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.

******