tenting their branded boxers and briefs bought specially for the occasion, as best.

The programme would move on swiftly. Apart from anything else, it wasn’t fair on Kaden to leave him mounted on the fisting frame indefinitely, unattended and lacking in direction. You get the best out of boys when they’re busy, working to clear instructions. But first, briefings for my men, and for the boy.

*******

I hope you're enjoying my latest fiction. Chapter 4 is written and in technical proofing, and will be published here by the end of August. Any feedback will be greatly appreciated. If you wish, you can email me at ryanauthor@protonmail.com     Thank you. 

Short Stay - Chapter Two (M/m; NC)

Three months previously

(Ryan's technical note: the interaction directly below is a text exchange, but the limitations of the Blogger platform mean I cannot represent this via speech bubbles, as I'd hoped. END) 

--Boo! I’m seeing a guy I think you’d love

----Hey. We should catch-up soon, it’s been a while! This guy is my type, you reckon?

--Yeah, totally. 24, fit and strong… great looking I think. Smooth body. Lean

----Sounds hot. You seen him a few times?

--Yeah three times. You have an empty basement at the minute? 😊

----Yes. Not actively looking to fill it ATM

--Oh? Ryan being good and playing nicely LOL

----Exactly

--Yeah right, fucking liar!

----Hehe. You reckon he’ll see you again?

--Yeah sure… he loves it… addicted to playing the naughty boy

----Nice. Need to go out – I have a lunch date. Do you want to send me this lad’s socials, and I’ll take a look and give you my opinion, princess?

--NP, will send links. His name is Kaden

----Oh, I like it already. Jaydens, Kadens… they tend to be ‘rough around the edges’ sexy boys.

--Well, I think so! Enjoy lunch honey. X

----X

It took me almost a full day to access the links Rochelle sent over after our encrypted chat, and even then, I only did so after remembering the self-destruct timer on our electronic conversations was set to 24 hours. It would have been embarrassing, after all her enthusiasm, to need to ask for a re-send.

In truth, Rochelle’s perception of my taste in young men was inconsistent. Not that my friend bombarded me with referrals, but of every five boys whose details she passed my way, four were unsuitable or frankly ‘meh’, to my eyes. Attractiveness is a very personal assessment, but also my standards were such that I considered only the crème of male youth.

Sat on the bench at the kitchen table, laptop open, I delved into the social media profiles of a young man who was – it became evident, quickly – not a prolific poster. The Twitter account in Kaden’s name had been dormant since 2016, when he would have been finishing school or sixth form college, I guessed. There were no posts of his own, and just a few retweets and likes of the juvenile banalities of presumed friends, and tweets associated with Chelsea football club and its periodic Premiership victories and in-match controversies. I deduced Kaden was unlikely to be an activist on the front line of any contemporary culture war, on either side, and I regarded that as wholly positive if correct. The boy’s negligible following/follower count gave away little.

Turning to Facebook, Rochelle had scoped for me a profile without a picture that was moderately locked to strangers, but anyway skeletal to the point that, really, any privacy settings were redundant. All I gleaned from this was that the stories of Generation Z not using this platform actively might be truer than I’d thought, and – as I foolishly hadn’t done so in 2000 – it was maybe too late to put Meta stock into my pension plan. However, then I remembered who owned Instagram!

Kaden’s ‘gram’ presented the richest source of material for my initial sifting assessment, and – crazy boy! – it was unlocked, with north of 2,000 followers and Kaden following over 800. I tended to think of the 2k follower crowd as being sub-influencer, but having somehow generated interest well beyond their friendship circle. Nobody has two thousand friends or even acquaintances, do they?

Scrolling, I established Kaden posted once a fortnight, on average. It didn’t take too long to reach his smattering of hard lockdown posts from April 2020: a cliched set of images featuring country walks under grey English skies, a makeshift gym in the garage, and a home baking effort. His girlfriend was called Libby, they appeared to live together, and had a golden retriever called Rollo that was a lockdown pup. If I hadn’t been scrolling with a hard purpose, I would have navigated away or drifted off to sleep at my kitchen bench: one of the two.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t viewing the profile of the ‘Kaden type’ I had speculated about, to Rochelle. The words I would use to describe this selection of images were settled, and homely. I had to remind myself this was a boy of 24, not 30, and whilst he didn’t look older than his years, the lifestyle curation was somewhat middle-aged and restrained. Think decent job and a certain amount to lose from exposure of excess, if in fact he partook of any ill-advised hedonism.  

I’d scrolled and clicked for at least five minutes before accepting I was still very interested in Kaden. If he’d been a ‘meh!’, then – well – I would have made the call within thirty seconds. The profile was safely generic, but here was a boy who rocked a white slim-fit button-up shirt paired with thigh-hugging pants, making a smart casual ensemble for his post-lockdown restaurant visit with Libby, duly snapped for the ‘gram.

There was no evidence of tattoos or bling jewellery, marking two positives for me and reinforcing my impression of a grounded, cautious boy.  

As Kaden’s timeline moved into the second half of 2021, the photographic locations became more varied as the world re-opened. Fuck, I don’t know how I missed the ‘skin post’ when first scrolling through, but there was Kaden on a sun lounger in Gran Canaria in August, bare but for stylish sunglasses and small, boxy swimming shorts in sky blue, with a white drawstring knotted into loops at his waist. I presumed Libby had taken the shot after first applying lotion to her man, who shone and gave a beaming smile for the phone camera, teeth gleaming and perfectly aligned. Mentally, I ticked ‘broad shouldered’, ‘pectoral definition’, and ‘smooth above the waist’ from my want list.

Good skin being another prerequisite of mine, I got hard in my chinos dwelling over that happy image of Kaden lounging poolside, his flesh utterly flawless as the camera recorded it, without obvious use of filters. Enlarging the photo surfaced no blemishes, and just a few dotted moles I judged not to detract from his beauty. The colour of honey on that Spanish holiday island, I reminded myself that Kaden’s skin would be paler now, after an English winter, as I didn’t see him as a tanning shop sort of guy.     

Though Rochelle could have told me with a fresh Telegram message exchange, I opted to sleuth Kaden’s height by reference to other people in group pictures, and doorways. Taller than most girls – and Libby – but sometimes a little shorter than males pictured alongside him, I deduced he stood at a pretty average 178cm, or thereabouts, which would make Kaden a decently compact male package, not at either ‘awkward’ end of the height spectrum.

Getting to his most recent posts, it clicked how Kaden came to have a such a healthy followership and a taut body. If I’d read his potted bio first, I would have known the boy played soccer semi-professionally for non-league outfit Coney Hall FC. Cross-tabbing to the football club website for reference, I confirmed he remained listed as a first team squad member, playing in defence, and there was a cropped head and shoulders pic with that now familiar smile, to prove as much.

Kaden had last posted to Instagram on Saturday evening, just gone. He was in a cramped changing room with teammates, still wearing the mud-stained kit of numerous sliding tackles, with hair bedraggled. Some of the men around him had already stripped their shirts off: a diverse squad with black, biracial and white skin tones, linking arms around shoulders and singing in celebration of a sporting victory that must have seemed significant on the day, to them, though hadn’t caused a ripple at regional level, even. Coney Hall played in the sixth tier of the English football league system, and that wasn’t a fact I knew until I Googled it at my kitchen table, I admit.

Kaden was highly contented in that changing room, pumping a fist as the owner of the camera took a ragged team photo. Later, he would have searched-out the image and reposted it with a puffed chest full of pride, and stories of athletic heroism for Libby that might become the stuff of his legend. 

I took a break, making myself a strong coffee from the machine. What did I know so far, about Kaden? Well, few post their failures and worries but, taken at face value, here was a boy who had got himself sorted with a steady girlfriend – and a pretty one – whilst living a fulfilling life, including participation in a team sport that matched his aptitude. He smiled a lot. Presumably, Kaden’s vaguely aspirational lifestyle was paid for by a blossoming early career, though that would require further online digging to confirm.

Rochelle had referred to me lots of duds, but here was an interesting prospect deserving of more time at my computer. Kaden looked like a 9.5/10, at least, but there was more to my attraction than his physique. Whenever I saw them young, straight, settled and happy, I’m afraid my inclination was to become the arch disruptor, pulling it all down to rubble: the best to re-build something new, and transformational.

Back at the table, I thought to check girlfriend Libby’s Instagram profile, before finalising my online trawl of Kaden resources. The girl’s account had no privacy settings activated, either. I gathered from her bio that Libby ran her own business, in events management, and that her IG feed was used in part for marketing purposes, and therefore not locked down. The brunette’s posts were safe, professionally focused, and more consistently curated than those of her boyfriend. I scrolled down to find Libby’s posts from the summer of 2021, eager to see whether she had a take on the Gran Canaria holiday which had produced by far the best pic on Kaden’s profile.

‘Yes!’ I whispered, to myself.

There they were, hand in hand, walking over soft sand barefoot at the waterline. The photograph was taken front-on by one of their party, or otherwise a helpful passer-by, and was well framed. Both heads were turned such that the clingy couple, smiles radiant, gazed gushingly into each other’s eyes. It was rather schmaltzy, and I noted that whilst Kaden had liked the post, dutifully, he hadn’t borrowed it for his own account. Also, they were colour coordinated, which spoke to the discipline of Libby’s social media management. She wore a small, sky-blue bikini set – to match his swim shorts – which presented her trim figure, curvaceous but not especially busty, positively. There was a breeze, billowing the silken ends of Libby’s straightened hair, which (when un-buffeted) fell to a level below her shoulder blades.

But I wasn’t here for her, I was here for him. Libby couldn’t be described as petite, I judged, as she was a little too tall for that moniker and toned in an attractively feminine way. Posed alongside his fit girlfriend, I got a better measure of Kaden’s scale and core power than could be obtained from any solo pic I’d searched-out to date. In the tautness of his abdomen, disturbed only by shallow corrugations, and in the gym-crafted breadth of his shoulders, were the foundations of a very special boy, in my book.

I found myself doing that tawdry gay thing, zeroing in on the swim shorts of a boy I was attracted to, in search of a bulge that would, probably, be just the way the fabric draped. A hopeless pursuit, unless the swimwear were Speedo, and Kaden was in those same boxy shorts from the sun lounger photograph that matched the profile of his strong thighs but gave nothing away in respect of dick. Not that a big shaft was ever a ‘must have’, for me, but sizing-up that which I would lock-away for weeks at a time was always a useful datapoint to know in advance.

Kaden had a modest trail of wispy hair, bridging belly button and his pubic bush: unseen in his shorts. I hadn’t noticed this happy trail in the sun lounger pic, but it would need to go of course, along with the more significant loss of the entirety of the bush itself.

The boy had large but shapely feet, digits perfectly proportioned and straight, though caked with damp sand between the toes in this joyful holiday snap. I saw no sign of injury or disfigurement from soccer played robustly.

I rested my eyes and took two large gulps of coffee from the mug. Reflecting, I recognised I was on the pathway of ‘talking myself into it’, but not irreversibly. 

On the basis I didn’t understand Snapchat, whether Kaden had one or not, I navigated over to LinkedIn though it wasn’t a site for which Rochelle had provided a profile link. I guessed the boy wouldn’t have set himself up there, as he didn’t strike me as being a white-collar salaryman and was a bit young to be networking proactively. Yet I was wrong, as Kaden was both listed and easy to locate, with his uncommon name.

The boy had been working as a commercial vehicle fleet salesman with Mercedes-Benz for four years, having not gone to university, so was probably hired on some sort of apprenticeship scheme. I supposed that the job paid attractive commissions – sales dependent – and these funded rent on the tidy home seen in the couple’s Instagram feeds, plus their beach holidays in warmer climes. Piecing together the jigsaw, I recalled seeing Kaden posing with pride beside a newish A-Class Mercedes – one of the hotter AMG variants, I think – which made perfect sense if the manufacturer offered favourable lease terms to its employees.  

I summoned a mental image of Kaden the enthusiastic youth in slim-fit white formal shirt and thigh-clinging black pants, eyes twinkling as he tried to flog me a Vito panel van, whilst I churned thoughts of him in the back of one, tied and gagged, stripped to his underwear and struggling. Sell me a fantasy, Kaden, whilst I haggle protractedly with you over the finance interest rate.

*******

‘Well, that’s a let-down. You’re greedy!’ I said.

She giggled at my stern-faced pomposity.

‘I’m serious, Rochelle. You’re offering me sloppy seconds,’ I continued, but my lips curved into a thin smile. We were still friends.

The location of our meeting was a flat above a fried chicken shop, just off one of the main drags in Streatham. When the wind was low and the fryers were on, the sickly odour of fat wafted upstairs from the extractor vents.

Whilst the exterior of the property was sad, with flaking paint on the window frames and vegetation sprouting in the sagging guttering, the interior of Rochelle’s flat was freshly decorated, at least, and the furnishings cheap but new and quite cheerful. This wasn’t a depressing space, once you closed the door on the tired communal parts.

Here wasn’t Rochelle’s home, for she’d bought a substantial detached house, requiring modernisation to her tastes and somewhere down Coulsdon way, the year before last. I’d never been there, and nor was I expecting an invite any more than I’d ask Rochelle to my place of sanctuary. This flat was Rochelle’s place of work, and I was slotted-in between her clients.

The girl had just dropped the bombshell that Kaden had been anally curious, and she had obliged him with a plug to his boy hole. Obviously, I expected my young men to be unsullied on day one, all the better to learn ass work the Ryan way. I had to assess the damage and see whether there was a deal-breaking situation here.

‘How many times, Rochelle?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just the once. He wanted to feel what it was like, to scratch an itch, you know?’

‘So, please tell me this was nothing more than a training toy, right?’

The girl snorted, disappearing momentarily into the only bedroom of the apartment, where I’d noted whilst passing that the curtains were almost fully closed, leaving just a column of sunlight. Rochelle returned through the living room doorway with her left hand cupped, cradling what could fairly be described as a miniaturised plug, in black silicone: a scale model of a true ass tool.

‘Do you have anything smaller, mate?’ I asked, straight-faced, and she cackled appreciatively at my dry wit.  

The insertable length of the cone was a bare three inches, whilst the maximum circumference was less. The mould – the simplest conceivable – was a sub-£10 trinket on the LoveHoney website, I reckoned.

‘You used lube, yeah?’ I checked.

‘Oh fuck, yeah,’ Rochelle said. ‘His first time, and all that.’

‘And how did Kaden respond to the plug, dare I ask?’

The girl put the bonsai toy down on the sideboard, stepped back, and threw her arms open in readiness for a piece of theatre.

‘Ahhhh! Awwww! Take it slowwwwly, please! Ahhh, FUCK me! Awwww….shit!!’

I laughed and gave a small round of applause for Rochelle’s dramatic reconstruction of a straight boy’s deflowering. Rochelle took a bow.

‘I’m still angry with you, though,’ I added.

‘What could I do?’ Rochelle shrugged. ‘He’s paying. He gets what he asks for.’

‘And did he ask for more ass experimentation, later?’ I pushed.

‘No, that play wasn’t repeated,’ Rochelle said, sounding serious, now.

‘Did it make him hard?’ I asked.

‘Nah… not the ass stuff. Not at all.’

It wasn’t a disaster, I figured. And I reminded myself that had my friend not been honest, there’s no way I’d have known that Kaden’s boy cunt wasn’t virginal.

‘So, what does turn him on?’

Rochelle seated herself at the far end of the long leather sofa, kicking-off the stiletto on her right foot and throwing that leg up, onto the cushion, such that her stockinged limb probed my personal space at the other end of the chair, where she had beckoned me to sit a few minutes earlier.

My some-time accomplice was dressed wholly in black. Rochelle was a lady with a wardrobe of many outfits, all of which appeared to be the same colour, leavened on occasion by chunky jewellery with prominent rocks. If she got changed for work purposes, I imagined it was into something (even) more provocative, but still dark.

‘A few things, we keep returning to,’ Rochelle answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, role play is a big hit with Kaden.’

‘Ah, okay. And what is your role?’ I asked.

‘Teacher, or headmistress,’ Rochelle said. ‘He likes to play a pupil caught red-handed doing something extremely embarrassing, like jerking-off in the toilets, which he is forced to confess to me in detail.’

‘Ha! Naughty boy. Is there any dressing-up involved?’

‘Well, I’m the most scantily-dressed headmistress imaginable,’ Rochelle grinned. ‘The school inspectors would have me closed-down.’

‘Not you, honey, I meant him!’ I laughed.

‘Yeah, kind of. Black formal trousers and a white shirt. Black shoes. It’s a stab at school uniform.’

‘School tie?’ I asked.

‘You’re getting invested in this fantasy aren’t you, Ryan?’ Rochelle said, wagging a long finger at me, mock sternly. ‘But yeah, I supply the school tie, in fact. It’s part of my… costume wardrobe.’

‘Ah, right. And, presuming Kaden’s breach of the school rules is a serious one, of which you’re the judge, then after a strong talking-to you punish him how?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, he might bend over a chair, or get onto all-fours on the sofa or bed. Mostly I’ve hand-spanked him, but last time I used a paddle on his ass,’ Rochelle said.

‘Okay. And what sort of intensity are we talking about?’

‘Oh, nothing serious. I just redden his bare cheeks – you know – though I suppose I’ve been building him up a bit, over time. Spank him, tell him what a bad boy he’s been, and to keep his hands away from that dick which only causes him trouble.’

‘And this gets him hard, but he can’t touch, yeah?’ I checked.

‘Yeah, exactly,’ Rochelle said. ‘Denial is part of the game, you know?’

‘Yeah, I get it.’

‘Like, if he’s booked me for an hour, then I try and keep him on the boil until nearly the end.’

‘Fun to play with?’ I asked, curious.

‘Mmm… yeah,’ Rochelle said, sounding unconvinced of her answer. ‘It’s business, isn’t it, so I never get close to them. He’s a bit stiff and…. nervous, you know? He thinks he wants thrills but, in reality, nothing racy. He’s quite young, though.’

‘And hot?’ I suggested.

‘Glad you think so!’ Rochelle giggled, playing with her extensions. ‘His body is amazing. I mean, it’s quite sad he’s paying for something that any sane girl would dish out to him for free, but I can’t complain!’

‘Not quite your type though, babe?’ I pushed.

‘Nah,’ Rochelle said. ‘Too boyish and a bit naive, I think.’

‘Too boyish isn’t a thing, Rochelle,’ I said, and she shook her head in feigned disapproval, all the while smirking.

Not that I could dispute Rochelle’s assessment of the target boy, but fuck, she had the ability to make me ‘stiff and nervous’, if she so desired. There in one package was the countenance of a young Grace Jones; the nutcracker thighs of Venus Williams: and a complementary toy cupboard. Little wonder a kid of 24 didn’t quite know what to say, or where to look.

‘Anything else push his buttons?’ I asked.

‘Well, he likes to be jerked-off by hand,’ Rochelle said.

‘A horny boy?’

‘Yeah, of course. I keep him simmering, right on-edge, sometimes denying him when he’s about to spurt.’

‘He gets frustrated with you?’

‘Yes, lots of moaning and cursing: he finds it tough. But then, he asks for the same treatment next time, so…’ Rochelle’s sentence petered-out as she shrugged. 

‘So, as with the role play, part of him likes to surrender control and leave his domme to take charge?’ I proposed. It was a blindingly obvious deduction, really.     

‘Yeah, it’s sexual escapism, isn’t it? Just for an hour or so, once a month maybe.’

‘Yes, so perhaps he doesn’t get these sorts of experiences at home?’ I wondered out loud.

‘Well,’ Rochelle faltered, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s not my place to be a sounding board, unless they want to unload and use me as an expensive therapist!’

‘Oh, understood,’ I conceded quickly, conscious my barrage of questions might have seemed overly intense.    

‘But yeah, I would guess that the sex he has with his girlfriend is pretty vanilla, y’know? We don’t speak about it, though,’ Rochelle said, pursing her lips.  

‘No, fair enough. Any other regular requests?’ I asked.

The girl drummed her long, painted nails on the sofa cushion, summoning her recollections of several encounters with Kaden who was, after all, just one of dozens of her clients.

‘He likes to eat out my pussy!’ Rochelle blurted.

‘Oh? And does he do it well?’

‘He’s enthusiastic,’ Rochelle said. ‘Maybe he hasn’t found all of my pleasure points yet!’

I nodded. It wasn’t a subject on which I judged it appropriate to pry further, though I registered the inference of Kaden’s technique being a work in progress.

‘And bondage,’ Rochelle followed-up. ‘We’ve done a bit of that: rope work, cuffs, cords. That sort of thing.’

‘Ah right, helpful. At a basic level, again?’ I checked.

‘Yeah, I guess you’d call it that. Sometimes his hands are tied out of the way when I edge his dick… so he can’t interfere, you know?’

‘Yes, got you.’

‘So, anything else you want to know?’ Rochelle asked, with emphasis. ‘Perhaps you want to take it away and think about it? Come back to me?’

Pointedly, the girl picked-up her phone to check the time.

‘You think I’d enjoy him? I asked, because I did, ultimately, value Rochelle’s assessment of a boy’s character and his potential.

‘I thought of you within ten minutes of meeting Kaden,’ Rochelle said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. I think he’d be excellent, for the hard struggle with you. He’s a complete package, for your tick list.’

‘Sure?’

‘Surer than I was about Sam, even,’ Rochelle nodded, referencing the second of three boys she’d passed my way, who I’d commended to her as a superstar and my all-time favourite.

‘Okay,’ I said, clasping my hands with a clap. ‘So, has Kaden made plans to meet you again?’

‘Not yet, but he tends to be very spontaneous. Meets often happen within a day or two of his messages.’

‘And, have you managed to drop into conversation the well-equipped playroom and sauna in the countryside?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Rochelle said, poking me teasingly with her foot. ‘I started sowing that seed the second time I met him, just in case you were interested, you know?’

‘Is he taking the bait?’ I asked. It was the all-important question. Otherwise, I needed another plan or another boy.

‘He’s sounded very keen,’ Rochelle said. ‘I’ve sold it well, showed him the pictures, everything. Really, it’s just your say-so I’m waiting for.’

I fidgeted, rocking back and forth on the sofa, processing everything I knew about Kaden and finding the strength to commit to him. Rochelle gave me twenty uninterrupted seconds to do so.

‘I’m ready to move quickly, when his message comes. Let’s hope it does,’ I pronounced.

‘Ryan, we’re in business again,’ Rochelle whooped, advancing a fist for me to bump to seal the deal.

‘Usual terms,’ I confirmed.

‘Sure, usual terms, honey,’ she purred.

I was parked two blocks away: a short walk through the perpetual hubbub of street life in transient, anonymous London suburbia. This was a good place for Rochelle to hole-up and entertain her men, and boys.

Back at the car, I just sat for a bit and let nagging doubt gnaw at me as it always did, once I’d committed to go through with another boy. It was true what I’d said to Rochelle when she first messaged me about this opportunity, that I wasn’t actively looking. It was only last summer I’d done Brandon, after all, and he’d been a handful to manage and not my favourite. Brandon had been hard work, for not quite enough sexual/emotional/financial/risk reward, which was kind of a downer when considering re-immersing myself in the process.

Still, I had an encrypted Signal chat group full of contacts, pestering me for news of upcoming shows and ‘business opportunities’ with trained boys.

I found myself scrolling through Libby’s public Instagram feed again. Kaden’s girlfriend was very pretty, I’d decided, though not in a showy ‘lust at first sight’ way. I made a running assumption that she was also quite smart. He’d done well for himself, but then, so had she. I didn’t sense that either of them had punched above their weight in finding a partner. 

There they were just yesterday, clinking glasses at a bar table, Kaden with a pint and Libby with a large white wine, so cool it had frosted the glass. Rollo was at their feet. It was all such a shame for them, but it needed to be done, now.   

******* 

Rochelle’s Range Rover Evoque drew-up on my forecourt, the scattering of pea gravel under the 4x4’s tyres alerting me to the arrival. Camera 1, trained on the yard, showed the girl exiting the vehicle first, with many seconds elapsing before the passenger door opened, from where Kaden emerged.

There was hesitation whilst a short conversation ensued, with the boy pointing back to the car. Whilst there was no sound on this feed, my assumption was that Kaden had brought a bag or coat with him – perhaps both – and was deliberating whether to bring them in or leave them, safe enough, in the locked SUV. They walked in, Rochelle leading, with Kaden carrying nothing.

The studio was accessed directly from the entrance lobby and monitored by camera 3, to which feed I switched. I watched an imperfect picture with poor quality audio, because the equipment was concealed in a wall-mounted air conditioning unit. With their assorted furtive reasons for visiting this facility, I reckoned on boys having strong ‘no filming’ rules. Obvious AV tech would have set alarm bells ringing, too early.    

However, Kaden appeared happy enough, stopping on the threshold to clock the half-dozen items of playroom furniture he’d seen in Rochelle’s photographs, verifying her stories of this sensual kink palace and thereby easing his nerves.

‘Fuck, yeah!’ the boy said, patting a utilitarian spanking horse, with black leather pommel and grey powdered metal legs.

‘You fancy bending over that, later, sweetie?’ Rochelle responded, nurturing the boy’s arousal.

‘Totally!’

Ignoring what he may have left in Rochelle’s car, the boy had arrived dressed in a navy-blue T-shirt, blue denim jeans and white Nike trainers. Nothing wrong with any of that, except it was taking him so damn long to get out of the gear, and I was impatient in my control room closet.

Rochelle was ushering Kaden on a guided tour of the dungeon furniture, as though she were some sort of proud museum curator. I supposed she had been judging his mood on the 20-mile car journey from south London to the weald of Kent and had decided the kid needed some confidence instilling, before he was invited to strip for her.

From half-sentences caught by the hidden microphone, and his varied facial expressions on the playroom explainer, I formed an understanding as to the pieces of kit which excited, intrigued or repelled the athlete.

‘Hurry the fuck up!’ I found myself murmuring. The suspense, as they say, was killing me.

Now they were on the lipstick-red sofa in the corner, talking, with Kaden downing a double vodka and Coke that Rochelle had fetched him from the well-stocked minibar, whilst the girl abstained. She was driving, after all.

Aside from the S&M furniture, pride of place in the studio was taken by an emperor bed set against the far wall. The frame had an industrial vibe, crafted from tubular steel, whilst the bed sheet and pillowcases were in black, rubber-like polyurethane fabric: fluid proof, and tactile. Partly to dress the room, but also by way of a gift from Kaden (nominally) to his dominatrix, I’d laid a bunch of red roses dead centre on the mattress.

If the bedding looked unslept upon – the pillows uniformly plump, and unruffled by heads – that’s because it had barely been touched by naked flesh. This studio was ‘upstairs’ and everything within it for display purposes only. The toil of a boy happened in the basement.

There was a spell of intense conversation between them, the contents of which were impossible for me to decipher beyond a few words heard, or lipread, here and there. The girl shuffled closer to the boy on the sofa, thrusting a hand between his man-spread thighs and appearing to squeeze down, in the vicinity of Kaden’s crotch. The kid was all smiles.

Then, abruptly, Kaden was up and stripping, and I too had to shake myself down because my cue was, surely, getting imminent now. His T-shirt was over his head, off and chucked in a flash, whilst his barely laced sneakers were kicked from his feet, bouncing off the wall beside the sofa. The Kaden I’d invested in, financially and emotionally, was starting to emerge and – holy shit! – he wasn’t disappointing.

Kaden ran long fingers through his hair, sorting disturbances to the waves caused by the brushing fabric of his T-shirt and checking his restorative effort quite vainly in a wall mirror, to which he strutted back and forth.  

Before losing his snug jeans, the athlete attended to the bulge in the front left pocket which, as expected, was his phone. Rochelle, I could see by her pointing, suggested the console table next to the doorway as a suitable place to lay down the iPhone, for the duration of the session, and Kaden acted unhesitatingly.

The jeans were so hugging they needed to be peeled from Kaden’s legs. Rochelle watched, arms folded over her bust, whilst the boy wrestled with the denim and switched from one foot to the other, yanking the garment over his feet and jangling the clasp of his leather belt.

As the boy’s exquisite legs were revealed, every bit as toned and smooth as I’d anticipated, I noticed something else. The hue of Kaden’s skin wasn’t ‘English February pale’, but ‘Mediterranean winter sunshine’: a uniform, lightly tanned, pale brown. There had been a recent holiday, I concluded, but probably just a week.

The jeans crumpled at Kaden’s feet, and he added his white ankle socks to the pile, flexing his liberated toes. Eventually, the garments discarded so casually by Kaden as though they were rags would be picked-up by me, folded neatly, and stored – unwashed – in protective tissue paper layers, within a souvenir box labelled Kaden: Boy 12.

Just the underwear, then. With no visible embarrassment, Kaden hooked fingers under the elasticated waistband of his Emporio Armani boxer briefs in black, and rolled the cotton down his legs, evenly to the left and right. Where his T-shirt was off in an instant, the process of shedding the designer underwear, as viewed on my monitor, was slower – more deliberate – like the garment was precious or fragile. Some residual nervousness, maybe? I hoped so: I don’t like them too bold and carefree.

Kaden stepped from his EA’s. I was right about the recent holiday. The kid’s ass globes were markedly paler than his adjoining thigh meat and there was a tan line of sorts, but not a hideously abrupt gradation. Those powerful mounds: now, they really were English February pale. Unblemished, hairless, muscular plains in cream.

The boy made a vertical jump by way of shakedown, like a soccer warm-up ritual, star-bursting with his arms. There was just a suggestion of rigidity about his dick shaft with the uncut crown.

At Rochelle’s summoning, Kaden moved to a low table at the foot of the bed, his plump nut sac jiggling with every step. There, on the table, was Kaden’s choice of corporal punishment instrument. The boy was encouraged to select from a walnut paddle, a flogger, and a rattan cane. It was free choice, though the girl conceded that Kaden had already experienced some paddle work in her apartment (too boring to repeat?), whilst the cane could feel sharp (too biting?), but still, ‘It’s your choice, K. We’ll go with whatever you pick, and I’ll be gentle if you want it gentle’.

Duly influenced, more than subconsciously, Kaden decided he’d like to try the flogger with thirty tails of hide and rubber, but was clear in establishing his limits which I heard in full:

‘Just for play, yeah? Cos I’m not sure I’m gonna like this, and my girlfriend is back in three days so I can’t be, like, too red.’

‘Sure, it’s just a bit of fun, a bit of role play, exactly how you like it, right?’ Rochelle cooed.

‘Yeah, like, quite light?’

‘Dusted like a feather, that’s all, K. But a new experience for you, still.’

‘Sure, I’m cool with it.’

‘Great! And there’s two things that most boys try wearing, to increase the sensuality of the experience, and I’d really like you to try them too, Kaden.’

‘Ahh… what’s that?’

‘Just for fifteen… twenty minutes, whilst I bring you gradually to a high and you’re ready to fuckin’ BURST YOUR NUTS for me!’

‘Tell me, what?’

And then, poised for my introduction, I had to sit down again in the closet whilst Rochelle went through a painful cycle of explanation, selling of benefits, and the overcoming of concerns around both the steel chastity cage and the modest ball gag she proposed to apply to her young charge, to enhance his erotic experience.

Kaden was deliciously cautious. The boy understood he was to surrender control for a while: not just the soft control of playing student to Rochelle’s domineering headmistress in the Streatham flat, but the hard controls of losing voice and sexual autonomy, effectively at her pleasure. The athlete was inclined to take Rochelle’s word for it that this would be hot – fuck, it had always been mega-hot before, with this dark temptress – but there was nagging doubt writ on his face, even as Rochelle’s cold hands slipped the boy’s prick into steel, making the hefty meat fit the tube before clicking the padlock, and isolating his pleasure.

Clear nervousness, too, and questioning as to whether he was doing the right thing, as Rochelle invited Kaden to open his mouth and accept the spherical gag bit, to be fastened by buckle at the back of his skull.

‘This is alright, yeah?’ Kaden sought reassurance, as the dominatrix held the ball at his jaws, ready for insertion.

‘Ride of a lifetime, K,’ Rochelle promised, inserting the firm globe gently into his oral cavity.

I rarely felt sorrow for a boy, but this was at least poignant. Twenty minutes in chastity, Kaden had been told: and he wasn’t sure about it. Twenty minutes.

And then, as they’d agreed on the sofa, it was time to attach Kaden to the wall-mounted St Andrews cross, as his first piece of apparatus in this sexy studio. The boy stood front-on to the tall X, stretching him vertically, but the frame wasn’t of vast breadth, so the necessary spread of ankles and wrists was perfectly manageable.

Efficiently, lest the youth waver in his resolve to have fun in this way, Rochelle fastened all four leather cuffs restraining Kaden’s limbs at their outermost extremities. The wrist attachments required her to mount a small wooden step, and then reach. The boy stretched in his new bondage, testing it for relative discomfort, and for the constraints upon his movement. Free, the kid’s neck swivelled his head back and forth, left and right, darting and tense. 

The girl retrieved Kaden’s chosen flogger from the table of three optional stingers, and began to drape the tails over his thighs, weaving from inner to outer and down to the boy’s calves, tickling.

‘Feeling good, honey-buns?’

‘Mmm!’

Rochelle let tails cascade over Kaden’s ass meat, falling down the walls of his crack.

‘Oh, fuck! Left my phone in the car. It’ll be on silent, but – y’know – I get jittery if it isn’t with me. Don’t go anywhere, Kaden.’

The domme about-turned and made for the doorway. I’d been given my cue.

As I left the control room closet, a final glance back at the monitor showed Kaden’s eyes following Rochelle’s path from the studio. He looked spooked, at that moment. Phone separation anxiety was pretty much universal amongst Generation Z, yet, maybe Rochelle’s sudden move didn’t feel right? Told a plausible story there was an intuition already, I thought, that all was not as it seemed. It’s a shame, really, when they start to suspect before they meet me.

I didn’t know whether Kaden had seen Rochelle pick-up his own iPhone from the console table, on her way out. She was practised in sleight of hand and the lifting went unnoticed, more often than not. Kaden’s mobile would be going on a long drive with Rochelle, back towards his home patch, and then on a meandering walk in the woods, where CCTV didn’t reach. At some point the phone would be switched off and then, days later, buried; burnt, or sunk in the river. This was all part of Rochelle’s service, for which I incurred significant up-front costs I hoped to recoup later.

It wasn’t a long walk, along hallways to the studio. The flogger had been left for me, on that console table at the doorway.

I was naked.

‘Hey,’ I said.

*******

‘Hey’, I said again.

But this time I was right behind his spread-eagled perfectness, breathing down his neck as I started to touch, so very gently.

And where to start? I was the kid in the candy store cliché. Maybe the golden musculature of his thighs, soft yet substantial? Perhaps the convex domes of his ass, unyieldingly firm? Or, trace an image with a single loving finger, from the breadth of his shoulders zig-zagging to the tuck of his hips?

There was the most wonderful soundtrack as I agonised and implemented, of leather stretching and wood creaking. Kaden fought the cross, battling his bondage and the solidity of the fixings of the X itself, to the wall. I had little fear of his efforts, for stronger boys had stress-tested this apparatus.

The violence of Kaden’s struggle stood in contrast to the tenderness of my first touch.

‘Keep calm,’ I said, in a velvety tone.

‘Ommmfff!’ Kaden protested, jerking at his bonds.

I felt a sense of entitlement to enjoy Kaden immediately. First, this was a gift to myself and it was expensive. Secondly, the next few days – it could be two or as many as five, from experience – would be marked by his resistance and mutual frustration, devoid of intimate touch, until Marco and I subdued the boy. This one needed reconditioning to accept free-roaming hands, but locked to the St Andrews cross his acceptance was not required.

My open palms caressed Kaden’s thighs, working from the outside, in, and up towards his crotch. The tiny, silky hairs of his legs – and forearms - had bleached blonder on that winter sun vacation, I suspected. All the while I was contemplating small enhancements to be made, and soon: patches where depilatory treatments would be beneficial; muscle mass might be developed further by Marco, or where Kaden’s hairline could be tidied of several days’ worth of fluff, at the back of the neck.     

If my favoured ‘type’ was more than a twunk, but much less than a muscle mountain, then I’d hit jackpot/all-time top 3 status with this latest acquisition, based on physique alone. We’d see where Kaden placed after character was included in the assessment, but for now I was enchanted with the raw material.   

As I got to his ass mounds with my hands Kaden heaved in his bondage and twisted his leather cuffs, trying to turn away from my probing, but it was a futile effort. When it was time to explore his crack – and I don’t mean his boy hole, even, but just the great divide with my slid fingertips – then Kaden became frenetic, tugging and yanking and near spraining himself in rejection of my advances.

‘Mmmaawww!’ I’m sure it meant ‘no!’, ‘stop!’ and ‘fuck off, faggot!’, all in one.  

It was a special rump, and I was holding an erection just inches from it, therefore I understood but couldn’t condone Kaden’s defensiveness.

‘So, Rochelle told me the flogger is your favourite pain toy, right?’ I proposed.

‘Nnnnaawww!’

‘Okay, pleased you agree. So, I’m going to let you have it, and at the same time I’ll answer a few of the questions you would be asking, if you could.’

I held the flogger by its ribbed grip and shook it twice behind Kaden’s back, unfurling the multiple tails and re-familiarising myself with the feel of the tool, ready for deployment. There were several harsher stingers in the basement, unsuitable for the studio selection, but this one had sufficient capacity to stun a novice boy.

‘Five key questions; five answers for you, and five lashes per Q and A, okay? I proposed, as though this were to be collaborative. ‘But, too much writhing and I’ll add a sixth question, and five more lashes, so try to make a static target for the whip, Kaden.’

‘Awwww!’

The kid had turned his head as far as he could, to plead with me through the medium of terrified eye contact as he moaned protest.

I made practice strokes at Kaden’s left flank, and my strong over-shoulder delivery set the tails whooshing as they sliced air. The boy’s panicked wriggling stepped-up another gear.      

‘Question One, is ‘WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU’?’ I tendered, on the athlete’s behalf. ‘Well, this one has a short answer. My name is just Sir, for your purposes, and that’s how you’ll address me when you need to speak.’

My first volley of five lashes was landed on Kaden’s ass mounds: left, right and centre, unpredictably. The level of applied strength was hard – not quite severe – and my pace even, pausing between strokes just momentarily, to regain composure and line-up my next shot to target.

It was bad luck for Kaden, as it had been for the boys before him, to encounter an ambidextrous whipmaster, but then he was enflaming the tension between us by trying to turn his precious globes away from the trajectory of my flogger: the tool the boy himself had chosen! This was not the session Rochelle would have delivered, I conceded.

‘Question Two, is ‘Will you let me go, tonight’? I tabled. ‘And, again, there is a simple answer here. I’m sorry to say, Kaden, that you won’t be leaving me tonight, this weekend, or next week. You must prepare yourself for a short stay.’

My second volley of shots were to the boy’s left thigh, from the back of his knee up to the curve into his rump, meeting the stripes of his butt-whipping sequence at myriad angles. Every thudding, jerk-initiating whipcrack painted a little more of my idealised canvas red raw, spoiling it really, but this process was necessary. An objective of training was to work for the day the flogger, whip and cane might no longer be necessary.    

‘Your question three, Kaden, is ‘What do you want from me!?’ I proposed. ‘Now, a full answer to this question could become a tediously long answer, which neither of us have time for, so here’s a headline summary. I want your surrender, and then your total submission. Also, I expect to see you work exceptionally hard, and I absolutely require you to keep me entertained each day, through that work.’

My third volley of five lashes were to Kaden’s right thigh. Whilst the boy squirmed desperately when under attack still, between rounds he started to slump in his bondage, panting, as his world fell apart.

‘Question four on the tip of your lips then, Kaden, is ‘Are you a fuckin’ pervert!?’ I asked for him. ‘And unfortunately, your answer is that, yes, I’m very gay, very twisted, and deeply sadistic, with a dangerous loving streak. What this means for you, Kaden, is that it will soon become critical you work with me, and not against me. I suppose that sounds hard, right? But I’ll be with you every step of the way giving clear instructions, pushing you and improving you. Remember, my loving streak?’

For the fourth round of corporal punishment, I centred on Kaden’s upper back, using both whip hands unpredictably again to slash him across the breadth of his shoulders, and criss-crossing the last two strokes at new diagonals.

The straight boy roared around his ball gag, hauling his torso four inches up the creaking cross in a statement of defiance, I thought.

‘Any time you need to bite down hard on a gag, then you do, yeah?’ I suggested. ‘I have plenty here, Kaden. If you snap a gag, crush a gag… whatever… then totally fine. I’m here for your performance, and not to count pennies.’

Where I’d flogged him hard, twenty times now, the fruit of my labour was beginning to show in rising welts across his flawless flesh.

‘Question five, and an important one, Kaden, is ‘What should I do, to help myself?’ I asked. ‘Now, if that was genuinely a burning question of yours, then well done and I’m impressed. Your answer is that you should close your mouth and use your ears. Listen carefully to what I say, and to what I require you to do, and act immediately upon it. If there’s an instruction you don’t understand, then it’s okay to ask me to explain, but it’s never okay to try and engage me in conversation. Finally, you’re going to feel a lot of anger in the time ahead, towards me. I have a challenge for you, which is to harness that anger and turn it on yourself, at those times I ask you to do something which is entirely against your instincts.’

‘Mmmaawww!’ Kaden wailed objection.

I saw the kid was frothing drool around his gag now, indignant and pained.

For the fifth volley of lashes, I returned to Kaden’s pert ass, this time still harder and damn close to ‘severe’ in intensity, smashing into his quivering rump with loud, rubbery thwacks that set the boy jolting and squealing. Kaden looked back at me with wild, furious eyes I’d not yet seen, but would assuredly see again.

‘Hey,’ I said, running an open palm across ass muscle I’d just transformed from cream to raspberry red, feeling the radiant heat and his fury. ‘It’s going to be okay, yeah?’ I tried to calm him, nibbling at his neckline, damp with perspiration. 

I took two steps backward and resumed air-flogging in Kaden’s immediate vicinity, not quite done, yet.

‘Alright, soldier, I’m sure you had a sixth question for me,’ I said.

‘Nnnaawww!’

‘Well, you were writhing like hell. I was convinced you wanted another!’

‘Mmmaawww!’ 

‘So, your sixth question was ‘Why me?’ I asked for him. ‘And, I’m going to tell you, after we’ve warmed your back a little more.’

My final volley of lashes was freestyle from Kaden’s thighs to his shoulder blades, delivered in twenty-five seconds flat, at full intensity from over my shoulder. It left me puffed and slightly drained, emotionally.

The boy was tearful for the first time, but silently so and not sobbing for sympathy. Just some sniffing, to stop his runny snot falling.

‘You, because you’re ruggedly pretty in a quite unique way,’ I said, answering the self-posed question. ‘Also, you became available to me, when you started to see Rochelle behind poor Libby’s back. So, whenever you ask why, think of it as a morality tale, Kaden.’

*******