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 1st 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.
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