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.