Capstan (2/2): M/m+, NC, fanfic vibe

Capstan - Chapter Two 

The butt plugs hurt these boys throughout, but never more than in the last few minutes of their trial, stretching hard with glistening legs obscenely askew, trying to grind-out fast laps whilst the anal ‘toys’ grind-down at their sphincters, and higher. The stabbing ache is their constant reminder of powerlessness, and the passage of control over their bodies.

It’s a statement of the obvious to say there is zero pleasure for my boys, unless they derive warm comfort from dreams of release, but to lock down the situation they each wear a chastity cage imprisoning dicks in frameworks of steel, too small to countenance even a nascent erection. The cage bears down especially hard upon Nathan and his hose prick, with its tendency to engorge at the first hint of stimulation. But I told them in week one:

‘If you want a turn-on vibe, it must come from your ass and not your dick.’  

Three of the cages are plain silver but the fourth is painted black and, more importantly, is larger by an additional 25%. The bigger cage is worn by the boy who has impressed the training team most over the previous session or two, and at the capstan the black is locked around Tyler’s fat cut prick. The army grunt is a boy of modesty and head-down endeavour, but he was good enough to thank me sullenly for the preference, awarded two days ago. It gained him no popularity in the cells. What riles the overlooked trio isn’t the token privilege of extra dick space being given elsewhere, but gnawing agitation at Tyler’s odds of selection lengthening, whilst theirs are perceived to shorten.  

Tyler is showing late stamina on his beam, remains secure at the top of the ‘effort since start’ ranking, and I admire (but not publicly) the way he elevates his own game whilst finding occasional breath for others:

‘Backs into it, yeah!?’

‘You smashed that lap, Hayden!’

The way the group are arranged, Kit is behind Tyler: oldest before youngest; military before civilian; courageous, ahead of neurotically fearful. As Tyler role-models late-stage capstan heaving with muscular flex that leaves you incredulous there’s a plug squirming in his anus, Kit catches glimpses of his leader labouring at the fulcrum and is shamed into a fresh burst of effort.

As he steps onto the oiled pavement, the teenager slides with a shocked staccato cry that pierces the staleness of the basement. One leg – his left, lightly furry – has skated away from Kit on the lubricated plate, buckling then twisting awkwardly behind him.

There have been many slips over the oil impediment, as intended, and it provides a good test of recovery – of tenacity – but it’s obvious from Kit’s limp, and then from his fresh tears, that this misstep is hobbling him. The team is down to three pushers, and the capstan isn’t a plane that can fly for long with one engine out.

Gingerly, Kit walks his beam.

‘Problem, Kit?’ I call.

He’s still wincing. He finds me with a tear-glazed glare.

‘My hip…’ he says, nodding down to show me where a hip is. He’s soft-spoken sorry for himself, but everyone’s heard.

‘Hurt?’ I ask.

‘Mmm!’ he nods with vigour.  

‘Okay… but still… last two minutes, incoming. I don’t care if something’s broken, I want your best slavery ever, across that line.’

He shakes his headful of coppery bangs, but there’s no verbalised response beyond a whimper.

**

The raw numbers are 116 rotations completed, with nine outstanding. Noting the undivulged record of 113 circulations, this is already the most successful performance of Capstan, but simultaneously a failure.

These boys know their tasking is beyond reach – it’s been obvious for a while – but I’m impressed by the way they chase the vital number to the last. They’re going to fail collectively so I will be looking at individuals, and all four act keen to demonstrate that whatever went wrong, was nothing to do with them.  

To a boy, they run with sweat to which clings fine dirt they’ve kicked-up during the last 88 minutes. Not that the engine room is a mucky place, but I’m fascinated by the way grit, invisible until stirred, finds its way onto their sticky boy flesh.    

Naked torsos arch artistically onto oaken beams, searching for an extra measure of shove. The mutual deprecation has stopped, with each boy retreating to his private world of effort noise:

‘Awww!’

‘Ahhh… fucking move!’

‘Shit… c’mon!’

The cursing isn’t arranged for my benefit: I can see through acting. Faces tell me they’ve dredged the bottoms of their tanks and are running on fumes, at the ends of their tethers. Even the metaphor linkages are broken.

Kit has such an eatable ass, butt cheeks sharing the rosy hue of face cheeks; mounds now quivering under Ivan’s final assault with the whip, focused on the sole teen and extra heavy. The flagellation has left Kit’s rump striped raw, and the backs of his thighs have ribbons drawn from the haphazard cascading of farthest-reaching tails.

He’s pushing again, is Kit. His preferred gait impossible – just too painful – following his mishap, the boy majors on his uninjured right side, taking asymmetric scissor shoves at his beam. Progress is one long stumble, but Ivan whips him on with the brand of callousness I encourage when I see failure before me, and even when I don’t. 

Elsewhere the closing moments showcase, variously, paralysing fatigue or a late dash to impress. Receiving torque inputs unevenly around the circle, the apparatus becomes moody – mechanicals clanking and whining under the hatch louder, even, than the boys working it.    

‘Last minute,’ Ivan calls to the group. ‘Let’s see how much underperformance you fags can claw back!’

**

Overall, he’s more of a deadweight carried than a collective help, but I’ve no doubt Kit is giving me every scrap of effort he can summon. That familiar freckled face is the most wondrous montage of young male misery, contorted with acute pain. The tiny hairs on his forearms and across his shoulders soak in a sweaty dew, whilst his legs toil at wicked angles.

The computer updates performance calculations:

Effort last lap /10:  Tyler-9.04  Nathan-7.82  Kit-5.03  Hayden-4.77

Two boys still in the game, and two well out of it, but for Kit not to be bottom of the pack is heroic.  

My problem – well, more of a dilemma – is my movie customers, who (I mentioned, but let’s repeat) are entitled, monied cunts. We live in an Amazon/Netflix age of instant gratification – me, me, me and now, now, now – and my secure email inbox is under siege with horny demands, dressed as requests, that I select Kit right-away and process him whilst he retains his golden looks.

My approach would look different, retaining on the team a boy so scared of his ending that he undertakes any sexual indignity, physical trial, or test of mental resolve, to keep his chance. I’d prefer to play a long game with Kit, as I do with my choicest investments, but from the moment the shock news of his acquisition flashed onto screens, last month, the pressure to move him on has been relentless.

Kit pisses himself onto the engine room floor, and it spurts for twenty seconds from that caged prick with the pretty strawberry crown. He’s feeling the pressure, too.  

A bleeper sounds, shrill, but the boys wait to be told.

‘Stop,’ Ivan says.

They are unable to ‘dismount’ from their capstan beams until released, but heads flop against timbers. It’s musical, the depth of the panting, with some rattling from chests as percussion.  

Four youthful torsos, slippery, burn inside-out from extended exertion, and outside-in from Ivan’s flogging.

Gradually, the prevailing noise turns from heavy breathing to low sobbing. They’ve circulated the capstan 118.5 times in 90 minutes, but my demand of them was 125.

They know trouble.

**

‘I need a volunteer,’ I tell them. ‘You see, in a moment you’ll be unlocked at your wrists, and able to sit, kneel or squat – whatever you’re comfortable with.’

I hear murmurs of gratitude.

‘But… I’m looking for one of you to represent your losing group with humility, by standing unsupported whilst we de-brief. Maximum twenty minutes, maybe.’

All boy faces drop to the floor, and a profanity is spoken in too loud a whisper.

‘A volunteer, please?’ I press them. ‘Or I will select.’

Silence. Pathetic!

I begin a countdown like they’re a toddler on behaviour warnings from an exasperated parent.

‘5… 4… 3… 2…’

They look to each other, shifty.

‘I’ll stand, Sir!’ Kit says, and I realise I love his projecting voice, full of clarity and early masculinity, and all the more sensuous since his vocal cords are strained. I swivel to address him personally.

‘How’s the hip, Kit?’

‘Ah… pretty badly mashed I think, Sir.’

‘Shame. And how are your legs feeling?’ I ask.

‘Jelly, Sir!’ the nineteener is right back at me, certain. I scoff.

‘Another word that isn’t a cliché, maybe, Kit?’ I snap at him, and for a moment he’s confused, not to say furious at my pedantry.

‘Errr… exhausted, Sir. Like… lame with exhaustion.’

‘Which is surprising, considering how modest your efforts were,’ I say.

The teen steams puce, indignant.

‘Sir… with respect… I think you’ve got me wrong, this time. I gave that push literally everything I had.’

There’s an audible drawing of breath from the other manacled boys. Ivan makes to move on Kit, but I indicate at him to hold back. The boy knows he’s fucked-up in getting petulant, anyway.

‘I’m sorry, Sir… why am I like this?’ he contemplates for the benefit of the room.  

‘I know exactly what you’re like, kid,’ I say. ‘But let’s move on. You’ll stand for me, right, without reward and despite your mashed hip and exhausted legs, for as long as it takes to de-brief this debacle?’

‘Mmm!’ he sniffles, winded at the experience of placing himself on a pedestal.

‘Is that a fresh tear, Kit?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ he admits readily.

‘Are you watching and learning, boys?’ I ask the others, raising my voice.

‘Yes, Sir!’ they chorus to me.

**

A single hand towel, fluffy white, is passed between the three slumped youths mopping-down shimmering pectorals and skimming beads from foreheads. The cotton has greater utility for its first user (Hayden) than the last (Tyler), by which time the rectangle is sodden and barely absorbent.

I throw them a bottle of chilled mineral water each, and they are quick to rehydrate themselves in greedy gulps until the plastic containers crackle, drained of every drop. A shared towel and water represent the extent of my amenity pack – the limit of my sadistic benevolence.

It’s a tiny thing, but worth relating. The moment they were unhitched, one by one, hands moved to butts tracing the welts left by Ivan. It happens every time I run Capstan, and I know the pawing of injuries is in part an instinctive reaction to the pain they’ve been dealt. But it’s more than that. I see them wonder how they look with flayed ass mounds, willing a mirror to appear so checks can be made. You’re entitled to disbelieve me, but I swear, even in week three on a cliff edge, there’s a part of most boys that looks ahead to the day they’re freed and considers the length of the recuperative journey. It’s tiger spirits, writ large.

For now, dejection is the word. The boys have that look of soccer players on a team just beaten by an 89^th minute goal in a crucial match, on a sweltering June day. In fact, aside from the lack of a football in the engine room, that’s pretty much what’s happened. They squat, head in hands, or slump with legs ranged in front of them, palms flat to the floor behind them. Even the process of slumping was made excruciating by the plugs wedged up their asses.

Kit, too, has been released and totters in space looking drunken. He doesn’t get a wipe with the towel, and his skin remains soggy. Neither is he given the water treat. I wait for him to find a modicum of balance on his jelly legs, but the ill-focused wandering of his eyes tells me it’s a fragile hold.

I ask them if they feel able to be honest with me: candid, and not soft-soaping with the words they believe I want to hear, because that’s not what I’m looking for in the de-brief. Unanimously, but with variation in certainty, they agree to be straightforward. Let us see.

‘You were required to turn the capstan 125 times but did so only 118 times. With the benefit of your experience, what was a reasonable requirement for turns, under the conditions you faced?’

They don’t rush to respond, protected as they are by each other until I glare at individuals.

Tyler: ‘Sir, you’re the boss, so if you want 125 then it stands. But honestly – 118. We couldn’t have worked any harder. That’s where we landed.’

Nathan: ‘What was reasonable? Say, 100. We cooked ourselves tryna do 125… totally, dangerously, wrecked.’

Hayden: ‘I go 118, too. It ruined us, getting even that far.’

I turn from the loungers to my standee.

‘Kitten?’

He clears his throat, and it sounds rather self-important.

Kit: ‘Sir, your target of 125 was reasonable. It’s on us.’

I hear a couple of tuts and a sucking of teeth from stage left.

‘Never a target, Kit. A requirement, yes?’ I pick him up.

‘Sorry, Sir,’ he mumbles.

I pace the engine room, tapping my boots with the business end of the electro prod, fingers well away from the button. There’s a fog of fear: I bet they wish this damn chamber wasn’t so claustrophobic – so impenetrable.

‘For my interest, because this is a task I will set again for the boys that follow you, and I value feedback: Describe 125 in 90 with a single word, each. Just one word, huh?’

I grant them twenty seconds of thinking time and my boots clop on the floor around the capstan as I stroll amongst them. I take answers in the same order.

Tyler: Brutal

Nathan: Hell

Hayden: Brutal (Annoying – I bet curly blond was thinking of another word, before he decided to play safe by echoing.) 

I engineer five seconds of tortured waiting before looking to the teen. 

Kit: <dramatic pause, brow furrowed, contemplative tut> Complicated, Sir.  

I snort at the last.

‘Why is turning a wooden bar 125 times, fairly quickly, complicated?’ I ask Kit, disdaining.

Alarmed, he bursts into stuttered justification.

‘Umm, it’s all the other pain things that went with the actual task – the slip and heat trays, the whipping, the butt plugs – well, they got quite… distracting. But I don’t mean they were wrong…’

‘You allowed them to distract you?’ I shoot back.

Whiteness washes over the soft flesh of Kit’s cheeky dimples.

‘No, I never allowed them, but it felt like a constant fight.’

‘And you realise that’s deliberate on my part, Kit? To test whether you can be diverted from task by pain, everywhere, or whether you’re the dependable boy slave I need?’

‘Yeah, I do realise that,’ he says, bravely petulant with his tone.  

‘Really?’ I say, derisive. ‘Because I’m not sure you do. Complicated!?’

Kit bites his bottom lip, drawing a fleck of blood.  

‘I wasn’t being stupid, Sir. It was more of a compliment, for the way you design tasks for us.’

It’s an obsequious backtrack from the youngster. A grating humiliation.  

‘Right,’ I say, dismissive of his new angle. ‘And what about the other answers your friends have given: brutal, and hell?’

‘Oh, I agree with those too, Sir,’ he blurts.

‘I bet you do! More straightforward answers than complicated, I suggest.’

‘Yes, Sir. I can definitely see that, now.’

He’s in the grips of an all-consuming struggle, mental as well as physical, to stay upright. With my words, I’m building Kit’s character like no man has before. 

He sways, new trails of sweat worming over his delicious butt mounds, whipped to raspberry by Ivan. I observe Kit – a boy under total pressure – and I want to be in there, tapping his tight asshole again and making him yell at my fucking. But it’s not the moment, and for now he’s plug-wedged up that boy cunt.

Kit’s bangs tend to flop to his eyes, now it’s a month since his last professional haircut. Irritated, he scoops those curtains back with elegant fingers spread, quite petite, at the end of punchy forearms, lightly freckled. The teen’s chest continues to flutter; the fluff around his pectorals trapping beaded sweat.

The other boys’ eyes have gravitated to Kit’s crisis and they’re silent, their own respiration now stabilised. Kit’s clenching his fists, willing himself to keep it together, but there’s a tremble in his left leg. Really, I should give him relief: there’s nothing stopping me excusing him, except sadism and thoughts on the percentage of 5-star reviews left by my movie customers.  

‘Are you going to let me down in an inexcusable way, Kit?’ I ask.

He gasps.

‘No, Sir!’

‘Good. Keep calm, keep still, and keep upright, then,’ I say.

‘Yes, boss.’

Unhurried, I step back and speak to the wider group.

‘And now, with the same unsparing honesty, you’ll tell me what the fuck went wrong, to cause you to fail,’ I say.

**

This time, thirty seconds to find compelling answers.

Tyler: ‘Maybe it was impossible, but there was inconsistency across the group. A couple of boys kept falling behind. I think if they’d all performed like I did, we’d have got this across the line, honestly. I mean, we were only seven laps short.’

Nathan: ‘We gave it 110%. Genuinely, I’m so bored of this bullshit as well, so… whatever. I’m sure you’ve already decided what happens next.’

Hayden: ‘Honestly, you can ask for whatever you like, but at the end of the day, everyone has their limits in the circumstances, right… and we found ours. Kill me now, if you want. I don’t care.’

Kit: ‘We didn’t try hard enough for you. We started too slowly. Then I admit, when I twisted my hip or whatever in the oil tray, it set me back for a bit and I didn’t think I could push through. But after, I did a great lap at the end, which shows what I can do when conditions aren’t perfect. It will be different next time, Sir, we… well, I… promise you.’

I hear each of the excuses in turn, without comment, nodding for the next boy to tell me his nonsense.

‘The technical analysis, the Sir-blaming, the surrender, and the admission with a sneaky plea attached,’ I summarise. ‘At least I’ve heard some different stuff from you, but it hasn’t persuaded me not to select, immediately.’

‘Sir…’ Nathan starts.

‘Enough! Your opportunity to make a case for yourselves was on the capstan – all of you. Now, is too late.’

There’s a disturbance in the corner of my eye. Not a commotion, because this is slow motion and accompanied by an elongated groaning sigh with a macabre resemblance to the sound of expiry. Kit has slumped to one knee, head drooped. I attend him.

‘Stand up,’ I say, with the authority of an order but little volume.

Kit won’t look at me. He’s shaking, delirious.

‘Stand up,’ I repeat.

He raises his head by increment like his neck is arthritic. The eyes are wet, again, and whilst that’s hot in principle, repetition has dulled the eroticism I’m afraid.

‘I….am…totally broken. My legs are just…shattered.’

I stare down at him. Such a cute array of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

‘A harsh work-out,’ I say.

‘I feel so destroyed. Totally broken,’ Kit reiterates.  

‘Stand up,’ I say for a third time, shorter.  

A shake of his head, tossing his bangs around.

‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I can. Sir… you’ve finished me.’

‘Stand up, Kitten. You know you can, and this is important.’

‘Can I help him up?’ Nathan calls. I wonder what motivates him.

‘No, you stay right where you are. If Kit can get halfway up, I’ll help him the rest of the way myself,’ I say.

I offer an extended hand of conciliation. Golden boy looks at it, dubious, then up at my face.

‘C’mon. You’re not finished, yet. Stand for me,’ I say, gently.

With caution he advances his left arm, and when the hand is within reaching distance, I clasp it hard. It’s a snug fit in my larger paw. With my thumb I stroke the fine hair on the flank of his hand, beneath the little finger. I don’t pull him, because the deal is that he’ll take the initiative before I assist. We share an episode of doubting eye contact.

‘Reckon you can do it for me now?’ I ask.

‘Sir.’

‘Because I need to talk to you, and the respectful way to do that – for both of us – is face-to-face.’

‘And the others...?’ Kit asks.

‘On the count of three, you’ll make those legs work for me. And once you’re on the move, I’ll help.’

The boy shifts between the 2 and the 3 of my slow count, tortured once more by his anal bulb and then, as the chain slack is pulled out, by the weights hung from his scrotum. The pretty boy face is scrunched back into nightmares, and his outwardly solid thighs quiver at the probability of them supporting him for a further period erect.

Kit’s hand is clammy, but delightfully soft. Too much longer here, and it would become calloused in some ugly workload-related way. He’s heavier than I expected in assisting him back to standing, contributing only token effort himself. I’ve beasted him to a pleasing extent.

The kid wobbles but gets his shit together. I release my grip, also incrementally.

My hand transfers to Kit’s bare ass, probing the welts laid so expertly by Ivan in the noble cause of keeping this boy in the game.

‘Hot,’ I find myself saying out loud. ‘You know, these mounds were wasted on girls.’

‘I’m bi, actually,’ he reminds me. Just the most bizarre time to become self-righteously pedantic. I snort at his conceit, and he doesn’t appreciate it.

In his deep crack I locate the base of his ass toy, sitting square over the hole. I push at the latex with enough vigour to disturb the plug jammed up his shit chute, and Kit gives me a second negative reaction. He needs to check himself.

‘You found this big, huh? Whilst pushing the capstan?’

‘Yes, Sir, it felt big,’ he says.

‘There are at least two dozen larger toys in the tool room, Kitten,’ I say.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘But I’m rambling, sorry. The news is, I’m taking you to see the doctor, about that hip.’

Kit bristles, his eyes flashing back to mine.

‘It’s just a strain… it will heal. I promise you!’

‘Maybe, or maybe not. That’s what the doctor is for – to help us decide how impaired you are.’

‘Sir, maybe I bigged it up because I’m feeling sore after the work, but honestly, it’s just a twinge. I don’t need to see the doctor, I swear.’

‘Dr Hope is already waiting for us, Kit.’

‘But how can he be… I don’t understand!’

‘It’s in your best interests, yeah?’

‘Lads…?’ Kit looks around the faces of the lounging boys, but their heads are flopped, embarrassed, and one or two mumble incoherently. There are no ‘saviour’ interventions.

The nineteener drops back to a squat then rolls sideways onto his flank, where his hands move to cover his sobbing face.

‘Fuck!’ he moans.

**

‘Raise your right leg as high as you can…okay… good… and, relax. Now, cross your right leg over to the left side of your body… again, as far as you can…well done… good… that’s nicely flexible.’

The young doctor is making an urgent assessment of Kit, at my referral. He’s an in-house medic with excellent professional competency in general practice, and a direct manner that was natural but has been sharpened further under my mentorship.

It’s not the role of Dr Hope to make my boys well, but rather to prolong their usefulness as pipeline slaves by a few days, or weeks, through the dispensation of simple medicines and attending to their manageable wounds.

If a boy refuses to rise from his cell bunk citing brokenness, physical or mental, then the doctor visits and converses with his young patient, issuing a certificate of health signing-off the trainee as fit for his scheduled Sex Tasks or Pain Tasks.

But sometimes, with a nudge and a wink from me, diagnoses may be amended.

‘Now, Kit: raise your left leg as high as you can… okay… and more, maybe? Try to push yourself until you simply have to stop… the point of failure. I need to see what’s going-on, here.’  

‘Owww!’

The teen manages a couple more centimetres of height, grimacing, before his trembling limb descends to a less anguished elevation.

Kit is flat on his back on the gurney, but for a thin pillow under his skull. The mattress is faced with black PVC, made damp with the boy’s perspiration. Each time he shifts on the trolley, making it squeak with his angsty fidgeting, a shadow of sweat is revealed where he lay.

Dr Hope and Kit have a fractious relationship. You might find this surprising as, of all the boys under his current care (and mine), Kit is a blatant pleaser: a try hard. Perhaps we can attribute the history to a simple clash of personalities, because the brash doctor has a reputation for being a ruthless trampler.  

There’s a contrast in appearances, too. The medic’s Greek heritage (paternal) manifests in his olive skin tone and dark eyes, not to say his animated demeanour, verging on emotional. Casual in dark chinos and a buttoned shirt left open at his neck, the doctor looms over Kit’s pale form as he assesses his patient’s crunched hip.

The animus dates from week one, and an early refusal by Kit – distraught – to leave his cell for a livestream titled Anal Training IV, citing excessive soreness from his previous stretching. Dr Hope was brusque with his assessment: Diagnosis – Malingerer – certified fit for anal work at all complexities, he pronounced, and committed the same to paper in barely legible handwriting. Told to present himself on the Sex Wing in two minutes flat, Kit went an adorable shade of beetroot and clenched his fists to self-restrain.

The golden boy is clenching his fists again now, as my doctor continues investigating his hurt side.  

‘Now, as before, try to scissor your left leg over your body, to the right, and see how you do, huh?’

Kit looks to me, then to Dr Hope, then back to me, pleading for a pass on this illuminating test.

‘There’s nothing to fear at this stage, Kit,’ I say, with a thin smile he sees through without trouble.

‘Quickly – I have other appointments,’ Dr Hope snaps.

The boy elevates his left leg once more, without bettering his previous curtailed lift. Then he attempts to swing the limb across to his right, as instructed, managing negligible curvature before he hits a wall of pain.

 ‘Ahhh FUCK!!’

The leg slumps back onto the gurney, walloping the mattress.

‘Give it one more try, huh?’ Dr Hope pushes. ‘Show me just how flexible, or not, that young hip is.’

In readiness for his final trial, Kit’s hands grab the tubular steel forming the low safety gates to each side of the gurney. He squeezes down, and at the same time puffs his face into a picture of determination, eyes wide.

The left leg lifts from the mattress, inch by inch until the ball of Kit’s heel clears it by a foot. He gasps and turns right with the hovering limb. The doctor lays hands upon him, taking advantage of a legitimate opportunity to feel the pained patient as the boy attempts to make his hip work.

‘Nice,’ Dr Hope purrs, pressing teen flesh.

Kit attempts to extend the swing of his left leg over to his right side, but the acute pain he felt previously surges back as a violent spasm.

‘Ahhh FUCK!!’ he fails again, beside himself. ‘Fuck!’

The doctor struggles to summon the professional integrity required to stop pawing at Kit’s thigh.  

‘Hmm. Well, that’s a problem you have there. Practically rigid. Do you want to tell me what on earth happened?’

Kit continues to wince. He flexes-out his balled fists and shapely toes.

‘I was doing a capstan push session,’ Kit recalls. ‘But one of the trap… err….  challenges… was an oiled tray. And towards the end, working hard, I felt my left hip twinge sort of thing, and give-way. But it was only temporary.’

Solemn, the doctor nods, getting close into his patient’s face with his own thinly drawn features. Kit will smell the coffee on his breath: Dr Hope loves a rich Italian roast. ‘I see. So, perhaps you were being a little careless?’ he suggests.

Kit shoots me a guarded look. I’m standing six steps back, arms folded and listening.

‘Maybe. I should have tried even harder, but been more careful.’

‘I’m sure, Kit. And because of your carelessness, you have a bad sprain on your left hip, and additionally, I suspect some moderate ligament strain in your thigh. Now, these are both limiting conditions that heal – with time.’

Dr Hope’s emphasis hangs on his final two words, and he looks back from Kit to me, knowing.  

I am ready to cut into the conversation and breach patient confidentiality.

‘How much time?’ I ask, testy. ‘How long, Ben, before Kit can participate effectively in labour sessions, and hard sexual tests requiring mobility?’

The doctor shakes his head to let Kit down, playing poker with his mean lips. ‘Oh, I think it will be three to four weeks before he returns to a competitive condition. At least.’  

I nod my understanding. ‘It’s a problem, as you say, then.’

**

Though it hurt like hell, Kit has flipped himself face down on the gurney, now, thumping the mattress with his fists, scrumming thighs arched outwards and squirming. The cheap black trim receives drips from his tears, and he nests his head in folded forearms.

I’d given him the bad news and good news as bullet points:

1.        - You move to the Snuff Wing immediately, but…

2.        - Nothing will happen straight away, and…

3.        - The next few days represent an opportunity to rest and reflect.

But Kit only heard the bad news, and fair enough.

In the end it’s about managing assets, and I need to be ruthless.

When Kit’s settled in the Snuff Wing, I will tell him that, actually, it’s not entirely his fault, and we will talk about all his character traits I’ve come to admire, and which my customers admire.

Back at the cells, the other three will hear they’re a boy down, and the news will galvanise them for the days of harder sex and heavier pain that fill their calendars for the next week or so, until the time comes to select again.

**

Coda

Before we leave Capstan, I need to tell you of the lively conversations I enjoy with Ivan over premium vodka (him) and Diet Coke (me), where we debate which of 28 boys, so far, has delivered the best performance on the beams. It’s not science, there is room for value judgment, and our sparring is, in essence, just an opportunity to relive the greatest hits of the capstan, like a sadistic version of a Facebook local history group.

In our mutual top threes, though, is a Canadian boy called Jamie who presented in drag as a leggy blonde by the name of Hazel (because of the eyes). Jamie/Hazel loved nothing more than to be bossing a float at Pride, shaking his/her booty, girlfriend.  

We had Hazel work the capstan in the flimsily provocative femme attire and make-up she wore at the moment of her abduction, from the dressing room in the Victorian theatre at which she was about to perform. In a concession to practicality, she was allowed to ditch her high heels for the big push.

Working with three conventionally masculine boys – all larger – looking startlingly pinched at her hips and with the most delightful peachy ass thrust back for Ivan’s disciplinary attention, I’d never seen so much mascara run, comprehensively dissolved by the salt of her thick tears.  

Hazel was a screamer, too, alienating her capstan-mates with her perpetual shrieking. The boys disliked histrionics.

But here’s the thing: look beyond the noise and striking display of femininity, and you find a girl whose contribution to the total 111 rotations achieved by this group was regularly at the top of the board, and who ended a close second on the effort table behind a professional footballer of 23.

There are several lessons here, mostly beyond scope, but when Ivan and I laugh at our memories of Hazel, the serious point we return to when the laughter stops and glasses are held steadily is this: physical stamina and mental strength are critical, but what Jamie/Hazel displayed over her five weeks was a genuine desire to satisfy whatever tests we set her, at a personal sacrifice that became quite remarkable by week four. She had a rare understanding of our pleasure, and we remain amazed how far that carried her in the process, given her disadvantages.

With hindsight, we wish we’d arranged to shoot an instructional film for future boys, presented by the girl herself when she fizzed with energy but controlled to our script, titled Be More Hazel!

Capstan (1/2): M/m+, NC, fanfic vibe

Capstan - chapter one

I introduce you to the bowels of the Pain Wing, and to four young men recently unaccustomed to being worked, now slogging for their lives under my terror regime.

As I visit them, I pause to listen from the grey-walled corridor outside. I can tell by the noises a boy makes whether – or not – he takes me seriously; that being the difference between giving me everything, or just working hard.

Before surveying the scene, I’m reassured these four are fighting for the privilege of survival. It’s all I ask of them, from this favourite session.  

**  

Down in the ‘engine room’ and with ten minutes of their labour remaining, the environment is intensely masculine. They grunt, swear in frustration or (worse) as insult, and boil with sweat from cores overheating like a Putin-sabotaged nuclear reactor in Ukraine.

I’d given my instructions to their overseer, Ivan, and he’d required no clarification because there was an absence of nuance: work them ‘til they break. He’d done this before with different sets of boys, anyway, and it’s only faces and marginal differences in attitude that change.  

There are no windows in this chamber of hurt, and no vulnerabilities in the walls and fencing beyond, securing the perimeter of the facility. My sadism is moated.

The boys range in age from 19 to 25, so far too young to be presented with final jeopardy, but immaturity has always amused me and appears to entertain my customers, as I interpret their breathless fanboy feedback. In any event, the ageing process is accelerated under my ownership, and fleeting property is what I’m looking at in the engine room.  

In all likelihood every one of them will be dead before their next birthday, and they know it. This group started as the usual fivesome, but Sam was selected and snuffed before week one was out, and the remaining four were forced witnesses to his ending by hanging. Usefully, they developed early understanding of behaviours to be avoided: hostile attitude, lack of total effort, saying No! to those daily sessions which expand their sexual competence.  

Also understood is the word precariousness, that I defined for them in simple terms where a walking dictionary was needed. As I said:

‘Give me a reason to allow you another day, every day. And the GOAT boys work-up a long list to persuade me for another week of my investment.’  

They know what electrifies me in sessions such as Capstan: their pain toiled through with tenacity, the last sliver of effort dredged for and applied, my observation of personal quests to be that greatest boy, fulfilled.  

They know their danger zone: my boredom with the unexceptional, and indifference to seeing them again tomorrow.

The jigsaw piece the boys can’t know is my commercial influences and I suppose that, occasionally, there are decisions made around fate that must baffle them. Ill-deserved calls, if you will. 

They’re naïve and hence motivated, because it’s still only week three. They believe a boy, maybe even boys, can ‘win’ with me and enter what I’ve characterised as a pathway (not an event) back to freedom and family. It’s important they consider me a sincere sadist and to that end I’ve introduced them to a boy, Ryan, who tells a well-rehearsed story of reprieve and, in live Q&A, pulls-off a convincing demeanour whilst going so far as to praise – almost – my ultimate clemency.

This group of youths asked ten variants of the same question seeking to test the legitimacy of Ryan’s patter, and in ten variants of slippery answer Ryan said that, of course, the goodwill he’d seen me exercise with his own eyes was contingent upon a boy following my process and giving it not 100%, not 110%, but fucking 120%, bro!   

Ivan’s whip crashes in a way I’m familiar with, regularly but with discrimination. The multiple tails crack as bullets over slithery backs and backsides, accompanied by muscular yelps that seem to precede the whiplash landfall on occasion, as though pre-empting it, and maybe that’s what’s happening?

It was an aspirational tasking of the four boys, to complete 125 turns of their capstan in 90 minutes, but as time ebbs away, a cocktail of emotion overwhelms them. Fear, verging on terror; dark despondency; anger with me, Ivan, and each other; sadness; the selfishness of self-pity.  

Nine minutes left, now, with 19 rotations to complete. Why the fuck does it always end like this, nearish, yet still too far!? 

I’ve being making noises over the last 48 hours on the imminency of a second selection, and there is collective acceptance their output on Capstan will be pivotal, in two senses.  

‘Step it up, boys,’ I warn them, with no sense of panic at my end, like they hadn’t been trying to do so for well over an hour, already.

From one quadrant, though I’m not sure which because from their screwed faces it could be any of them, I hear an unsuppressed burst of sobbing, banished with self-control as swiftly as it arrived.

**

All boys hate the capstan. It’s the disciplinary detail in a world of punishment.

The atmosphere in the engine room is oppressive, because it’s not a large space relative to the size of the apparatus they operate. Both temperature and humidity are maintained high, which isn’t as disastrous for my utility bills as you might imagine because we’re bunkered underground, anyway. Lighting is strong, for the benefit of static movie cameras in every corner and suspended overhead from a rig, the absence of shadow leaving nowhere to stumble from the heat.

There’s just one door, and it’s kept shut. Within ten minutes of capstan rotation commencing this subterranean torture box stinks of performance, and you’d love to bottle it.

Perhaps the cruellest aspect, of many, is the impediments which the boys see as traps and have been known to describe as such to my face, unwisely.

No, the impediments are there to test traits I respect such as determination, resilience and – in the fullness of their time with me – the ignition of an appetite for masochism, in rare cases. 

Each heaving circumference with a hefty capstan arm involves more than a plain circuit because there are four unavoidable plates enroute, containing:

1.     Oil, splashed to challenge their bare-footed traction

2.     Round pebbles with a little pea gravel mixed-in – to bog-down, and hurt the soles with sharpness     

3.     Metal panel 1, heated to a level causing intense discomfort, or worse if a boy lingers

4.     Metal panel 2, frozen to ice on its surface, sufficient to turn toes blue if a boy lingers

The impediment plates are positioned equidistant, such that all labourers encounter one at the same time on every circulation: all ‘on’, or all ‘off’.    

It’s important to keep matters in proportion. Fully half of the boys’ journey is taken over plain tile with a lightly corrugated facing, grippy and conducive to their quest. The impediments, when tackled on circuit, are not intended to slow the pace of work and they are not traps, because they are in clear sight with declared purpose. Impediments are nothing more than frustrations intended, in this arena of fine margins, to find dividing lines in attitude.

The barrel-centred capstan is low geared to an exceptional extent, almost as though it were not intended to be moved at all and had been hand-braked in some way, to avoid the risk of (notional) passing kids giving it a shove, for fun. The four-armed bandit is tough to start, hard to keep in motion, and too easy to let stop through momentary lapse of concentration, or application.

Combined with the shear weight of the all-wooden beams, the gearing is set to test a team of four boys to their limits but can be recalibrated for smaller and larger groups, or just for fun. The mechanicals go unseen, under hatches beneath the floor, and the machine serves no practical purpose: no milling is undertaken at the facility, and no anchors must be hoisted. It’s a pure pain capsule, with a nod to industrial heritage.

The capstan underway can be a noisy sensual experience in the pit of my building. So much grunting, huffing and puffing, with the most exasperated sighs released when the fucking thing won’t just budge on a whim. Then there are the calls between the four boys, demanding more effort (from others, naturally) to maintain pace or avoid a stall situation. You know a tasking is working to perfection when the intra-team verbal abuse flows like diarrhoea, and the most-used profanities change from f-words to the strongest terms beginning with m or c.

‘What happens in your cells is up to you, boys, but I stress this: on duty there can be no place for loyalties or sympathies. You work for me, only, and through me for yourself. So, who believes they can be selfish?’  I’d asked, two weeks ago, and with varying enthusiasm they all agreed they could.

There are 7 minutes of 90 remaining, and they owe me another 16 turns of the capstan.   

‘Oi, Hayden! You tryna get us all killed!?’

‘Fuckin’ MOVE IT, Kit!’

I smile for them. Not my problem, right?

**

They work naked but adorned. From gripping collars around their nut sacs, a pair of disc weights of 0.5kg each are suspended by chains, swaying mid-thigh and occasionally banging together as clumsy cymbals.

Invisible, but for glimpses of the black bases wedged in cracks, each boy suffers the further encumbrance of a butt plug probing high – and wide – into his asshole. The stretching anal bulbs are not the biggest the youths have trained for, on Sex tasks, but are girthy enough to ache hard at their sphincters from the get-go, and to throw into disarray the natural gait, or whatever natural would look like in boys straining onto capstan oaks with bodies arranged at acute angles to the floor.    

The lads wear tit clamps with crocodile heads, one to each nub and joined by short chain.

As I advised these boys: Multiple centres of pain but one focus, on achievement.

We have diversity in the group, by several measures. It’s the right thing to do these days, of course, and it adds cultural relevance for viewers. More subtly – and thinking of the time they spend with each other in cells – I believe their range of life experiences is helpful in talking things through, and perhaps easing the worst anxiety bouts. I know there’s a tendency for leaders to emerge in every pack of males, and I could guess who that would be in this gang, but when session time comes their status is flat, in my eyes.

There’s an issue I need to address that it’s tempting to tiptoe around, giving biographical lies for fear of lessening the erotic impact of the series and degrading its financial value to me. But I’m a man known for tackling challenges directly, and anyway, the story is an intriguing one.

The ‘daddy’ of the group at 25, Tyler is a (young) Staff Sergeant in the US army: the 1^st Special Forces Command (Airborne), no less. He’s undertaken Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training as part of his military curriculum, and led men on training and humanitarian exercises on three continents. And Tyler is the first boy in history to arrive at my door of his own volition, on a ticket he paid for. Is your dick shrivelling? I hope not.

Tyler’s own daddy died when he was 7 and I deduce he has issues flowing from that, around male role modelling, unaddressed psychological pain, and the nature of his masculinity – especially upon the realisation he was queer (though he prefers gay and is anal-phobic).

Tyler’s been reading my stories, published as fiction, since he was 17. He’d messaged me persistently, enthralled and aroused, insisting I divulge whether the facility was a real operation, and whether the documented events happened. Of course, I was careful and strung him along for years – an undercover cop would have moved-on by then, police surveillance budgets only stretching so far. But Tyler had matured into a fine physical specimen, so I took a risk and invited him to my hub, to see for himself what went on. And he came, and was who he had claimed to be.

I suppose you’re thinking ‘unfair advantage – boring!’, but for context, Tyler is the shortest of the boys at 5’8”. Also, he nurses a twinging spinal injury – who knew that jumping out of airplanes professionally could be bad for the health!? Then, there are his gay-sexual hang-ups and his lively personality grounded in mixed Greek/Italian heritage, so it’s far from a slam-dunk.    

Barrel-chested, strong at the thighs, smooth and with a mop of dense, jet-black hair, Tyler is demanding of himself and short with whiners. The army boy hates Ivan’s whip but, unusually, isn’t at all bitter about it’s use.    

Before his visit, Tyler and I had countless intelligent conversations that I enjoyed, centred on aspects of BDSM and snuff at the level of theory. Now it’s for real – an experience – we can say that Tyler’s relationship with pain and sex (my way) is not one of easy thrills. Oh, and he doesn’t want to die.

Nathan is a boy for whom the most favoured genes, hard work and good fortune converged, to build him a modelling career with frequent flyer status (towards the front of the plane) triangulating between the UK, Europe and Dubai.  

With a crafted torso that could be the output of AI prompts: male, 23, mixed race, tall, athletic, toned, perfection… plus a sweet-featured face and oft-given wink, Nathan was already forging a career in front of the camera before the BLM uprising came along in the throes of the pandemic, and every brand wanted more BIPOC talent in their marketing. Nathan’s done plenty of underwear shoots, pushing that muscular ass back just a little for the photographer to showcase not only white Bjorn Borg’s boxers, but also his meaty globes.

It wasn’t his modelling assignments I found magnetic, however, but rather Nathan’s gruelling fitness programme as recorded to regular Instagram stories: his 6am wake-up treadmill sprints with 20mph-plus bursts; the free weights lifted all sorts of ways; the pull-ups and press-ups with demanding repetitions. Here was a boy with the drive to work-it until slippery wet, evidenced by daily video updates, and a griddled abdomen to prove his growth and year-on-year progress. When he toils, the near-hairless legs of the Belgian-Congolese biracial glisten as though polished. I am attracted to boys who hold themselves to account.

In his luxury living Nathan exuded reverse baseball-capped casual cool, but to my sexual requirements of the foursome he’s been the most indignant, shrinking from my ways to deploy his plump lips and that sexy booty. Nathan hates cum in his tight Afro curls, and told me so in his excellent but accented English.    

Nathan can be outspoken, you see, and I react badly to accusations of unfairness in treatment, intra-group, when I try to be scrupulously fair in being nasty to all of them in equal measure.

Faith in God, Family Forever. So says the tattoo marked inside Hayden’s forearm. The Ohioan came with a crucifix pendant hanging from a thin gold necklace, as well, but I had to confiscate it because of the self-harm risk to himself, or his cellmates. It was an apologetic move because I have no qualm with faith and the cross looked hot, nestling at the top of Hayden’s pectorals and drawing the eye to his cut cleft. I’ve told the boy his jewellery is in my safe, to be returned if he has a future.

Hayden is a tale of two halves. The boy’s upper torso responds impeccably to his gym routines with shoulders rounded above the ball and socket joints, flowing into long arms that become attractively vascular under heavy exercise. His biceps sustain the best domed, gritted-teeth flex. Hayden’s trunk – completely smooth as far as his trimmed bush – is broad where you’d wish it to be around the sculpted pecs, then tapering with pleasant curves to his nip’n’tucked waist of just 31 inches. The boy’s tit nubs are round to geometric precision.

This youth stands at a rangy 6’2”, but though he’s a TikTok gym-fluencer with a pert ass, Hayden’s bottom half suggests he struggles to build mass in his legs, or just hates ‘leg day’ whatever his online claims to a disciplined routine. His lower limbs are aesthetic, for sure, but rather skinnier than a glance at his chest might lead you to believe. Not the ideal physique for Capstan, sadly (for him).

The 21-year-old has a head of tight blond curls that, in my facility, presents as a tousled bedhead because I don’t have a fucking salon to give them daily coiffures. As a believer, Hayden possesses a capacity to respond to Ivan’s whip in a cathartic way, as though his corporal punishment were a just cleansing. Why? Well, here’s my guess: last year, Hayden left the windswept Midwestern farmhouse and the clapboard church where he’d worshipped with his parents, and moved with his girlfriend to an apartment in Florida, for which the source of funds was an OnlyFans account netting him $15k per month, where he showed dick root (but no more!) with visibly excruciating embarrassment. He’s pretty, but the angry, ugly, INCEL gays believe he’s taking them for a ride, at $15 per month subscription and no dick pics.

Back on mainstream social media, Hayden’s cheesy grins with milk-white teeth were his trademark, but I have trained and slapped and punished that goofy smile off Hayden’s face, these last three weeks, and now he grimaces on the capstan, struggling the hardest.

Finally – finally – there’s Kit. Copper-gold floppy hair, over a strawberries and cream freckled complexion. The Celtic ancestral contingent of Great Britain, in 5’11”, 19-year-old form. Rugby-sturdy but gentle-thoughtful with it, this baby of the group has exploits to his name that created recognition, and a fervour when I was able to announce his acquisition and participation in the series.

Nominally bisexual, Kit had little sexual experience to his name, but of course we were able to remedy that void efficiently until he became snivelling miserable. 

Kit has suffered overwhelming inner turmoil over his three weeks with me, that I’ve needed to watch carefully to ensure his despair is channelled productively. Ivan and his team of guards had a special briefing from me, on Kit, after the pleading way he looked at me whenever I asked him to perform generated concern, based on nothing more than my intuition of boys:

‘He’s very self-contained, and too quiet. So, you realise that has risks, right? And he’s kind-of our jewel in the crown, too. I want you all to keep an eye on him, okay? BUT – but – you mustn’t hear this as a call for leniency. The audience is crying out for us to be ultra-strict with Kit, so it’s high standards and discipline first, but after that’s done, if you feel like he needs a word of support to pull him through, then you give it to him, huh?’

Four desirable boys, several coveted, one (at least) a controversial acquisition. This series has been a long time in the planning, but the movie sales forecasts promise my largest payday ever, so long as the execution is right. I’m asking a premium price for the action here, but the number of armchair sadists with deep pockets is bigger than you might imagine.  

**

Each member of my work gang is manacled to his own capstan beam by way of short chains from cuffs at both wrists. At the least and without option, he’ll walk the circuit dragged along by the effort of others, but they’re all way too exposed to become free riders.

So subtle that it’s not immediately obvious, the beams sprout from the barrel hub at slightly different heights, catering for taller or shorter boys – within reason. Ever fair to them, squat Tyler is matched with the lowest timber, whilst Nathan (6’0”) and Hayden have the highest pair, allowing every boy to maximise the impact of the torque he applies.       

‘If the capstan stops… then you stop – the whole lot of you: Simple as.’

My warning, reinforced by Ivan during the session, is well-remembered. Turn, turn, turn. Remember, my objective is to work them not just to a state of exhaustion, but their point of collapse. In ranking their objectives, the only offence worse than non-completion of the 125 revolutions within 90 minutes would be permitting the machine to come to a standstill.

Their ankles are manacled, and linked leg to leg by a chain designed with just the right amount of slack, permitting (as it must) a scissor gait for maximum heave on the capstan bar, yet not so wide as to allow them to straddle the four impediment trays of oil, ‘beach’, intense heat and frozen cold, on their dictated path. The boys’ steel lengths clank on the floor as they trudge, augmenting the soundtrack of human misery.

Whip tails bite with greater frequency since I arrived back in the engine room. It’s about Ivan respecting my presence – my hunger for top class entertainment – but also, Ivan’s the jockey driving these harnessed beasts along their home straight, in a tight race.

Tyler is slashed as he tiptoes over the scalding hotplate.

Hayden is flogged as his soles near freeze to the cold plate, whimpering.

Nathan is flailed as our chocolate-skinned boy bogs-down in the gravel tray, lacerating more of his shapely soles.

I was in the engine room to get this team started with a short motivational speech, ending:

‘It’s time to knuckle-down and get serious, boys. The hunt for my next snuff victim has become urgent.’

Once they’d fought inertia to get the capstan moving, I left them to it and to Ivan’s company.  People don’t appreciate the workload involved in the logistics of identifying boys, acquiring boys, managing boys, ending boys, not to mention running a booming darknet porn studio and keeping customers happy – the fucking entitled cunts, every one of them. I can’t spread myself too thinly, so whilst boys in jeopardy are always fun, it’s an indulgence I partake in sparingly these days.

My overseer has been my head of staff and muse for five years, and I trust him absolutely. Ivan’s a Russian national, burly, unreasonably hairy and impervious to pleas. With a resume detailing prior experience in quarrelsome ex-Soviet republics, dating from Putin’s first term in the Kremlin, hardening-up four soft boys is a park walk: okay, I’m being a little ungenerous to Tyler, there. Embarrassingly, I’ve had boys cry to me over Ivan’s conduct with them, and his unsparing unfairness as he works them for labour, or on outsize anal insertables. The ‘head office complaint’ angle doesn’t reach video, to preserve my reputation.  

I needed to be back in the room before this four finished with Capstan, though, to influence matters.

We’re at the stage of proceedings that would be a repulsive watch, for any right-minded human. This is young adult hurtcore. Ivan becomes continually verbally demanding of them, growling at the corporal punishment he metes:

‘Faster, you faggots!’

‘Move it, boycunts!’

‘Yeah… FUCK YOU!’

In return there is evidence of raw subservience, and not petulance despite the difficult history. Ivan’s the man these boys listen and respond to, even when they know for sure they’ve nothing left to give.

**

Just how hard are 125 circulations of the capstan, in 90 minutes? It’s not a familiar gym apparatus, after all, and though I’ve told you the machine is difficult to shift, an hour and a half is a decent stretch of time to achieve a tariff, you might think.

So, let me assure you the number was arrived at through careful calibration, taking learnings from prior teams of boys set this session. And we men have worked the machine ourselves to obtain a feel for reasonableness – albeit not whilst ass-stuffed with plugs nor ball-dragged with weight, but still, we put our damn bodies on the line for a few rotations.

In collaboration, we agreed a reasonable benchmark was one rotation per minute, so 90 in total. A challenge objective would be a straight 100 turns, with the number of 115 said to represent a barely plausible hard stretch.  

Under identical conditions, the best a team of four abductee boys has managed to date was 112 laps. But insofar as Tyler, Nathan, Hayden and Kit are concerned, it’s 125 turns that separate inadequate from satisfactory, and ‘everyone else has managed it’. Laughably, Ivan spoke to them in their first few minutes on the desirability of shooting for a good number of turns to please me well: 140, say.

Set correctly, an objective achieves several things. It must be believable, chaseable, critical – but ultimately, just beyond reach. These four have been chasing for well over an hour, accumulating progress as their tally ticked by, yet falling slightly further behind, pro rata.

As they pass my standing spot in succession, I watch for demeanour. All four are shattered sweat pigs but it’s possible to discern the differences they do, and don’t, want me to see. Military boy Tyler is a machine ploughing perpetually on, eyes focused straight-ahead and quiet. Nathan is the noisy labour slave of the team, grunting-out his contribution as though keen to draw attention to it. Hayden puked his guts in technicolour some time ago, and finds the demanding pace set by others too fast for his long, slender legs, better suited to an unburdened sprint. Whilst backmarkers are known to frustrate Ivan, I confess to enjoying the optics of a wind-tanned farm boy struggling to keep-up and failing to register his due contribution.

Kit, though, is beyond shattered – he’s broken. Taking this terminal predicament they’ve been set as the gravest of personal threats, the 19-year-old made an outsize contribution to the first seventy rotations but tired: or became lazy/complacent, as he knows I may interpret it. Kit continues to lean his rugby scrum back onto his capstan beam, but the impact of his shoving versus the rest of the team has tailed-off and he’s at risk of being carried, though hopefully not literally.

My golden youth has wet eyes, and now and then they burst over his rosy cheeks. It is rare to watch a boy try so hard, to suffer so much, and to understand – really understand – the deep-down dynamics of my sadistic intent, so well.

Kit throws me a pleading look when he passes again. I know these aren’t my finest moments, Sir, but I’d been doing better when you weren’t around, I swear to God!! That’s what his brave eye contact says.

‘C’mon, Kitten,’ I urge him, softly. Right away he nods back three times, extending his stretch on the beam in desperate search of reserve power to demonstrate and placate me.

**   

This capstan is of the connected era.

On a live basis, electronic sensors calculate the force being applied to each of the four beams and display the output on large monitors suspended from the ceiling on opposite sides of the room, such that all boys might know their performance continuously.

Effort last lap:

Effort last five laps:

Effort since start:

…those are the metrics the boys see, and to ensure accountability names are programmed rather than ‘beam 1’ etc.

When it appears my sessional requirements are slipping out of their grasp, the data feed serves to stoke emotions of anger and recrimination in the group. I want them to turn against and feel furious with each other, and not me.

With four minutes remaining, the vitriol is flying:

‘Fuck, Kit, are you going backwards!?’ <Nathan>

‘Shit! Just fuckin’ push, Hayden!’ <Nathan>

‘Kit, you need to start leaning-in again, bro!’ <Tyler>

Ivan and I are tolerant of cajoling in small doses, adding as it does to the panicked dynamic of the room, but we are sceptical of those who appear to have plentiful energy for chat that would be better diverted to their own beam. Nathan is an instinctive blurter, but when Tyler throws rare invective, you know times are tough.

They’re right, though, that the youngster has been bottom of the pack over last lap and last five laps measures for several minutes, now: though relevantly, he retains a solid second ranking when effort is measured from minute one.

I carry an electro-prod, three feet in length, that I wear as an accessory for the most part because at the operational level this is Ivan’s show, and I must avoid undermining his authority by strolling-in guns blazing – or buzzing. The prod delivers a biting jolt to the recipient without flooring him taser-style, but it’s a spur that boys become ultra-keen to avoid. They see me unhitching the prod from my belt clip, look away quickly, and – miracle! – find another 1% of lean-in torque for their beams.

‘Shit!’ Hayden moans, extending the long scissor poise of his pushing.

I’m going to discriminate, though, with a single activation. To be honest, the glances we’ve shared – terrified on his part, knowing on mine – have already told Kit it’s going to be him, next time around the carousel, and during the rotation I watch his brow furrow as he braces for it.

When he passes me, I push the chubby sparker onto Kit’s ball sac, slung low and pommelled by his twin testicular weights. I press once, firmly.

The nineteener yelps, and though he’s been hoarsened by an hour and a half of grunting, smattered with calls of encouragement in those halcyon quarter-hours when he led the pack as role model, Kit summons heart-stopping volume that cracks around the engine room in a fury as his ginger nuts are beasted; fried; scalded.

‘More effort,’ I tell Kit as a personal address, in an uninterested tone discordant with the fire-crack I’ve just unleashed.

‘Yeah… Sir!’ he answers me positively, already re-marshalling composure after his lightning hiatus, his back stretching onto the beam. 

Soon: 'Capstan'

Written with another place of publication in mind, this is fanfic-inspired but you don't need to know who's who, to enjoy the progression (I hope). 

It's a one-off short that could go long, in multiple directions. 

It's a favourite niche fetish of mine, so an indulgence, but it has broken my creative impasse. 

Join Kit and his fellow unfortunates on the capstan, shortly. 

Progression (2/2) M/mm; NC; SCAT; WS

 

Check-in 2

It’s difficult to overstate how much they welcome my approach, down the stairs with my particular gait, teasingly slow. Their relief is seen, and heard in the form of low groans, chorused. It’s just me (!) and not another user, but also, their second three-hour stint is up.

And I like to feel welcomed by my toilet boys – it’s encouraged behaviour.

I stand at their socked toes, arms folded across my chest, ready to deliver a considered opinion.

‘That started to look quite ragged, even on screen. What do you expect me to offer those men, as excuses, after all the training I’ve given you?’

Neither boy speaks, but there’s uncontrolled retching and deep, pitiful sniffing.

‘Fin, your gulping began to lack vigour… you stopped acting greedy for your piss drinks like you were a thirsty boy, and the pace of changeovers seemed to floor you.’

‘Sir!’ the blond says, neutrally, neither fighting my charges nor accepting them.

‘Tom… seven feeds: Not all of them bulky, by the way! But I could see a handful of challenges for you around quantity, and waste consistency. Your last hour, though… the mouth-to-ass was tortured, your chewing was glacially slow, and you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else than flushing turd for a man.’

Silence. The diver’s eyes close, and he’s newly limp on the floor. Upon my chastisement the boy drifts in and out of consciousness, liberated – temporarily – from the need to muster total concentration for his customers.

‘Tell me about Tom’s mood during that last hour, Fin?’ I ask the alert teamster.

The 21-year-old responds with certainty.

‘When he could still talk properly to me, ages ago, he told me he felt totally fucked, Sir. He said ruined, in fact.’

‘Thank you for the honesty, Fin,’ I say, gravelly. ‘And so, I wonder whether Tom has any capacity left for solid service, during your final third? Maybe not, I’m hearing?’

The blond youth clears his throat, startled.

‘I think he definitely has, Sir!’

The tune has changed pretty smartly, and Fin amuses me.

I believe Fin is astute in his judgment, but there are several possible permutations.

I decide they both need a change of gear, with Fin swapping to brown socks from yellow, and Tom switching to yellow/brown striped, from brown. It’s a resolution that leaves both of them looking sullen and feeling hard-done-by. The ideal resolution, for a finale. 

‘What were your preferences, then?’ I challenge them.

‘Yellow, Sir,’ Fin barks.

‘After that hell… yellow, please Sir,’ Tom wheezes.

‘Ah-ha. But you understand how that doesn’t work, okay? You know we can’t have two toilet bowls out of service, right? Think of the complaints I’d get, eh?’

‘And what’s the reason you can’t put me out of service, after SIX hours of shit?’ Tom has rediscovered his imperilled voice.

I scoff at him.

‘Because you deserve to be kept available, Tom,’ I say.  

**

If you’re squeamish about what they’re eating, don’t dwell on it but think narrowly of the sheer quantity of food they must ingest, though appetite is zero and they’re stuffed. If it helps, imagine bowl after bowl of porridge, thick and starchy and packed dense with rougher material acting as a coagulant. The best porridge is heavy, but near flavourless. The worst bowls taste of damp socks and overcooked Brussels sprouts. Sometimes, but unpredictably, the porridge arrives barely mixed as a torrent of grey liquid followed by a concentration of gritty, grainy base.

The porridge must be swallowed immediately, however served, and when each feeder confirms they’re finished, the toilet boys have been trained to offer a response of gratitude through their oval window, with a forced smile:

‘Thank you, Sir!’

Remembering thankfulness was never a life-or-death matter, but in early training there were small rewards, or privileges, I’d distribute when a boy recalled the need to be appreciative of his user.

It’s a mark of how intense the eating exhibition is, this evening, that I’ve not heard a word of gratitude since the first hour. The common response to yet another ‘bowl of porridge’, concluded, is violent vomiting rather than a word of courtesy. However, thinking again of respect, they’re trained to keep everything down until their feeder has left the bathroom.

Resisting the urge to puke right now is amongst the hardest disciplines a toilet boy learns, and the cause of countless tears as we argue whether, or not, it’s physically possible to stifle an urge to sick-up (it is, and eventually it clicks!).

By his sixth hour of solids the quantity of ‘porridge’ has left Tom with a domed belly; that famous tanned skin stretched thin, glistening with his perspiration. It’s an interesting visual counterpoint to the dipped, emaciated look of his tummy during the recovery days between recent scenes. By week six, toilet service blows boys up then deflates them fartingly, like party balloons.

**

When the tasking breaks new ground in a significant way – only to the extent lives are at risk, let it be noted – there’s a privilege I can give, to add longevity to the process. It’s not a right, it’s irregular, and it’s not a safe word.

For the final third of their scene, the boys can mark themselves Engaged and unavailable for new shit deposits. The Engaged light can be set as many times as needed, subject to three rules:

1.        1. A boy can only go Engaged for a total of fifteen minutes over the three hours.

2.        2. Boys cannot be Engaged simultaneously – there must always be a toilet mouth available for solids. Status is given to the first boy on the button.

3.        3. A boy cannot switch to Engaged mid-feed.

I add colour to my act of benevolence:

‘You don’t have to use it, and ideally you won’t. But if you do, use it sparingly – I’ll look kindlier on the boy who finishes with ten minutes still available and unused, than the boy who has zipped through the entire allowance in ninety minutes. I don’t expect you to use the privilege in the first hour, or because you’re feeling just a bit rough. This is a warning, and please take it seriously: If, at the end, I feel my generosity has been abused, I won’t make a lifeline available again. Clear?’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ (Fin)

‘Sir, I desperately need more time, and a break!’ (Tom)

Straightaway, I speak via radio with the techie guys in the box, and order Tom’s privilege (only) be reduced to maximum ten minutes. His jaw drops as the preliminary to whiny protest.

‘Clear, pig?’ I ask Tom again.

‘Yes, Sir, and thank you, Sir.’

‘Good boy.’

**

T+2    Re-brief

The dust has settled or, more accurately, they’ve cleaned the bathroom of their voluminous orange vomit, diarroea and uncontrolled piss, being the outputs of their exhibition and, particularly, the final third. It was an epic mess, and great fun to view – I take Bitcoin for the downloads, by the way.  

With reference to ‘they’, you’ll have gleaned that both Tom and Fin are still around. 48-hours later, their puke has more or less dried-up, their body temperatures are receding below 40 degrees, and they’re starting to at least contemplate the protein and vitamin shakes I leave for them. Many pounds have been lost, and more of Fin’s straw-coloured fringe has fallen out in clumps.

It’s important not to go overboard and foster a sense of arrogance in the pair, but yesterday, T+1, I told them once and won’t repeat:

‘That was robust toilet service in harsh conditions. Give yourselves a pat on the back and reflect on the positives for a day or so. Well done, both of you!

And Tom: that was a very concentrated half-hour of shit service, towards the end – five feeds in thirty-seven minutes, and I saw you panic, but you didn’t clog-up. One of your feeders, who admitted to being very full for you, rated you 8.5/10 and commented that you’re a very capable flusher. I hope that gives you confidence to push-on!’   

 

Now I’m perched on a bar stool and they’re on the floor, naked at my feet. Chains of 60cm link the steel collars around their ball sacs, with floor-anchored rings. Subject to the limitations of reach the boys may squat, kneel or sit, but not stand.

I’m ready to address Tom and Fin, on next steps.

‘You’ve done your training, and you’re ready to move-up,’ I say, looking into attentive eyes. ‘The cycle of parties is over, for now.’

I let the news hang, watching them compute it. There’s no doubt their cognitive ability has slowed, over their time in my custody, and they look to each other for clarity but find blank faces.

‘Yes, I doubt there’s anything new you could learn from men around texture… taste… technique,’ I say, swishing my hand dismissively. ‘And I don’t want to leave you in a limbo.’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ Fin says, encouraging me in his interpretation of my train of thought.

‘You’ve still got drive, and there’s other things for you to be doing, and excelling at,’ I say, pushing back on my stool until it tips to two legs.

‘That’s… it, then?’ Tom falters, daring to dream.

‘It’s a new phase,’ I say, shattering the dream.

‘Shit!’ Fin raises his voice.

‘Yes, you’ve both earned the right to move into my private quarters. I’ve asked you to see me, so I can explain to you what will be involved in your new, 24/7, service.’  

‘No way!’ (Tom)

I start by running Tom and Fin through the long list of positives associated with their advancement:

-            Less frequent party service, though I can’t promise never

-            Working with familiar toilet users, not a bunch of strangers

-            More consistent regime, day to day

-            More teamwork and personal responsibility for scheduling

-            New experiences

In truth my four-minute monologue, full of nebulous management-speak, doesn’t motivate them. Heads are right down and they’re busted. I don’t joke on matters of predicament and beyond my bullshit, they smell deep shit.

‘But let me tell you what you’ll actually be doing, day in and day out.

Between the two of you, you’ll provide 24/7 coverage for the toilet needs of my household. The cycle of party events followed by days of lazy downtime for you, is over as of now.

I have what conservative critics might call a non-traditional household. There’s me, obviously, but you’ll also meet my domestic life partner, Chris – he’s lovely, by the way, but sadly we’re incompatible sexually, so we have an understanding. Duncan is my kinky partner, and he’s not so lovely and sometimes drives me up the wall, but on the other hand we have a deep sexual connection, in depravity. You’ve met Duncan, unbeknown, because he’s been one of your party toilet sitters!

Then there’s Theo, who’s studying psychology at university in London, but often pops home – whenever he needs washing done or runs out of money, basically – you know how it is! Theo is my adoptive son, with Chris, and he can switch from adorable to ultra-mean in an instant. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy being submissive with a queer boy around your age, Fin.

The last man you’ll get to know is Jerome, who’s the Business Manager for the studio, and indispensable to me. Jerome is Dutch and prefers not to commute, so he has an open invitation to stay with us whilst working, which he does for weeks at a time. We’re so close, I consider Jerome an honorary member of my household.

Now, as you’ll have gathered, it’s rare for all five of us to be at home together – we’d quickly get under each other’s feet! But it happens from time to time, when our schedules align.

For me, Chris, Duncan, Theo and Jerome, you will be providing the full-flush toilet service you’re expert at, for the duration of their residence. None of us will be using traditional plumbed toilets, ever.

Also, me and Chris have dogs! There’s Bruno, my German Shepherd, and Rolo, who’s Chris’s cuddly cockapoo. I mention this because you’ll be meeting Bruno and Rolo before long – that’s just the way of the household dynamic.

You’ve probably realised, by now, that teamwork is essential. Every night needs a mouth on call, and you’ll need to decide between yourselves who provides it. To be honest, 24/7 household service runs best with three toilet boys and one on semi-permanent nights, but as you know, your friends fell away at earlier stages, so you’ll deal with the situation.

That was a hell of a download, I know! Any questions, so far?’

Every sentence had been a fresh body blow, with physical recoil. They’re disorientated. It’s news requiring assimilation, but none of the developments will feel better following contemplation, I can guarantee it.

If questions do come, it’s always of interest to hear whether they’re philosophical, or plainly practical.

‘Five guys…’ Fin moans.

‘But rarely gathered together,’ I remind him.

‘For how long?’ Tom asks, bleating. ‘I mean, is there any point, whatsoever, in carrying-on?’

‘For first review at one month from today, Tom,’ I say.

‘So? And then? Another month, and then another six months, I suppose?’

‘We have new boys, starting the training you’ve just taken at day one. It’s possible that one or more of them will make the grade and relieve you. That’s how you’ve come to be progressed, after all.’

‘But just as likely, not,’ Tom the cynic says.

I pause for impact.

‘There are uncertainties, for sure, so your mindsets need to adapt, now, to a concept of permanence. Park the other possibilities – it’s easier that way, believe me.’

He’d been stunned into silence, but now there’s a whimpering from the young blond.

‘I don’t wanna eat more shit… I can’t eat more fuckin’ shit, every fuckin’ day!’ Fin snivels.

 ‘Honey, you’re a superstar eater! You can do this, so well,’ I enthuse.

‘There’s never any fuckin’ HOPE!’ Fin rages.

I think it’s best to move on, and not indulge him.

‘I want to let you know my expectations in the 24/7 gig, boys… well, pigs. This will be a step-up for you, not backwards or treading water. No days off, right?  When you become a toilet around the clock, it’s basically a lifestyle for you, okay?’

Deeply bowed heads shake.

‘You’ll be held to the highest standards of service, by all of us. Continual feedback and evaluation… you know the score. The first time I have disobedience reported, the Engaged privilege gets withdrawn: I’ll explain to you, later, how that lifeline button will work under the new arrangements.

The second time I have a problem with you – woe betide! – I will introduce an aspect of household service that disgusts even my broad mind, and which I’m only withholding on day one out of my soppy sense of compassion. That’s the second time you fuck-up, not the twentieth or one-hundredth, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Tom says. It’s as though he’s perceived fairness in my warning, and the continuation of an Engaged panic button is better than he hoped for, I suppose, but I expect it to be withdrawn within 48-hours. Bear in mind that the decision as to the acceptability of their performance is at my discretion, entirely.

‘How long have we got?’ Fin asks.

‘You start after dinner, tonight,’ I say. ‘There’s three in residence, overnight. Decide between you, ASAP, who’s going on-call from 23:00 to 07:00.’

‘Da fuck, man!’

I survey the naked youths, on the floor before me.

‘Look up at me,’ I tell them. Slowly, the nascent sewers comply.

‘Which of you have I broken irreparably, then?’ I demand to know.

They shoot a glance at each other, reluctant to move individually. Perhaps they’re imagining a scale of brokenness, and they look confused, but neither raises a hand though I give them twenty seconds to think about the proposition.

‘I see. And, which of you expects to be broken by 24/7 household toilet service?’ I follow-up, projecting my sense of fun in their dilemma.

Both of them snort, but neither are going to give me the pleasure.

‘Because – cards on the table time – you must know I’m trying to break you with shit, right? I’d be fine – happy, in fact – to push one, or both of you, over that cliff-edge.’

‘We can tell!’ Fin blurts, derisive.

‘And so, exactly as it was six weeks ago when you started learning, then as it is this evening and onwards: You drink, and you eat, and you try to smile for a feeder occasionally.

But also, if you happen to be presented with something new and nastier than you’ve seen before… you stifle the complaint and overcome your every instinct to resist, okay? Work hard for my extended family, and you can trust me to be as fair with you now as I was on day one, so we never get to that cliff-edge of brokenness, okay? That’s my promise.’  

‘What?’ Tom squeals, confused by my smoke and mirrors game.

‘Maybe in thirty days time we’ll be sat back here talking about your future again. Who knows!?’

Looking at them, there’s not much sign of appetite to carry-on, but they’ll probably talk to each other and rally themselves out of their immediate doom loop. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that toilet-trained boys become stiffly resilient.

‘Just a few hours to go, then,’ I remind them. ‘It’ll soon be time to get those heads and eyebrows shaved, and some steel chastity locked on. Yes, pigs?’

**

Their cell – soon to be former cell – is wired for sound and vision, recording constantly. They established this early in week one, after they’d been disparaging about my toilet training programme behind my back, or so they thought. It made me upset.  

Tom and Fin have two hours to fill, and not much to pack for their move to household quarters: toothbrush and paste; mouthwash**; safety razor and shaving cream; flannel; the print of their favourite photo each, selected under supervision from the galleries on their phones during day one, before the devices were confiscated ‘for safe keeping and return’. Plus, their individual performance books, updated daily over the last six weeks with their answers to the same question, repeating:

What have I done and learnt today, that’s new?

( ** Some feeders prefer a fresh-smelling toilet boy before first use, hence the mouthwash.)

In the vacuum the pair do as they’ve always done and worry each other unwittingly with speculative talk. Cradling a coffee mug, I watch a segment of interaction on screen:

F:  So, I’m trying to work-out whether this is gonna be easier, or harder, than the last couple of weeks?

T:  Really?

F:  Yeah, seriously – no parties, he said. No more gangs of eight, thank Christ! That was fuckin’ killing me!

T:  Yeah, I know how you feel. But I think this will be worse, Fin. Sorry!

F:  Hmm, I dunno. Remember, he said not all of the four guys actually stay there at the same time. Sounds as though that student guy could be away for, like, weeks at a time.

T:  It’s five men, though, not four.

F:  No, it’s… the two partners, the student son, and the business manager…

T:  And the boss himself!

F:  Ah fuck, yeah! Can’t believe I’d forgotten that.

T:  So, I suppose we have to look at typical best – and worst – case scenarios.

F:  Yeah? Sounds like a plan. What’s a best-case scenario look like, you reckon?

T:  Well, I think it will always be minimum two men in residence. They won’t let it go lower than that, I’m pretty certain. There’s not going to be any relief.

F:  Right, so – two guys means one eat for both of us, each day.

T:  That’s a minimum, though, because they will shit two loads sometimes, for sure!

F:  True. But not all the time. And what do you reckon the worst-case scenario looks like? I mean, basically – kill me now, huh!?

T:  I’m worried there’ll be long periods of four guys in the house, I guess. Look, it could easily be even worse than that – all five guys together – but he’s kind of guided us away from that, as a regular thing, I think?

F:  Yeah, he definitely played that down, I heard it.

T:  Yeah, so let’s say it’s four guys…

F:  Two eats each… per fuckin’ day!

T:  Minimum. I think it looks really bad, to be honest.  

F:  Because basically, two out of our three meals each day become shit-substituted. Fuck!

T:  Yeah, I’m really petrified about that. All nutrition has to come from one normal feed per day, which inevitably we’ll have no appetite for, because they’ll see to it.

F:  Fuck. Do you reckon it’s that bad, mate? Seriously?

T:  Eh, yeah! This is every single day for a fucking month, Fin. It would be relentless.

F:  Shit. And, by the way, what happens if there are three – or five – men around? That gives an uneven split between us, yeah?

T:  I mean, fair point. I guess we have to take the third man in turns….

F:  But… how do we know, in advance, who will be around the house? Did he say?

T:  No, I don’t think he mentioned it, but maybe they will let us know… give us a list or a rota or… something, so we can prepare?

F:  Maybe, but he didn’t promise that. Do you reckon we’ll always actually know who’s around?

T:  Well, sometimes he doesn’t mind answering questions, so maybe we should ask?

F:  Yeah, it can’t hurt.

T:  But, thinking about it, it’s possible – or likely, maybe – that we won’t know who’s arrived, and we’ll just have to respond to bells or something…. actually, I’d say that’s definitely likely.

F:  Fuck, man!

T:  It makes it difficult to plan, between us.

F:  Cunts! I hate it that they’d do that.

T:  They’d do it because it makes it difficult to plan between us!

F:  So, how da fuck do we manage five-man days!?

T:  I honestly don’t know… but Fin?

F:  Yeah?

T:  I’ve been thinking about something else the boss said.

F:  Yeah? What?

T:  Did you register his mention of the dogs?

F:  In passing. I didn’t think much of it. He said we’d be meeting them, I think?

T:  He did say that.

F:  And? What are you worried about?

T:  I don’t know any more than you do…

F:  But? Come on?

T:  I could be crazy… but… the particular way the dogs were mentioned as being a part of the household. I think it’s possible they’ll force some sort of… interaction… between us and the dogs.

F:  Holy fuck!

T:  I dunno, though.

F:  Like what? You’re shitting me, now! C’mon!

T:  I don’t even want to think about it… to say it.

F:  Fuck, man! You’re thinking sexual interaction!?

T:  I dunno. I just don’t know, Fin.

F:  Mate, come on!? NOT sex? What? What da fuck!?

T:  There’s been no sex since we started, has there? I thought he was certain to try and force us very early, but he hasn’t.

F:  I know, we both thought that motherfucker would try it on.

T:  But it never happened, did it? It’s just been piss and shit, always. Sorry – toilet service! Better get it right.

F:  Yeah, of course. But you reckon the boss might try sexing us with the fuckin’ hounds!?

T:  Maybe. You know as much as I do. But…

F:  Yeah?

T:  There’s another scenario, where he stays consistent with what we’ve been trained through so far. But he just extends the concept.

F:  Mate? What?

T:  I still think the mention of dogs was too… deliberate.

F:  Wait… no? You’re shitting me, right!? Please… tell me you’re just fuckin’ me along!?

T:  Well… I’ve been driven at least half-mad, and probably have the situation completely wrong. Like, he’s getting into my fucking head, y’know? Just forget about it, huh, and don’t waste energy on speculation, because there’s nothing we can do, anyway.  

F:  FUCK, Tom! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

**

Though I speak of them to their faces as just the latest batch, with boys preceding them and more to follow-on, in truth this process is a one-off. It’s a process of exploration, informed by customer feedback to my big question of six months ago: What form of sadistic torment should I develop, for film?

My clients have different fetishes, but their commonality is eroticism in watching boys pushed as hard as they can be, then harder again and again, until failure. Since the early days this has been an experiment in endurance, with Tom and Fin, but Tom is right in his supposition that the heat is about to be turned up.

I have a vision for their month-end which, unlike their rookie training to date, isn’t defined by specific inputs.

The vision of them I’ll craft, is a duo of boys marked not by athletic muscle but by haunting rib cages pushing at paper-thin, see-through skin. Eyes bulging prominent from sunken sockets, in faces narrowed and harrowingly gaunt. Limbs – all four of them – thin as sticks, where they’re terrified of my anger because one moderate shove from behind would have them tumbling into a sprawl of broken bones, from which they’d never recover.

The vision is one of filth drones, able to attach themselves by lips to twitching assholes in their sleep, practically: And, given the rigours of 24/7, that’s a state they’ll need to achieve damn quickly.

The vision is of pathetic, snivelling, crawling gratitude at the announcement of an afternoon off, for one of them.

The vision is five men in residence, greeted without a single tut, groan or curse but with proactive volunteering; enthusiasm feigned in weeks 1-3 of the new start, but somehow authentic by week 4. (It’s that drone thing).

The vision is a cumulative ocean of vomit and the live threat of a recycling mandate, ready to launch.   

The vision is their readiness – and we’ll do this at the back end of week one, when they’ve settled – to be sat down during a day of 4-man service and reminded of an extension I touched upon during their briefing. It will be an addition, not a substitute activity. Because they’re well-trained, obedient boys, the introduction will be deep end, so we’ll discuss frames of mind, but it’s going to be fine!

The vision is two pigs, in a month, weaned to the extent they neither ask for, nor expect, traditional food from one day to the next. By then, they’ll have a varied diet anyway.

But this is the future, and it will be a long month for Tom and Fin. If six weeks of boot camp felt like six months, this coming month will compress a year’s worth of character transformation.

It’s going to start tonight as a foretaste of what’s to come, with a hectic overnight – the truly filthy small hours – that shreds their nascent planning around teamwork and shift work. An overnight designed to have them at each other’s throats by 07.30, turning their fury inwards, opening the schism I will exploit within a few further hours by withdrawal of their solitary privilege, and then – a few days later – with my solemn advice of their additional duties.

The vision, is brokenness.