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

‘Look at me, Kaden,’ I said.

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

‘Kaden. Look at me, and not down.’

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

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

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

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

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

I let go, and the skull slumped.

‘Best behaviour, yes?’ I suggested.

‘Everyone?’ Kaden croaked.

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

‘At once?’ Kaden asked.

‘All in the room, yeah,’ I said.

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

‘You got this, son,’ I told him.

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Ahhhh… no!’

‘Ahhhh… FUCK!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Awwwww…. Fuck. FUCK. FUUUUCK!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Too much… please? Stop… now?’

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah…’ the boy whispered, barely audible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Keep it going, K!’ I encouraged.

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

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

‘Asshole!’ Elliot shouted, frustrated.

Elements of the crowd tutted and dispersed.

I levelled with my boy, again.

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘FUCK! NO!’

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

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

‘CUNT!’ he cried.

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

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

There was backchat aplenty, from the mount.

‘Nah… not two!’

‘FUCK off!’

‘STOP IT… yeah?’

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

‘Open that asscunt, bitch!’

‘Let him in, son!’

‘Open-up, fag!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well done, baby,’ I said.

*******

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

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

 About fisting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

‘Aww, man! Please…!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.            1. I hate this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Fuckin’ asshole!’ Kaden blurted.

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

‘AWW FUUUUUCK!’

‘Open for me, Kaden!’

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

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

‘STOP… PLEASE!!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No more, please!’

‘It’s tearing me inside!’

‘Please… no more!’

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

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

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

‘FUCK you!’

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

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

‘Please… just help me!’

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

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

‘Just… make it STOP!’

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

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

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

‘PLEASE, just staaawwwwp!’

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

‘Please… help me? No more?’

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

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

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

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

‘No more….’ Kaden sniffed, beaten.

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

‘Oh fuuuuuck!’

‘Hate me like Marco; or more, now?’

‘Mmm!’

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

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

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

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

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

******

About diversity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah, flesh feels so good, bitch!’

‘Get that pink pussy winking for me!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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