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. 

Pig Connor (2/2): MM/m; Anal; SCAT; fanfic vibe

Pig Connor - Chapter Two 

The poppers are branded Rush, in a black bottle. The label features a representation of lightning, in vivid yellow, promising striking impact from the contents. Boys about to do hard work for men, appreciate a masculine vibe from their amyl nitrite packaging.

I allow Kit a three-second sniff at each nostril, and he draws it deep. He’s on his back, head directly below the rim seat void. There are no restraints, holding him down. The popper high lasts three or four minutes, maximum, and I’m quick to introduce Kit’s first feeder.

We’ll call him AJ, though Kit won’t get to know the name of the guy dumping his bowel load, ass to mouth. Kit won’t speak, except if asked to do so.

From the floor, Kit’s appraisal of the guy walking to the stall nonchalantly is restricted to his legs, with a glimpse of his swinging dick and plump balls as he strides through the doorway, lost as the viewing angle closes. It’s sufficient, just, for Kit to register a man falling within his age of attraction range: 25-40. Yes, Kit goes for older guys but not seniors. His type is a big brother – or young daddy, maybe – with a hewn torso, who’s been around the block a bit and can put him through his paces. Little twinks and screaming queens aren’t Kit’s thing, at all.

Kit has been instructed not to tilt his head to check-out a newcomer better. Anonymity may be important to them, and Kit has no right to know who’s sitting for him.

It’s a smooth, shapely ass that casts shadow over Kit’s face as it settles on the toilet seat, shifting to find comfort, and the optimum position from which to aim shit bombs.

Now Kit can see some calf, if he swivels his eyes down in their sockets. Lightly furry calves, with unblemished skin.

This man smells good. Already there are pungent whiffs from his ass crack, but also, he has sprayed a rich aftershave with notes of the East. He’s super-clean, to start. The perineum on which Kit focuses is dusted with dark hair, but not forested. The hole has thick, pinkish lips, yet to wink at him.

The man speaks:

‘Hungry?’

Just the one word, but enough for Kit to deduce an Australian accent, probably. The tone was deep, though kindly enough in these circumstances of huge power imbalance.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit responds, lively. He’s liking this guy, already, and his deep reservations about serving men he hasn’t met, and can’t vet, are fading as his free dick stiffens.

No more words.

The feeding begins, with a couple of pre-emptive dilations of that cute ring, to prime the boy. Kit’s ready, of course: Be prepared is a toilet trainee motto, just as it is for a Boy Scout.   

A big, big, load of shit squeezed like Mr Whippy soft ice cream, from a dispenser in a van, during a scorching English summer.

Texture: even, throughout. Colour: mid-beige. The sort of shit I’ve classified previously to Kit as being creamy, because it’s important when training a boy to distinguish your logs from your soft stuff. I can give either, according to my preparatory diet, so Kit is well-trained for textural variety, but admits to preferring creamy turd.

The filth fills the poised mouth Kit brings close to the servery hatch by means of lifting his neck.

Kit’s cheeks bulge, extra-rosy. Though he’s not obliged to, AJ clenches his sphincters to stem the dump, granting the boy time to process – quickly! – and swallow.

‘More to come!’ the 29-year-old blond Aussie warns his eater, lest the boy imagine that was it.

And Kit feels compulsion to work for him, hard, as he knows how. By which I mean the jaws churn non-stop, the tongue helps to process, and the throat ripples like a rowing boat in a storm as shit starts to journey from mouth to stomach.

The technique, here, has been learnt well. I’ve expressed it to Kit as ploughing through. Dealing, at uncomfortable speed, with the sheer monotony of great piles of uniform turd. Leaving to one side the foul taste, any single foodstuff would be a struggle to ingest in this quantity, without variety or relief. No condiments – just this heap of soft mulch pressing at the cheeks and sticking between the teeth, tasting of over-cooked Brussels sprouts or damp socks, perhaps? The flavour isn’t the problem of the ‘chef’, of course – it’s for Kit to deal with, uncomplaining.

Ploughing through it: the skill of chewing and swallowing at pace, when it’s not nice, to give great service to a man who’d rather use a boy’s mouth for fun, than a conventional toilet. Being brave, and stoic, and submissive.

‘Okay, round two!’ AJ says, breezily.

Kit’s not finished processing round one but knows what he needs to do. Eyes on, and mouth at, the dump hole. Nothing else matters.  

The second instalment is approximately equal in quantity. A real mouthful. Kit’s jaws stop grinding. He’s re-composing himself – no panic.

I get down there, to his face, offering the popper bottle again like the generous coach I am. Kit sees me and nods for the stimulant. I manoeuvre the Rush bottle between his shit-smothered top lip and his septum, one nostril at a time whilst pinching the other, and Kit takes long inhalations of the magic performance juice.

‘Back to work!’ I warn him post-privilege, stern.

The heartthrob toils methodically, chewing and swallowing, rinse and repeat. His right hand moves to his semi-hard and he jerks it workmanlike, producing a string of precum immediately.

The over-stuffed cheeks deflate, and some of the tension unwinds from Kit’s rugby-built core. AJ has something important to say to his toilet for the evening:

‘Good boy!’ he purrs, with a Sydney-side jovial twang.

‘Good boy!’ I reinforce, in my metallic instructional tone.

It trips Kit into euphoria, hard. First, a tear wells in both eyes. Then, the gasp as his mouth clears the bulk of his meal and he self-accepts he’s crested the summit. The strong hand around his stubby ginger dick tugs harshly – violently, really – and Kit jerks himself to an orgasm that’s both explosive, and nightmarishly premature. Cum spurts as icing around his fingers, and to the insides of his thighs.

Kit’s eyes drift shut, and he moans around the remainder of his dirty meal, muffled by shit but comprehensible enough.

‘Fuuuuck!’

The boy keeps swallowing, at a reduced pace aligned with enthusiasm levels that have slumped 90% in post-orgasmic comedown. Now, it’s nothing but a hideous chore that has to be done.

Kit uses his brown tongue to prise shit from the accessible gaps between his teeth, and wipes that muscle over his splattered lips.

‘Toilet paper duty, huh?’ AJ says, as instruction rather than option.

And Kit knows it’s time to retrieve stray detritus hanging from the man’s hole, carefully with his curled tongue that’s feeling fatigue. Then, to push his Nick Nelson face into AJ’s ass and get that dumpster clean as a fucking whistle, wiping the tongue lavishly around the ass lips, then poking it with force up to the sphincter: lapping, and digging for dirt, and retrieving, and swallowing harder-set turd until AJ believes he’s had time on a high-pressure bidet.

Kit’s toilet paper duty is fulfilled mechanically, if thoroughly. 

The Aussie departs the scene with as much vim as his arrival, knowing he’s had his time sitting over Kit. There’s no thank you in either direction, nor any acknowledgement for 17 minutes of sewer duty performed competently by Kit. No ‘see you later!’ or ‘cheers, mate!’, though Kit had his good boy uplift, earlier, and that will have to suffice. It’s more than enough, from a feeder in a dump’n’go arrangement.  

As AJ leaves, Kit gets further, fleeting, visual insights on the man who just used him. He’s gym-trained and lean with a bronze tan – butt aside! 5’9”, maybe? His upper back is lightly freckled, and his hair, tousled. Close enough to the surfer trope.

AJ left his own cum over Kit’s chest, and chin, in hefty wads whilst toilet paper duty was performed on him.

A question for Kit, later, is whether he thinks AJ is the kind of man he’d have liked to get to know better and maybe go for a cosy drink with. Not that he’ll get that opportunity, because the purpose of this evening is to test Kit’s strength of character when service must be given without the bonds of association he’s known with me.

And now – after a short break – Kit will be asked to dig much deeper, as the ethos of anonymous toilet service is explored less compassionately.

***

Pepto-Bismol is retailed in shockingly pink bottles, as though it were a Peppa Pig merchandising spin-off. But the only pig in the building today is Kit, taking a role Alice Oseman would be stunned by.

I’ve asked him how his tummy feels, following AJ’s cramming load, and Kit says it’s turbulent. Hence the soother which I pour straight from the bottle into his open mouth, without much heed for dosage guidelines. Kit remains flat on his back, under the rim chair. With the timings, it’s not worth him getting up.

He burps, appreciatively, as the medicine goes down. I’ve always said there’s nothing more important to me than a toilet boy’s health, and with the pink sauce I’m role modelling concern for Kit’s welfare. Amusingly, his burp stinks of filth.

‘I have news, by the way!’ Kit says, randomly.

‘Oh?’

‘Keep it to yourself, please?’ he requests.

‘Of course!’

‘So… there’s going to be a Heartstopper movie, instead of a fourth series. And, they’ve asked me to take an executive producer role!’

Kit’s beaming. He’s very chuffed, and did well to hold back the news for this interlude. In fact, it’s an odd time to bring it up. Or maybe not?

‘Wow! That’s fantastic!’ I enthuse. And he deserves a congratulatory kiss, so I lean down for a quick peck of his cheek.  

My second recommendation to aspiring toilet boys – after staying healthy – is that they thrive professionally. I guide them to find a career they enjoy and then take steps to progress within it. Sometimes I’m able to open doors for them, with my contact book. Toilet service must become something they obsess over, but it’s not the whole of them – usually – so other time must be spent productively, improving themselves as rounded boys.

You’ll remember I vowed not to distract Kit whilst he was playing Romeo on Broadway, though it meant several months without training, for him. I want Kit to be successful and ever more celebrated.

‘I think we’ll shoot in the autumn,’ Kit continues, mulling the detail. ‘Though, there will be loads of work for me beforehand in pulling it all together, with Alice and Netflix.’

‘I’m sure,’ I say, wondering if he’ll detect my waning enthusiasm for this distracting conversation.

‘Honestly, I didn’t think we’d get a fourth series, and I’d kind of moved on from Heartstopper, anyway. And I didn’t want to get typecast as Nick.’

‘A-ha.’

‘So it was pretty fucking surprising to get the call about the movie. Totally leftfield.’

He looks back to me, sees my stern face, and twigs.

‘Sorry… am I holding things up? Are you ready to go again?’ Kit falters.

‘Yes,’ I say, bluntly. The understanding, after all, was that his two feeds would happen back-to-back, and whilst a short period of reflection between men is okay, I now have an impatient guy on the other side of the Bathroom door.

‘Sorry,’ Kit repeats.

‘How are you feeling, about the second meal?’ I ask.

He takes a few seconds of thinking time.  

‘It’s madness. Fucking wild!’ Kit says, serious.

And now I see why he bought-up the acting at a bizarre time. He’s anxious and feeling flighty, like he might not wish to go through with it. Kit wanted to divert himself. It’s important not to dismiss his concern.

‘Honey, it’s right that you’re nervous because, after all, this is a lot to ask of you and, again, you’re going to a brave new place in your learning,’ I say, spreading the empathy thick.

‘Yeah, exactly that…’ Kit starts.

‘But, let me say, I have full confidence in your ability. So, it’s just a question of you grinding this one out. You know exactly what to do.’ Now, I’m getting more directive.

Kit purses his lips. Involuntarily, he emits a rasping fart that envelopes the stall with his noxious gas.

‘And you’d be disappointed, if I said…’

‘Disappointed, let down, and fucking embarrassed, having set this up for you, Kit,’ I tell him.

He gives me a shallow nod. There’s no doubt, the kid would have taken a get-out if I’d offered it.

‘I thought so,’ Kit says. ‘But, I just wanted to…’

‘To let me know how tough you’re finding the prospect of a second feed, after you’ve shot your load too early?’ I suggest, moving things along.

‘Yeah, that,’ Kit says.

‘I understand. But this is important for me. Well, and for you, of course!’

***

Graffitied on the white tiles of the stall, in marker pen, are certain messages to give the toilet boys who use this place food for thought, as they contemplate another cruddy meal. My eyes alight on two of the motivational lines, written legibly and appropriate for Kit’s situation:

‘You can always give more; you can always go lower.’

‘You don’t need to see his face or know his name, to make him happy.’

 Kit’s familiar with the graffiti, but sometimes his return visits reveal fresh scrawling:

‘Make me PROUD.’

Watch closely and you’ll see the kid’s eyes dart to the walls, now and then. Note, these aren’t the lewd vibes of the cottage, but serious philosophy for eaters. Warnings, in fact, if read in conjunction with my declared intent.

The second man, Yue Shi, has suffered for his fetish by making himself unwell with a plate of food well past it’s use-by date. Egg, fish and rice, fuelled by a side of dates and banana. He’s desperate and the wait outside has been agony for him, hopping from foot to foot whilst Kit blathered with me about the leaf show movie.   

Feeder two is a Hong Konger of only 5’5”, but has built himself into a powerfully squat unit of a man. Yue is possessed of a dominant (verging sadistic) nature, giving me his early enthusiasm for ‘working with’ Kit. He cancelled holiday plans and gave himself a nasty tummy, to be here this evening.

Yue’s jawline is one of stone-like straight cuts and acute angles, giving him the forbidding appearance of a cartoon villain. For better or worse, Kit won’t see it – not even a snatched glimpse through the viewfinder of his toilet seat – because Yue wears a full latex gimp hood, with eyelets and a generous void for his mouth.   

Again, Kit is reduced to watching calves move from the doorway towards his stall, and this time they’re stockier, though smoother.  

A pellet of spit flies through the seat into Kit’s left eye and he flinches, on the floor. By the time he’s overcome his startlement, the spitter is squirming his muscular ass on the rim, and speaking.

‘Fucking faggot pig!’ says the voice.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit answers, reedy, but it was just an observation from Yue, not a call for response.  

‘I expect you to eat everything, mouth to ass. No spillage, no mess, no complaint,’ says the feeder. It’s an arrogant tone of voice, impatient with the little people it encounters in life. A touch of small man syndrome, perhaps.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit volleys his positivity, but as I watch him, I see the look spread across his face.

You notice the look quite often, on toilet boys undertaking moderate to difficult late-stage training, as with Kit this evening. The look is their realisation demands are being stepped-up quite radically, and that they’re about to be pushed hard. The look is a young toilet boy preparing to feel overwhelmed, and abused, and upset. When you see the look, it’s good news, because you know the boy is taking his situation seriously, as he must.

I feel I should add a thought of my own, not least to remind Kit I’m still here in the room beside him, ambitious for him:

‘Complete service, Kit. Nothing less,’ I call.

‘Yes, boss! Yes, Sir!’ he reassures us both.

***  

(I wrote, then redacted, then edited away a great deal in this section, because there’s gross and then there’s truly fucking horrific, and nobody needs to read that. Only the three of us will know, and remember, the full extent of the demand Yue placed upon his sewer.)

Yue’s induced food poisoning gave him diarrhoea, but that’s not an excuse for Kit.

Yue opts not to help Kit with sphincter squeezes, to moderate his purging flow, and that’s his right though Kit is used to more give-and-take in his training.

Kit is familiar with hard logs and creamy turd, like AJ’s, but is new to the squits. That’s why boys have training, though, because everything is new until you’ve tried it! I’ve removed most references to the texture and look of Yue’s output, but think of lukewarm liquid soup, flecked with colourful yet indeterminate vegetable matter. Then imagine a whole tureen of the stuff, dispensed relentlessly; cruelly.

There’s nothing much to chew so Kit’s job is, simply, to swallow, and he tries. I can see him trying and winning, initially.

The boy supposes the nice man will give him a break, as I tended to, but in reality this is Kit’s first time under the toilet seat with a truly bad man and a bully. I mean, I’ve modelled those traits and Kit got angry with me and frustrated with himself, several times, but – as he well knows – there’s a difference between acting a part, and authenticity. At the end of the day, I’ve been the coach willing to put an arm around his shoulders after new challenges, and offer constructive feedback. Yue is not that familiar man.

Kit tries to keep his mouth adjacent to the asshole of his feeder. It reduces the risk of spillage, at the cost of excessive force of flow.

My youngster makes himself unwell, gulping that diarrhoeal load at speed. It’s a lot, on a full stomach (of shit), and I can see his crippling cramps. Instinctively, his hands paw at his wretched tummy.

Kit and I have spoken, before, about toilet boys making themselves ill through their work. It’s a topic any responsible toilet master must broach. I’ve encouraged Kit to understand that feeling ruined, for a bit, is a trade-off that must be accepted in the interests of his self-development, not to mention the satisfaction of his feeder.

But I’ve assured Kit that nobody should give or accept destructive behaviours. It’s not always easy to know where a line must be drawn, of course, so I’ve suggested to Kit he take a relatively passive approach to health stuff, falling back on the experience of me and, in future, other men who might feed him and judge themselves where stretching goals end, and very high risk begins.    

The mouth – briefly emptying as fast as it was re-filled with hosed diarrhoea – is now filling faster than it empties through swallowing.

There’s a chaotic few seconds of spluttering, then choking. Kit’s core rattles.

The boy is tearful but, as one of the graffiti pieces says:

‘Tears only make a boy HOTTER.’

Kit catches my gaze. This is unfair, he thinks – I know Kit, and his self-imposed limits, so well – therefore maybe I’ll help him?

‘Plough on,’ I tell him.

It’s no fun, anymore. A flaccid dick, no poppers, and some unknown feeder guy behaving like a cunt, and not the considerate dominant of Kit’s spunky dreams.   

Kit chokes hard, drowning on diarrhoea. This is such valuable learning for a boy of (just) 21.

The colour drains from his face, but still he’s trying to swallow the gross squits being fed to him. A glorious losing battle. As another of the graffiti mottos says:

‘You can breathe when he’s finished.’

But Kit thinks he’s expiring and wants to breathe NOW! He turns his head away, and what remains of Yue’s runny load splatters over the side of his cheek, hair, bombs an ear, and cascades down his neck. It’s the mess that was specifically to be avoided. 

‘FUUUUCK!’ Kit shouts. It’s a drawn-out howl of despair. I’ve heard the boy at volume, but never this loud.

Through much of his training pathway I encouraged communication from Kit, because two-way exchanges are the most effective way to teach and learn. But I’d told him this evening – with other men – was different, and that they’d not want to hear from him. So it’s surprising he felt the need to rattle the door with his guttural yell.   

That’s it, for Yue. The sitter rises, exchanging a high five with me before he leaves.

‘I’ll address this, don’t worry,’ I say, nodding down at the wreck coiling foetal under the rim chair.

‘Yeah, wasn’t quite on-point, huh?’ Yue suggests.

‘A long way off,’ I agree. It’s all fine for Kit to hear, because it’s true.

‘Thanks for having me though, bro!’ Yue brightens. 

‘Pleasure!’ I say, and we back slap like dudes.

When the door closes, there’s privacy again.

‘Three minutes, to get your shit together!’ I tell Kit.

***

I’m going to describe a pose, carefully, and I want you to imagine it.

The soccer team, by virtue of an 89^th minute goal from their opponents, have just lost a cup final match that meant everything to them. Their star player remains on the pitch. He’s on his knees, and they’re planted wide – about twice the width of his broad shoulders. His back is bolt upright. His neck is cocked back, so he looks beyond the upper tiers of the stadium, to the empty sky. His hands are clasped over his forehead. He’s saying something, to himself, but the tilt of his neck makes it impossible to lipread and, anyway, it’s unlikely to be language that could be broadcast in family viewing time.    

Well, that’s Kit Connor in the stall, in the time I’ve given him to compose himself, except that he’s naked, oozing filth from one side of his head, and sweating rather harder than that soccer star who’s run his nuts off for 90 minutes. Also, you know how thick and fit Kit’s folded thighs look.

***   

‘I don’t wanna do this anymore!’ Kit whines.

He’s sat on his ass at the bottom of the airbed now, hands on his scrunched knees, head bowed so far it almost touches them.

Fine. This is not the first scene Kit has ended with a wish not to return ever again. He didn’t mean it then, and I suspect he doesn’t mean it now, but it’s the best evidence of a hard session when boys swear off the fetish as a first response.

‘Tell me…’ I start.

‘FUCK, that was nasty!’ Kit talks over me. I don’t think he even heard me, so no rudeness was intended. He’s in unpacking mode, lost in himself. ‘Like, WHAT THE FUCK!? What even was that last guy!? FUCK, that was hard! Like, he was massively unwell, and he didn’t even pace it for me!’

‘The texture? The taste?’ I probe, softly, because I feel Kit’s in the mood to unload it candidly.

‘Just… a different level of grossness on the taste, literally. And it was blasting so hard, I couldn’t…’

 ‘A harder ask, than man one?’ I suggest.

‘FUCK… that was so far beyond anything I’ve done before, and I thought I’d…’

‘You thought you’d seen everything, at 21?’ I say, dismissively.  

‘FUCK… that’s the end of this, honestly!’ Kit tells me a second time.

Our conversation is broken by Kit’s need to puke. A fierce eruption, striking at him with next to no warning. This is why the surfaces of the stall, plus the airbed, are wipe down. Two major heaves followed by a mini heave, and he’s done bar some flecked drool hanging from his chin, for now.

Toilet boys sick-up routinely. It’s not a big deal – it’s part of their process – and as their toilet Master I don’t remark on it at all: no sympathy, and certainly no offer of a bowl to catch it. Business as usual. Move on.

‘Mark yourself out of ten, as a toilet boy today,’ I tell him.

Kit doesn’t lift his head.

‘Fuck,’ he says, calmer now.  

‘Come on,’ I chivvy. ‘Tell me how useful you were, as a pure sewer.’

He’s self-evaluated before, for me. It’s cathartic, but so hard for him to tell me.

‘Nine and a half for effort… eight and a half for performance, across my two feeders,’ Kit proffers, subdued.

‘A-ha,’ I say. The kid senses the challenge in my tone. I’m standing over him, tall. I’m the guardian of his standards.

‘Not quite there?’ he asks of me.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Fuck… it was my first feed with new guys, and my first double-feed, yeah?’ Kit tries to justify himself.

‘And you’d like allowances made for that, yeah?’ I push him.

The boy lifts his head a fraction. A step back from the brink. He knows it’s time for a measure of self-criticism.

‘I don’t think allowances should be made, no,’ Kit says, humbled.  

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Because I wouldn’t accept that, and you don’t need that, and you know it.’

He gives me a shallow nod of acceptance.

‘So, I think eight out of ten for effort, and six for the more important performance score. You heard how I had to apologise to your second feeder? I can see why you’re thinking of quitting and sticking to acting.’

‘Jesus!’ Kit gasps at my numbers. ‘This whole thing sounds like it’s been waste of time, doesn’t it?’ he suggests, battered.

I move forward two steps, towering over his broken form.  

‘Stand up,’ I tell him. No optionality.

***

On his way up, Kit projectile-puked (second time) down his front and mine. That’s how close we’d drawn together, and I enjoyed the mess, though it prompted me to keep my distance for a bit. He will vomit once more, shortly, then feel much better until tomorrow, when he’ll suffer a serious episode of toilet boy hangover.

Wobbling, light-headed, Kit has formed himself into the pose I ask for most frequently: Feet apart – 1.5x times his shoulder breadth – back straight; chest puffed; hands clasped behind his neck with fingers interlocking; elbows pushed backwards, level with his skull; furry pits out for his boss. Neck straight.

Head to toe, the kid is coated in a glossy film of fetid sweat. This is usual for boys who’ve fed twice, or more. My warrior looks resplendent.   

‘Eye contact!’ I have to remind him.

We’re facing off. He’s finding it hard to keep still, though I’ve told him to quit his shifting and squirming. I wait for compliance. What I have to say is important, and deserving of his respectfulness.

My tone is measured.

‘Four out of ten, or less, is waste of time territory. Eight out of ten is near the mark. But your six out of ten means great potential, subject to further investment in training, and open-mindedness.’

‘Sir!’ Kit registers it, reciprocating my calmness.

‘And actually, I feel I’ve been too harsh with you. Call it six and a half.’

‘Yeah?’ he says, mistakenly sensing an appetite for informality between us.

‘Yes….?’ I let it hang.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit corrects himself.

‘Thank you. So – pulse check – how do you feel now, about eating for other men, without the same degree of connection we enjoy?’

The boy sighs and makes to let his neck droop but pulls it back up with a jerk, before I need to tell him. His lack of off-the-cuff emotive response suggests he feels some complexity.

‘At the end of the day, I feel like I get it,’ Kit says, pained.

‘Get what?’ I ask.

‘Well, I get that eating for other guys was the obvious next step for me, to go any lower with this.’

‘Yep!’ I encourage him.

‘And doing that, competently, pleases both the guy and you, as my boss, so that’s a win-win, right?’

‘Exactly,’ I say.

‘But… can I say something bluntly?’ Kit asks.

‘Of course you can. It’s cards on table time.’

Kit clears his clogging throat. The noise sounds theatrically overdone. It’s not a fucking casting call. He has something I don’t want to hear.

‘So, doing toilet service for other guys… random guys… when I don’t know what they’ve got for me – like that second guy – and there’s no talk, and no coaching from them, and not even a thank you when I’ve fed from them…’ Kit grinds himself to a halt.

‘Yes?’ I tease it out of him, gently.

‘So, it’s not the same as eating for you, like we’ve done over all those months, step by step.’

‘No?’

‘No. I find it much harder, overall, though the first guy seemed okay. Because if there’s basically no contact, it just becomes shit’n’go, and that… well, I dunno.’

‘Tell me, Kit,’ I push him.

The actor’s forehead has adopted a consuming frown.

‘So, it’s not how we started together, training. It makes me feel as though I have literally no purpose or interest to anyone, except for my mouth and throat. And maybe I’ve been really naïve, because you did try to explain things, I admit, but… I don’t know… I accepted there would be changes in how it felt, obviously, but even so.’  

I nod at the monologue. I want to help Kit through this time of revelation, very much, but he needs to work with me.

‘Of course, you’ll always have me by your side. I’m not abandoning you, Kit!’ I say.  

‘And it’s just so hard!’ he continues, in flow. ‘And I think that’s part of the reason I struggled with the second guy. Plus the ultra-grossness of it, obviously.’

‘But I think you understand, Kit, that unexpected grossness will always be a part of exceptional solids service, delivered?’

The boy sniffs.

‘There’s no point complaining, is there? he suggests, though it doesn’t sound as though he agrees with himself.  

‘No point at all,’ I close it down.

‘There’s just… I dunno… a different dynamic with other guys, when I don’t know what I’m getting and it’s all over, so quickly.’

‘I get that,’ I concede. ‘It’s why I tested you, and why I upgraded that six score to a six and a half. But I think you need more help, in changing your conception of self.’

‘Huh?’ he asks, confused.

‘Okay, so it’s what we’ve been working on together from day one, in fact, but never spelt out explicitly. I think, strongly, that you’ll come to find peace in a place where you have one important obligation to men, but they have no obligation or responsibility to you, at all.’

Kit steps back, and I allow it. His hold of the specified pose has become loose, and his rolling tears wet his puke on the floor by his feet.

‘Fuck, Sir!’

‘And only a coward would back-out now. You’ve come so far and made me so proud of you, much of the time.’

‘Sir, please.’

‘So, what I’d propose is that we focus your training, from now, on that area you’re struggling with, mentally.’

‘Other guys?’ Kit checks.

‘Other guys, and the kaleidoscope of complexity and rollercoaster of emotion that comes with random humans!’ I echo him. ‘Time for some new key words in your development, for you to memorise. I’m thinking anonymity, thankless, extremity, impersonal…  oh, and one I like very much, which is drone.’

‘Holy shit!’ Kit recoils.

‘But always with me as your long-time boss, there for you. And your reward at the end of a long day.’

‘FUCK!’ he’s vociferous again. Suddenly vascular at the biceps and thighs. Temples throbbing.

‘Is that a goodbye then, Kit?’ I serve the ultimatum.

‘Sir…!’

‘A waste of our time, as you said? So long, and thanks for the dirty memories?’

‘No, Sir, but…;

‘Because when we first met, you told me you wanted to become a greedy pig. And my job is to hold you accountable to your goal. But my judgment is that you could be plenty greedier!’

‘Boss, you can’t expect me….’

‘And I’m looking for a global hero, now, with the most open mind and willingness to up his work rate. A boy who’s right for the thankless jobs, and where…. I think this will become necessary, because of your profile… Kit loses his given name and operates simply as Toilet, 21.’

I’ve pommelled him mute. No further objections, for now. Stony face.

‘Now, time for our shit-kiss!’ I tell him, and pull him onto me by his limp forearms for the indispensable lingering finale, common to every session I’ve worked Kit through, since July ‘23.  

***