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.’

*******

   

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

On, and by, his penultimate day, Kaden owed me nothing, whilst my toolbox of incentives to leverage his compliance had been emptied, and the concept of an offer – a periodic trade – to mould his behaviours, was history. 

Previously, I might have resorted to the introduction of fear – the establishment of threat of harsh punishment – but what had Kaden to fear on his penultimate day, beyond the last day? 

What the boy gave me that morning, absent of these influences, was the finest 06.00 Presentation of his time under my charge. Back, arrow-straight; feet, planted exactly the correct distance apart; head, tilted back to the precise angle I specify, with eyes focused on the mid-distance; hands, clasped behind the neck with the folded elbow tips pushed back hard to align with his core. 

Kaden was locked in drill pose number 2, geared to specific perfection about the lower half of the torso with calves rock solid; quads rippling, and ass pushed back from the horizontal just a little: mounds gathered high and tight, and then held strictly motionless for display purposes. 

The kid’s globes, unyielding to the brush of my palm, told a story in three parts. Over the last week there had been a process of healing to leave Kaden unmarked – relatively, at least – for his Drop. But look more closely at that creamy rump and the faded welts upon it, and the earlier chapters of his story of service could be narrated from his multitude of injuries. 

I could finger trace those wounds I had inflicted, personally or by delegation of authority, at times when Kaden’s effort was lacking and his work, poor. But despite the fading, I could still identify the separate welts I had delivered to the athlete’s ass because it gave me pleasure, and for no other reason. The punishment wounds had bitten deeper, but the ‘for fun’ marks were more extensive, drifting further down the curves of Kaden’s butt cheeks and onto his upper thighs. I remembered the days there had been both failure and fun, and how deeply my captive had resented me on those treasured occasions.

 

The curvaceous pale canvas was re-emergent from a dystopia of angry red, a half-dozen pinprick moles adding interest to Kaden’s smooth ass muscle, but still I lingered over his nearly healed wounds, pushing into them. I recognised, pretty much, the slashes I was responsible for being left-handed, and by process of elimination the diagonals running in the opposite direction originated with Kaden’s gym instructor, Marco, who wielded instruments of corporal punishment in his right hand, exclusively.

Kaden had never got on with Marco, it’s fair to say. The two held different views as to what a fit boy of 24 should be capable of, in the gym, and how regularly personal bests should be turned in. Whilst Kaden saw me across the day and was able to form a holistic view of my character, his encounters with Marco were limited to two hours of gym instruction every morning, when there was nothing but excessive demands from the fiery, ex-Marine PT. 

I enjoyed the variety in Kaden’s legacy marks, from the broad-brush strokes of the paddle, through the flayed tails of whips and floggers, to the focused linear bites of the cane: always especially cruel on the buttocks. Four categories of implement, worked by two sadists coming from different angles to create what was, for a month, a sea of burning misery for this young man. 

At a modest distance the kid’s thighs looked hairless, but get up-close and his tiny, short and silken array became visible, across the quads: not nearly significant enough to warrant thought of epilation. My hands ranged freely over Kaden’s defined legs with not a flinch from the boy as I considered for one last time, maybe, how much I had enjoyed the sight of those limbs hard at work, and how far they had carried the kid in so many cruel exploits at my behest. In Kaden’s legs I had found the perfect balance of strength and agility, substance and elegance, that I’d marked as a priority criterion when the process of desktop selection was underway. 

There was no resistance. I ventured wherever I wished between those spread limbs, anchored by widely planted feet. There were no ‘X marks the spot’ stickers to guide Kaden on the extent of the required spread, because he could feel it instinctively after a few days of tuition and then a week of trial and error, focused by application of the flogger when the presentation was too narrow. It was much rarer for a presentation to be too wide.

 

‘What’s stuffing your boy cunt today, Kaden?’ I asked him. 

‘The metal plug, Sir… Intruder,’ the boy shot back, with full voice. 

‘Six-and-a-half-inch girth. That’s a fuckin’ daddy of an ass prong, honey,’ I observed. ‘You really feeling the stretch this morning?’ 

‘Yes, Sir!’ he barked. 

Sure enough, the steel base plate of the ‘toy’ spanned the boy’s hole, the disc hiding his sensual but intensively worked ass lips. The rest of the plug was wedged inside of him, and he’d worked it in himself in readiness for his morning presentation. Kaden had been force-familiarised with a variety of materials, shapes and sizes for his ass insertables, but by this final week the morning rotation included only the most challenging dildos and plugs, all to be worn to their hilt prior to my arrival and inspection of him. 

I empathised – only internally, of course – because I knew how badly the big tools such as Intruder worked a boy’s core. Kaden’s aching inside and the resulting self-pity would be consuming him, yet there was I expecting a rod-straight back and the perfect pose. 

‘Was it hard work, making it fit?’ I checked, and Kaden floundered for a moment. 

‘It’s always hard now, Sir,’ the boy said, and that was both diplomatic and honest. 

‘Yeah… I know.’ 

He was clean inside, this boy, and I knew it because I had the proof beside him in the form of two clear plastic buckets, filled with his discharged enema water. The daddy enema, from a 3-litre bag, was taken first every morning and once evacuated, created an Arabian Soup of a mess in the bucket, tinged brown and with tufty turd floaters. The son enema was half the capacity and served as a final flush, to get Kaden’s rectum pristine and ready for whatever work I had planned for it. There was a separate bucket for each evacuation, and it was a strict rule that the discharges must not be mixed, as I required to see all evidence of his ‘pathway to clean’ sequentially. 

It was nasty for the kid to rise on an early alarm call, every fucking morning, and rush to place himself into excruciating cramps with the daddy enema, holding it for the requisite five minutes in clench-fisted agony before squatting over bucket one and letting it all go, to a cacophony of squelching farts and deeply felt sighs. Then, the refill with the son enema: smaller, but to be held for twice as long. This second flushing was from a bag scented quite intensely with rose water, such that the masculine youth started each day smelling, at his anus, of a home fragrance diffuser. By the end of each day his aroma was that of sweat and pure fear, and I loved the contrast. 

The cleansing routine dictated Kaden’s toileting, pushing his alarm call back further into the hours of darkness in order he could wolf down a fibrous cereal breakfast from the tray delivered to the cell at 23.00 the previous night; allow time for some digestion, and then shit on the seatless toilet unit before starting the double enema process, to clear his innards out. 

Once whistle clean, Kaden’s access to toilet facilities for shitting was restricted to ‘by special request’ arrangements until such time as I confirmed no further use for him anally, that day, whether my decision came at midday, or midnight. Special requests for exceptional, additional, bathroom access were not bound to be granted and required a written explanation for my consideration. If I were agreeable, the enema routine would be repeated, post-toileting. 

Twice, in a mad hurry to complete his cleansing processes in advance of my arrival for the presentation, Kaden failed to dry himself thoroughly and – as I watched – the trickles of backflush from the son enema dribbled from his exhaust hole, around the perimeter of his plug and down his thigh in a meandering rivulet. The boy earnt five strokes of the cane, each time, for his carefree attitude. 

I have high standards and feisty, strong-willed boys find it hard to adapt, and to work with me, rather than struggling against the tide. 

Some mornings I made Kaden present in his black patent leather work boots, polished to gleaming (or else) and without socks. On the penultimate day he was instructed to pose barefoot such that I could appreciate the kid’s long toes, each digit perfectly formed with nails tidily manicured. However I touched him – used him – Kaden understood he was not to scrunch those toes into foot-balls by way of reaction: they must remain flat and straight, on the concrete floor, with the front of both feet splayed away from the other. Whilst the undersides of his soles were coarse and scabby through constant scrabbling work, both physical and sexual, I enjoyed the perfection of those parts of his feet I saw on presentation. 

‘Revert to pose 1,’ I told the boy. 

Over the course of seven seconds Kaden switched the focus of his display to the upper body, working methodically to squeeze his waist, crunch his abs, lock his deltoids in a rippled stance and flex his biceps. 

Then, the daily test: I pulled the tailors tape measure from my shirt pocket, flicked it from one end to unfurl the ribbon, and set-to in wrapping the soft tape around Kaden’s core at its narrowest, just above his hips. The boy remained completely still, trained through trial and error not to manipulate the result of this survey by sucking his abdomen in, artificially, once my tape had landed upon his smooth flesh.

When the tape met itself, in the small of Kaden’s back, I confirmed the measurement out loud. 

‘Thirty-one and six-eighths.’ 

‘Yes, Sir!’ 

I’d insisted, from day one, that the boy become a more perfect version of himself by improving his shoulder to waist ratio – already aesthetically pleasing – until it was truly striking, and not merely athletic. I wanted – expected – that ratio to become a talking point, when Kaden was socialised with those who appreciated young male beauty from a sadistic bent. 

It was gruelling work for Kaden, driven relentlessly by Marco, to grow and square-off those shoulders using weight routines, whilst adhering to the healthy but controlled and treat-free diet necessary to keep his waist below thirty-two inches, always. 

At 180cm, Kaden stood taller than many of the boys who’d stayed in the cell over the years, but every day I’d had a captive in the building I’d thanked my genes for the 195cm of height they bestowed me with in adulthood. I’d enjoyed looming over my boys – all of them – where if I’d been 165cm, controlling substantial youths such as Kaden would have had the optics of irascible short man syndrome. 

I traced a finger over Kaden’s upper back, creamy pale with just a few scattered moles no larger than dots, and literally hairless. In the ripples of his taut muscle I found the whip scarring I, definitely, had inflicted, because the back was my canvas alone, out of bounds to my report, Marco. In the well-faded slashed diagonals, memories were re-kindled of Kaden’s early refusals in anal training, and of his subsequent complaints that various challenges were ‘too much, Sir!’, from the quantity of weight I expected him to drag around the training room by his balls, to the fiendish stress-bondage trusses I made him wait in, protractedly. 

I’d had to stop flogging the boy last week as an expedient, to leave him looking his best for tomorrow. Whilst Kaden’s complaints hadn’t stopped – whip or no whip – they’d become more measured as his time with me progressed, maturing in tone from the general whining of the first weeks, to concerns about specific challenges I’d set him being outrageous, where of course he was right though I’d never concede as much, instead pushing the boy back on-task, dismissively. About me being a very bad man – a sexual sadist – there had come a point in week three, maybe, where Kaden had reflected, and accepted I wasn’t going to change, no matter how hard he moaned and how swiftly I responded with my favourite whip across the kid’s quivering ass mounds, or more painfully over his back. 

Inability to flog didn’t mean zero discipline. Around Kaden’s neck he’d worn a slim electrified collar from the early days, the control boxes – no larger than doorbell pushes – held one each by Marco and me, both having seen extensive use in correcting the youth’s most errant behaviours. I probed the shock collar with my wandering finger, noting how snugly it gripped Kaden’s neck, whilst not constricting his movement or function. The battery box was rear mounted on the collar and powered a check light beaming green for ‘ready’, as always. 

Before I turned him around, I checked-in on Kaden’s balls. The boy’s nut sac hung low and plump as ever, vulnerable in his nakedness to a fist, or worse a boot, eager to pommel that ripe sex for fun. The sac flesh presented imperfectly, on close inspection, sore at the root from periodic collaring and bruised in patches, albeit healing now, from work involving stretching to extremis in addition to impact centres from those fists and boots of mine. So much weight had been dragged by those novice gonads over the last five weeks, along corridors and up shallow inclines; around the perimeter of the training room and outside, in the straw-strewn barn; on wheeled trollies piled with 1kg weights, and as single dumbbell discs tied by rope to Kaden’s ball collar, nearly impossible to set into motion and keep moving on the uneven floor, however hard I harassed the kid. 

The 24-year-old hated me a lot for bringing his balls into play, and training them several times a week with ever greater mass. Our briefing conversations were never easy: 

‘Four and a half kilos on the ball-tug trolley today, Kaden. Three circuits of the room, please. Let’s agree a rapid timing target.’ 

‘What the fuck!?’ 

It turned out, though, that hard work with a sexual focus was preferable to punishment for Kaden, always. 

With that private reminisce, I had my captive boy spin 180 degrees to face me, feet planted on the same spots but toes pointing in the opposite direction. 

 

‘Pose number 3, Kaden,’ I instructed. 

‘Yes, Sir!’ 

The boy tucked his tummy until his slim but powerful abdomen, centred by a small ‘inny’ button, rippled with six-pack definition. This was muscle you needed to feel, to appreciate fully, letting a flattened palm glide over the undulations whilst testing that unyielding flesh for give: a little clammy with nervous perspiration, to the touch of his sadist. 

I ran a palm up both of Kaden’s flanks simultaneously, getting-off on his solidity and the aesthetic excellence of his flare, from narrow hips to the – appreciably wider – defined chest. Over his abs and pectorals, the boy was naturally hairless, and there had been no need for hard treatments to make him so. 

The athlete was burdened – and it had been a real encumbrance for him, here – with relatively plump tit nubs, set against areolar discs of merely average size. Kaden’s teats looked worn, on his penultimate day, and a shadow of the vibrant, energised nubs he’d arrived with. Most of the time I hadn’t intended to disfigure the kid’s boy milkers, but they were too tempting to refrain from the sort of tugging and twisting fun that Kaden had been conditioned not to resist. Sometimes this occurred during sex, or otherwise during morning presentations as I tested the boy’s stoicism whilst establishing whether, in any way, those rubbery teats were hard-wired to his dick, but the answer was a resounding ‘no’ following extensive proving. 

Then there had been my nip-focused evenings with Kaden, clamping those semi-elastic buttons and hanging weights from them; tugging them out from his heaving chest to try the limit of their stretchability; and most recently, piercing them with needles by the boxful until tiny threads of blood snaked away, zigzagging across the boy’s moist pecs. 

Much time spent alone with a boy and his weary nubs had left them bruised and sore, to an extent that was unmendable with just a week of recuperation. They still looked like worked teats, unmistakeably, but had become vaguely presentable optically. 

Daily gym had retained and built upon the size of Kaden’s chest, from the broad swoosh of his pectoral muscles to the definition and depth of their cleft, perfectly halving those breast plates. Under pressure the boy was wont to bubble with sweat across those plates of meat, and to drain it into the cleft until that channel was not just moist but running with his salty excretion. I had the youth under pressure many times a day, of course. 

Kaden had been delivered to me with a trimmed and purposefully manicured pubic bush, of the sort that cleared an encouraging path for suckers to go deep when they went down upon him, taking the athlete’s dick to its hilt or thereabouts. That’s why boys who are highly sexually active strim their lawns in this way, preserving just a short fuzz almost Rastafarian in its tight curls, as a token masculine adornment.

On his second day, I had taken the entirety of Kaden’s pubic hair across dick root, groin and balls, in addition to zapping his smooth-ish crack. Effected by scissors, then razor, and finally an electrical epilator treatment, it had been painstaking and a full afternoon of work for the boy and I, to denude him totally at his sex. My will to do it was resisted by the youth, who subjected me to some of his strongest verbal abuse of his time in training. My requirement to process Kaden thoroughly, and permanently, was a stipulation he cursed as jolts of electricity shot across his dick root, blitzing the stubble strand by strand over literally hours of attention lavished upon the new boy. 

 

‘Why are you doing this!?’ Kaden had demanded to know, early on. 

‘To make you a better boy,’ was the totality of my answer, because there was no point in detailing BDSM theory on day two, to a straight kid. Stealing Kaden’s bush, whole, made his chastity prominent as the visual focal point of his front. On that same day I had denuded him, I’d slipped the boy’s thick, uncut dick meat into a transparent cage that barely contained it, soft, securing the plastic appendage with a tiny padlock. Since day two, Kaden’s chastity had mostly been on except when I’d wanted to swap it out for another, to allow the youth to experience the same principle but in steel or heavy latex, for a day or two. The hard, clear plastic was always my return-to chastity device though: Kaden’s core equipment. 

Did you know they made cock cages with in-built urethral sounds? Kaden didn’t, until one of these in steel became the swap-out device during week four of his residence. He was scared, and it hurt so much, and suddenly Kaden was keen to go back into the core device he’d hated like mad over the month prior, ‘cos it had become sweetly familiar – almost a baby comforter, in comparison – whereas this new one called the Corkscrew, with the hollow metal straw shoved up his piss hole, caused a fiery pain that made it near-impossible to sleep at night. 

After 48 hours in the Corkscrew, I’d asked Kaden whether he’d like to revert to the core equipment.

 

‘Yeah, Sir!’ 

There was no suggestion on his part, this time, that he live without any form of chastity constraining his much-used prick: just a desperation to escape the torment. 

We agreed – well, I agreed – to make the change happen, subject to Kaden enduring my large urethral sound set, later that same week. 

On two occasions, I’d let Kaden out of chastity for a period of hours. The first time, he’d taken-up a long-standing offer of mine to enjoy an unconstrained evening, conditional upon him producing a high-quality essay – minimum three sides of A4 paper – on the topic of My Sexual Frustration. The piece wasn’t a literary great, far from it, but the words were heartfelt, surprisingly vehement, and frank. Kaden had understood the sort of disclosure I expected in this act of humiliation. 

The second period of liberty was an overnighter, after a run of days of rock-solid sexual work during weeks four and five – lots of sweat, gallons of tears, abating levels of resistance – deserved a reward for effort. 

On both occasions I’d set a ground rule, specifying no ejaculation but that it was fine to touch his shaft. Significant butt plugs stayed lodged, throughout. Kaden let me down, second time around, but of course he was full of ready excuses: his orgasm was an accident and not intended; it had been too long since his last (at least five weeks) and he’d lost the art of edging; he’d cleaned-up afterwards (he had, thoroughly), and he was only doing what men need to do, for release. The next day was the hardest yet, for Kaden, as I showed him what happens when trust is lost between a man and a boy. A day of exceptional pain, and reduction of boy to mere pig. 

About Kaden’s essay, My Sexual Frustration, I guess I’ll publish this is an appendix, one day, if there is interest. 

In the rumble strips of Kaden’s six pack were the faintest of faded bruises, as the remaining visual legacy of an episode with a rubber truncheon applied with some force when I, his sadist, feigned loss of control for a moment. I’d like to think I am, in fact, always in a state of perfect emotional balance when working boys: driving them hard, pushing each day for far more, but never crazy. However, it never hurts them to believe I’m a man prone to losing it completely, my aggression frenzied. 

Across his abdomen, at his tit nubs and in his distended balls, Kaden was no longer a boy at his very finest, aesthetically, if the objective was unblemished perfection for the eye. The hard work of six weeks had taken an inevitable toll. When they lose happiness and then hope, and their life narrows to service alone – immaculate service, at that – then they never recover, and it’s time to move on with them, to the next step. 

Kaden’s hair, dark brown and dense, had somehow retained its lustre, whilst his irises were clear and no less attractive in their soulful hazelnut brownness despite the baggy blackness underneath his eyes. The boy’s cheeks were remarkably soft, but his jawline was strong and purposeful. I’d kept the kid clean-shaven, though little effort was required to that end as he barely grew-out a fuzz after three days left untended. 

‘I want to kiss,’ I said, marking the end of Kaden’s presentation. 

‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, emotionless. 

The athlete knew what to do, for we’d practised almost every day. I wanted him to lead, until or unless I wished to take-over, consigning him to a reactive role. 

The straight boy hugged me, pulled my face close, and plunged his tongue into my mouth until I could feel his muscle probing the back of my throat. I’d taught Kaden what I meant by highly participatory kissing, and he’d learnt, through error and correction, the perfection of technique. In that moment, locking lips and tasting his scared and salty boyishness working me, I felt pride that another one young enough to be my son – just about – had overcome such strong natural instincts to service me in this all-giving way. 

I pushed Kaden off me, gently, licking my lips of his saliva. He stared straight ahead, past me and void of visible emotion like a drone, awaiting further instructions. 

‘Suck me off, now,’ I said. 

Through the boy’s teeth there was the hint of a whistle of drawn air as I told him to go down on me, but lest it be construed as petulance the kid was careful to get moving, hobbled as he was by the big plug wedged in his boy cunt, manoeuvring awkwardly and with several grimaces to his knees, at my feet.

 

‘Full service, yeah? Really attentive?’ I said to Kaden, leading him. 

 

‘Yeah,’ he responded, quickly but with a resigned tone. 

I patted the athlete on his head, my hand springing on his mattress of a hairdo. 

‘Handcuffs for this one, I think,’ I said, and it would have been nice if Kaden had assented vocally, but he remained silent: just a small gesture of defiance, and not enough for me to start buzzing his electro collar, he calculated. 

I circulated behind the kneeling boy, unhooked the handcuffs from my belt, and waited all of two seconds for the kid to gather his wrists in the small of his back when he sensed I was there, and ready for them. 

The chain joining the steel bracelets was short, and their grip upon his smooth wrists biting as I snap-closed the circles, pushing further compression marks onto his tenderised flesh. 

I stripped behind the young stud, ditching first my gleaming 12-hole boots and socks; then the leather pants, and finally my body-hugging latex T-shirt: an ensemble in uniform black. Extracting my limbs from the tight gear I puffed a little as I hopped from one foot to the other, wishing I was 24 again, not 46, and able as Kaden was to ditch clothing at a click of the fingers, without a flutter of the chest from the tangled effort. 

Where my captive was naturally smooth but otherwise shaved where necessary, I was hirsute at the furry end of the spectrum. Okay, my back was mercifully hairless because I’d hate a forest fuzz there, and I kept my shoulder tops smooth for aesthetic reasons, but otherwise – over my chest and belly, at my bush, and down my long legs – I sprouted dense black hair with a tendency to curl. It was bad enough for a dragooned boy to service an older man, but I’d always imagined my fur made it just that bit worse still, leaving me uninclined to manicure. Maybe I was wrong, and to a straight boy one forty-something faggot is as unpalatable as the next, but anyway I relished the visual contrast between smooth and subservient, alongside hairy and sadistic. 

I joined the boy again, shuffling my crotch into his doom-ridden face. 

‘Usual service, right?’ I said, checking Kaden’s understanding. ‘About fifteen minutes, bringing me off slowly, and you swallow everything at the end, yeah?’ 

‘Yeah, Sir.’ 

‘I’ve forgotten the pad for your knees… I normally bring one. You alright, just grazing against the concrete?’ 

‘Ahh… yeah,’ Kaden said, in a tone that basically cursed me. 

‘You sure, Kadey-boy?’ I asked. ‘I can go fetch a kneepad… would only take me a few minutes. If it would help your service?’ 

‘No, y’alright,’ the boy whimpered, and I knew he didn’t want to be left alone there on his knees, for the three minutes I would inevitably extend to ten, contemplating oral. 

‘Okay then, sugar,’ I said. ‘Make this unforgettable for me!’ 

 The first time I made Kaden suck me off, on day two, he was exceptionally resistant to the act; horrified at the very thought of going down and disgusted at the perversion of the encounter. Obviously, the boy’s shock collar was deployed, and harsh words were exchanged in that sweaty 17-minute stand-off, but also, I had to persuade him more gently that a blow job wasn’t the end of his world and was kind of incidental – trivial, even – when set alongside the other ways I could choose for us to spend our time together. 

I became conscious, on that second day, that Kaden wasn’t just appalled by the idea of giving oral, but also frightened by the question of how to execute the act. In dealing with that blocker holding the athlete back, I gave him some succinct advice: 

‘Suck my dick in the same way you’ve hard-fantasised over being blown yourself.’ 

With that thought process seeded I challenged the boy to step-up, or otherwise concede that – implausibly, for a member of the free internet porn generation – his imagination was lame. 

Each time Kaden took to his knees subsequently – which was nearly every day and sometimes twice a day – I held him to the throat-fucking subset of oral service that close to every boy searches-out on PornHub whilst ignoring the rest because, let’s face it, there’s so much content out there and boys can be choosy in excluding vanilla. And though there were many more profanities passed between us, and plenty of his tears over those early weeks of training for excellence, at no time did Kaden deny the truth I’d tabled on day two, that my core standard had been his hetero fantasy. 

The thing about fifteen minutes was a guideline but not a criterion I set a timer for, because that would be destructive to whatever natural rhythm developed between man standing, and boy on knees. No, the quarter-hour mindset tended to encourage a good balance, I’d found, between pace and endurance; urgency and detail; completeness and lingering. Also, frankly, the throat fuck was never the only activity on Kaden’s timetable for the day, nor the most important: it needed to be done impeccably, but not at the expense of disruption to his schedule. 

Over the weeks, the kid had spent twenty-five minutes draining me and that was fine, so long as he ran to his next event and apologised profusely, if it were Marco’s gym class he was now late for. Equally, Kaden had brought me off in ten minutes flat and that, too, was fine, so long as I was left ecstatic. What the youth had found hard – most of them do – was not so much managing himself as managing me, to that quarter-hour guideline. On the days I felt mega-horny Kaden struggled to ride the line between devotion and premature facilitation, whereas the times I was tired and felt sexually inert, he didn’t always succeed in sparking me quickly enough. I do expect my boys to know me and sense my moods, without the need for anything to be said, and Kaden’s performance in that regard had been erratic, but on an improving trajectory with the benefit of repetition and a constant threat of after-hours remedial sessions with Marco or I, or both. 

Maybe you’d assumed already, but for the record, Kaden’s prior experience in the oral giving role was zero, and he’d been snappy to confirm this when, leadingly, I’d made a blue quip to suggest otherwise. Total inexperience has never been an issue for me as, whilst the first few training sessions can be hard and unsatisfactory, the ‘blank page’ boy is taught the right way: the Ryan way. 

Kaden’s back story of oral as a recipient was, I’d surmised, reasonably extensive, as you could guess from his exceptional looks – top 1%, in my book – his vigour, and – a jigsaw of sources suggested – his generally pleasant manner when dealing with people other than gay sadists. Day one Kaden in a nightclub would never have been short of ‘back to my place’ sexual opportunities with the crème of the dancefloor, or the sultry princesses of the side booths. 

Did any girl ever hilt Kaden in the manner I required him to deep throat me? My guess was that he’d experienced about 65% of the intensity I expected of him, which is to describe a good, adventurous time with the girl participating generously, but conscious always of her own comfort. With the critical 35% of passion missing from the boy’s sexual history, a training line I steered clear of was ‘visualise your hottest experience on the receiving end’. No: we worked from Kaden’s hard fantasies rather than his lived experience, as the basis of his new reality with me. 

I’d lost count, but his penultimate day would have been the fortieth time, or thereabouts, that Kaden had knelt before me, poised to give oral. If I glanced down then I’d be helping him out, I guess, because sight of the boy halved in height; strong legs folded at the knees into bulky plains glistening with sweat; his face hovering centimetres from my crotch in readiness, tended to stir my dormant prick. 

Not one of those forty sessions had been wanted by Kaden. Each time his technique improved, the standard I expected ratcheted ahead of his performance such that my training language was dominated by words that chastised and abused the boy. One word was so rare, in my patter, that when uttered I could feel Kaden’s electric response to it through my dick he was worshipping: 

‘Good!’ 

Beyond good was a pinnacle training tag, more directly personal and praise-giving, so used exceedingly rarely but not withheld when deserved: 

‘Well done, Kaden!’ (Or alternatively ‘honey’, ‘baby’, ‘sugar’ or ‘boy’, as I pleased. Sub-consciously, I think I reserved use of his given name for the best of the best.) 

He wouldn’t attempt to thank me for the feedback, through a throat choking with dick, but just in the final fortnight my ultra-praise line saw a reaction kick-in like a switch had been flicked, elevating the finale of the throat fuck to a spectacular. Things sure had flipped from the initial fortnight, when calling-out Kaden as a useless mouth-cunt, slapping his face and zapping his shock collar was the best way to motivate him to take me to my hilt, whilst keeping his teeth away from my shaft. 

When invited, the kneeling boy started his fifteen minutes of oral service by stimulating me with the tip of his tongue, around my glans with a swirling motion and probing at my uncut head. Deprived of use of his hands to fine-tune the position of my dick in relation to his lips, Kaden’s tongue did extra work in attaching itself to my shaft resolutely: the boy being scared to release his organ from my manhood lest the parting last too many seconds, attracting my wrath when we’d barely started. 

Once he’d devoted sufficient time at my crown to pay his respects, and in the well-trained knowledge this was not the main event of the quarter-hour, Kaden left my wettened head and pushed on in well-executed progression to the body of my thick meat, lapping at the underside of my prick with lengthening strokes. The athlete traced my veins with his tongue tip in a way that tickled, and which I’d encouraged over the last month as delightfully sensuous. 

Not in a sudden move but gradually, the straight boy filled more of his mouth with my meat, still pasting the underside with his saliva whilst letting his upper lip drape over the top of my prick, moistening this, too. Kaden was careful to adjust his angles for variety, twisting his head left and right to stimulate me around my full circumference, simultaneous with his depth-based approach. He grabbed air where he could, but there was no question of de-mounting from my prong to take a few deep breaths. Over our weeks together I’d said a lot to Kaden about concepts such as continuity, progression and deep respect in the way he approached his throat fucking, and whilst my highfalutin lectures rarely landed well on the day, cumulatively the messages were drilled home, and learnt. 

Heading towards the five-minute mark there was a taught watershed moment, where Kaden’s ministrations changed – and again, it had to be transitioned seamlessly – from vanilla blow job, to embrace the facets of a throat fuck. Hereon the kid would take me very deeply, continuously, lingering close to my root with a full mouth, or otherwise gobbling practically the full length of my shaft in sliding (slow) or stabbing (hard) movements. 

It became not so nice, for the boy, pushing into the wiry hairiness towards the base of my dick; smelling me ripe and un-showered since yesterday, and all the while dealing with my growing length, and girth. If the first third of the oral session was conducted mostly in silence by both participants, now I began to gasp in pleasure whilst the lad made struggling noises. In both cases, the soundtrack was involuntary. 

I struggled to pace the tempo of my arousal, with that day bearing special significance as the last time Kaden was scheduled to suck me, so maybe poignancy made the routine encounter hotter? Also, the boy was blowing me selflessly but a little too quickly, neglecting the requirement to manage me, and not just himself, to the 15-minute guideline. 

‘Stop, and look at me,’ I barked. 

With my glans and the first two inches of my shaft balanced on Kaden’s lower lip as his work came to an abrupt halt, the youth swivelled his eyeballs to peer up at me with the characteristic hazelnut wholesomeness of his irises. I reached out and placed a forefinger on his forehead at the hairline, centrally above the bridge of his nose. I noted Kaden’s striving dampness. 

‘Too frantic, so disappointing,’ I said. ‘The goal is fifteen minutes, not ten, right?’ 

‘Mmm!’ 

‘So… come back onto me, keep the depth work going, but lose the panicked hustle, okay?’  

‘Mmm!’ 

‘Oh… and Kaden?’ 

‘Mmm?’ 

‘I don’t expect to have to speak to you again, yeah?’ 

‘Mmm!!’ 

‘Right – get back on it, mouth cunt.’ 

Of all that had happened to Kaden over the preceding six weeks, so little was fair, and my micro-management of his oral sex technique crossed, marginally, onto the ‘unfair’ side of the line. For any boy serving me, though, soaking-up unfairness like a sponge was key to their development. What mattered was what I wanted, and what I wanted, I would have, or made sure I got. 

Adapting immediately to my criticism, Kaden refined his technique. I wasn’t asking him to try anything novel, for Kaden had been taught at least a dozen subtle variations of the oral theme, to switch over to when I lambasted him for being too vigorous or too cursory; too shallow or too slow with his face fucking. If my critique majored on over-stimulation, the boy knew to respond with more depth, but taken slowly to edge me for longer. 

Less agitated now, as he used brain alongside mouth in determining what would work better for me, Kaden’s lips kissed my dick root for the first time that morning as he impaled his throat to my hilt. I laid a hand upon both of his square shoulders, gently, and squeezed. The kid gazed up at me, searching for validation of his new approach, I suppose, but though he meant well, direct eye contact with a face-stuffed athlete was not the best medicine for my handicap of on-the-boil horniness. 

‘Fuck, Kaden…!’ I moaned. 

 

The boy gagged on my complete length, his eyes now turned down, but kept his teeth well clear of my meat. The instinctive reaction to bite, when struggling, had taken three weeks to train out of this apprentice and wasn’t accomplished by hard words alone, but with the deterrent effect of the cane, and electricity applied to his most sensitive boy parts until they felt like a fire had been set. 

Kaden worked my solid nine inches end to end, nurturing my erection with lips stretched thin and taut. With every cycle the boy almost dismounted, but not quite, giving my crown a swish with his tongue before plunging back on, ruddy cheeks bloated, right the way down until my pubes tickled his kissers. I felt the knotted tightness at the back of Kaden’s throat, at each impalement, counting two seconds to myself before his gagging started, quite reliably. 

Thanks to my intervention and Kaden’s skill, I was back to a simmering state and no longer at immediate risk of premature ejaculation. There was scope to up the ante. 

I wrapped my arms around the youth’s head, hugging him with fingers entwined at the back of his skull, over his soggy hair. Now, I threatened a directive role in Kaden’s activity and pace, but gave him fair warning: 

‘Last five minutes, yeah… the throat rape?’ 

‘Mmm!’ 

 

‘Give me a little nod if you reckon you can manage the process yourself, or a shake if you can’t trust yourself, and need me to work your face.’ 

‘Mmaww!’ the athlete cried around my flesh tube, nodding five times, shallowly but urgent. 

Always, Kaden had preferred punishing himself to letting me exercise physical control over him. 

Right away, Kaden the cock sucking chameleon changed again, nudging harder into my groin and spearing his throat faster, mashing his lips into my wild bush on every stroke. The boy’s gagging turned to choking episodes that, nevertheless, failed to distract him from his work on my pole. My hands remained locked behind the kid’s head, poised to assume control as necessary but, for now, simply tracking his bobbing movements faithfully. 

The captive boy’s desperate spluttering became hard to listen to, hard to watch, but totally erotic as ever. Kaden’s twenty digits fluttered, panicked, as he toiled. Drool spewed from the battered corners of his mouth. 

‘C’mon, step it up…’ I urged. 

 

The boy worked his head like a piston, fucking his skull hard with each down stroke. Briefly, Kaden looked up at me wide-eyed and angry, but he averted his gaze when I glared back and returned his eyes to my hairy abdomen: a fit enough mid-section for a man of middle age, though my belly curved a little where it would have looked better flat, and ribbed. 

 

‘Fuck, yeah!’ I moaned, in pleasure at Kaden’s acute discomfort. 

I shot precum to the back of the boy’s warm snatch of a throat, grabbed his ears for leverage – to hold Kaden on me, hilted - and the sticky, suffocating sensation spun him out of control, terrorised. With a burp founded deep inside of him as forewarning, Kaden spewed sick around my shaft in vivid volcanic orange. I eased him off my dick, partially, and his puke oozed as lava from the corners of his mouth, scudding to his strong jawline then falling to his pecs. 

Kaden retched again, bringing-up a second torrent of porridgy puke that overfilled the limited capacity of his mouth, stuffed as it was with the bulk of my rod and leaving just cavities for the semi-liquid to flow. Choking now, on his own sick, the boy gulped a portion of his mess straight back down, heaving.

I clicked thumb upon index finger impatiently, close to the boy’s left ear, and pointed to my dick. 

‘Back on it. NOW!’ 

His chin and chest in an appalling state of filth, the boy responded immediately nonetheless, working my prong back where it belonged at the base of his throat, forcing his lips into a broad tunnel once again to accommodate my engorged girth. 

I held Kaden on me from the back of his skull and reduced him to tears: silent, but suddenly abundant as if from nowhere. 

Kaden, a proud boy, had often shed tears as he worked me orally. It was fine, because I made it hard work every time, and had to accept that at 46 and unkempt at my pubis – oh, and of course a man – I wasn’t a great catch for the athlete. I wasn’t going to get offended if he cried whilst having sex with me, and anyway, he sobbed harder when we fucked. 

The kid had sicked-up on two dozen occasions before, as well. As a new boy, his choke-puking frightened him and distracted from his throat fucking unacceptably, but with repetition Kaden came to understand his vomiting as a hazard of the process, tending to occur when he gave more of himself, orally, and therefore not something I’d ever punish but, equally, never a happening deserving of my sympathy. 

With four brutal thrusts of my shaft, pummelling the kid’s throat, I orgasmed. My hold switching to Kaden’s wet hair, I made him take the initial and most powerful spasms of my cum down his throat, as promised, and he choked hard on my seed, his face washed pale as he fought for breath; coughing gutturally, eating my paste. 

Saving a residue for Kaden’s face, I pulled-out with certain timing and, as my ejaculation weakened, blasted an eye from close range, his pretty cheeks, and the puke-speckled dimple of his chin. Kaden dripped with my cum. 

‘Eyes down!’ I ordered. 

A familiar moment of protocol to end the main business of each oral session, the youth rested his chin upon his chest, staring at the floor through his operable eye for one minute as I towered over him, fidgeting but silent. 

‘Eyes up!’ I said, in a markedly softer tone and quietly. 

Kaden knew to meet my gaze as he lifted his head. 

I made a thin smile. I don’t smile much, as a rule, but there were times when it helped. 

I reached with a finger, brushing his tears and my splattered cum away from the half-opened eye I’d caught, two minutes ago. 

‘C’mon, smudge,’ I said, wiping his salty trails. 

The tears had abated but, mouth freed of my dick, the boy allowed himself some audible sobs with a sniffing soundtrack, self-indulgently. It wasn’t a massive meltdown, by any means. Kaden had tended to retain self-control better than most boys I’d worked with on a similar routine. 

‘Focus, Kaden,’ I said, encouraging the boy’s eyes back onto mine, from where they had drifted. 

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘That was some way short of the best service you’ve given, but for me, the negatives didn’t fail the effort overall. How does that feel?’ 

‘Fuck…!’ Kaden panted, hoarse. 

It wasn’t much of an answer, but then the boy was hardly a great philosopher. Relief is what he should have been feeling, when he heard the words ‘didn’t fail’. 

‘Alright, well… clean me up then, yeah?’ I proposed, wiggling my flaccid dick with a thread of cum still dangling. 

‘Yes, Sir,’ Kaden said, miserable at the invite back to my prick, and you could hear the shrug in his voice. 

******* 

I ensured time was tight for Kaden to make his gym date with Marco, leaving him not long enough for a shower, but thirty seconds to flick the worst of his drying puke from his chest by hand, once his cuffs were off. Then he had to run, fast. 

We parted for forty-five minutes whilst I took a long, steamy shower, and then a continental breakfast. Afterwards, I wandered back down the concrete stairs from my living quarters to the subterranean basement that had been both Kaden’s home and his training ground/workplace for the last six weeks.

 

The gym being towards the end of the corridor and the door left open, I could hear acutely pained effort and coach’s motivational interventions long before I entered the big, boxy room. 

Some context, though. As a regular gym-goer (four to five days a week) and a semi-professional sportsman, Kaden arrived at my facility with his preconceptions as to what ‘good’ looked like, in the gym. This was a boy familiar with tracking his own performance, busting personal bests, and placing his successes on Instagram as stories. If asked, he could reel-off those ‘PBs’ for you, across the key gym disciplines. Indeed, he was asked by me to recall them on day three, whilst Marco took notes.

 

Kaden wasn’t afraid of an athletic challenge, but with the benefit of experience he had a firm understanding as to what was reasonable, for him. And that’s where Kaden clashed with Marco, and why their relationship was always a difficult one. 

My volatile sidekick in the gym was tasked with maintaining the boy’s shape, and then improving upon it week by week with careful attention to be paid to my waist size stipulation. Meanwhile, Kaden’s usual routine had been disrupted as he ate well – three large and nutritious meals a day, with the expectation of a clean plate at the end – but slept badly, playing havoc with his rhythms. The kid oscillated between nascent chubbiness around the belly, to be sweated away, and gaunt muscle loss, to be reversed with weights, keeping Kaden tramlined as my take of a perfect physical specimen. 

Kaden’s long struggle with Marco was exacerbated by the latter’s outright cruelty. Yes, I was nasty, but also even-tempered and predictable, I think, once boys came to know my ways. In the gym, alone with his charges and granted considerable (but not complete) autonomy, Marco could turn violent in an instant if his visions of high performance and reasonableness were not chased hard by the boy. 

Kaden plucked up the courage to complain to me about Marco, in week three I think it was, when he returned from morning gym with a black eye. I made a point of listening carefully to the youth whilst caressing his thigh as we sat together on his cell bunk, and suggested I would speak with Marco, but also advised the boy pointedly not to inflame difficult situations by holding back from total effort. Obviously, there must never be any petulance or backchat from him towards Marco, either. Kaden told me – slightly petulantly, ironically – that he always gave everything for Marco, in which case I wondered out loud what had made the boy’s PT so angry. Clearly, there must be some simple misunderstanding. 

As Kaden surely knew, Marco acted as my proxy with a rougher edge, pushing the boy intolerably hard and relishing his mandate to punish failure. The six-week transformational process only worked when administered with the help of another man, or men, acting as frightener and bully to complement my quieter, but iron, resolve. 

By the time I arrived in the gym on his penultimate day, Kaden had already completed his floor exercises, and ‘push’ and ‘pull’ weight sessions sufficient to set his limbs quivering. The boy was on the treadmill, doing a run: a long, very fast run, programmed by Marco. The sophisticated machine offered almost infinitely variable experiences in distance and pace, set from an input screen resembling a large iPad. Rails, to each side of the mill, prevented the boy from leaping off to end his run prematurely: it was a start to finish commitment, geared to the boy’s capabilities by looking at what he’d done last time, and continuously improving. 

Marco had ‘helped’ Kaden extract his butt plug before the start of gym, but otherwise the athlete was as he had presented himself to me, naked but for his chastity cage and barefoot. A pair of cushioned Nikes and some athletic support for his balls would have given Kaden an edge in performance terms, but my compact, sturdy gym master expected Kaden to work-out naked, always, and had my blessing. 

It was a 15-minute sprint that Kaden was undertaking. His nut sac flew around, slapping his thighs constantly but not audibly above the kid’s ragged panting. He was soaked, from scalp to calves, brown hair wettened to black. 

Kaden had the most immaculate gait, for a runner, that was aesthetically compelling to watch on its own, let alone the wider picture. His arms bent at the elbows pumped him along like a train, next to his heaving chest, fists balled purposefully. I don’t think Kaden ran quite so efficiently when he first started exercising for Marco. The boy’s perfection was learned as a matter of necessity. 

The youth’s sweat ran everywhere, criss-crossing that curvaceous creamy ass and trickling down his back from the hairline; meandering over the thighs working so hard to maintain pace and dripping from his deep pits, down his bounding flanks. Kaden was conscious of my presence, of course, which didn’t change his sprint detail one iota, technically, but added a layer of further tension with both sadists now in the room and absorbed with his struggle. 

‘Keep pumping. Four more minutes!’ Marco called. I suspected the PT had a more authoritative tone than me. Truly, he was the archetypal hated school gym coach, rudely disdainful of all those kids who hadn’t made the first XI soccer team, or who produced sick notes. 

‘Ahh… fuck!’ Kaden puffed, almost tripping over his pelting legs. 

 

The boy threw his head sideways to seek-out Marco, or me, desperately sure that lungs or legs, or both, wouldn’t carry him the remaining distance at this speed. 

‘Eyes ahead, cunt!’ Marco bawled. ‘Work that faggot body!’ 

The kid’s pectoral deck, it’s veneer of puke residue now permeated by salty, sweaty rivulets, fluttered and jiggled. Bulbs of sweat hung as diamonds from his nips. 

‘Is this a longer run than last time, Marco?’ I called, so that both he and Kaden could hear my question above the din of the circulating mill, thumped and clanked repetitively by the boy’s bare soles. 

‘Yes, boss,’ Marco confirmed. ‘The speed, Kaden has done before, but never at this distance.’ 

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How much further than the last time, at this speed?’ 

‘Seven per cent further,’ Marco called back, having banked the details in his memory. 

‘Excellent, thanks.’ 

I’m loath to say so because you’d think Kaden was an emotional wreck, and he wasn’t (some of the time), but there were further tears in his last two minutes on the mill, legs turned to jelly and heart pounding like a bass drum, with everything so close to seizing-up and shutting him down. I moved directly in front of the treadmill, close to him, and Kaden shook his head despairingly. 

 

‘Well done, honey,’ I said. 

 

The head stopped shaking, and lifted. The frowning forehead straightened and lost its stress lines. But the panicked verbal tics continued: all the little ‘ahs’ and ‘awws’ and the occasional panted ‘fuck!’ as Kaden practically ruined the machine with his clod-footed final turn of pace. 

Right there with him, I saw the boy over the line. The mill bleeped and tapered the speed down gently, and Kaden reduced his gallop to a canter, and then a stroll until the programme ended the track circulation with a mild judder.

‘Better!’ Marco said, superfluously, and only because I was around, probably. 

 

Kaden collapsed into a gasping, foetal heap on the static trackway, his chest absolutely thumping. Everywhere his body touched left a wet imprint. 

‘Okay, well executed,’ I said, but my head was already elsewhere. 

Knowing this was their last scheduled gym session together, I thought Marco would appreciate time alone with the straight boy, to share some closing thoughts. And though I would love to have known what they were, I opted to leave the two of them in privacy.

******