Chapter Two
I’ve explained my intentions, regarding Freddie, but what of
his hopes and fears? After all, he’s read my accounts of facility life, seen
the place (after pestering me for a tour), and got to know my dark side better
than he knows his close friends.
Strange as it may seem, we’ve not discussed how Freddie will
please me, in the future. Ages ago he tried to go there, but I shut down that
angle of questioning.
As it stands, Freddie isn’t my captive and isn’t compelled
to meet with me. He could sever contact, but – knowing all he does, and not
being a stupid boy – he’ll realise that ghosting me is unwise. I could find him
easily enough and have him scooped-up on my behalf, for use, as so many
unfortunate boys are.
Anyway, Freddie doesn’t want to cut me out of his
life, because I’ve become the driving force in it. He’s continuing to learn –
to thrive – under my wing, and the level of danger I present is precisely what
keeps him interested.
The kid has said to me, like it’s his obsession:
‘I want to be pushed, hard.’
And I’ve done him the courtesy of taking him at his word.
None of this means that Freddie hopes to become a facility
boy; worked until his end with just a slim chance of winning freedom. He
accepts it as a possibility, and maybe even expects it of me. But does he want
that fate?
Consider an alternative possibility, namely, that having
become deeply implanted in my world, and knowing that running away would be a
high risk decision, perhaps Freddie believes the best way to prevent his
abduction is to continue showing-up for me, delivering, and delighting me. This
way, maybe I’ll think of him as a talented friend and not an inevitable victim?
Having swerved the facility for two years, I’m certain there’s a part of
Freddie that believes he’s working on another plane, a cut above the sort of
boys I select for the culling process.
He's wrong, of course, because his assessment of me and my
single-mindedness has become warped by our frequent incident-free sessions.
There’s no alternative path for favoured boys, but I haven’t told him
that, and I’ve not threatened Freddie with the facility. Let boys become lost
in their harmless fantasies of exceptionalism – you can nurture those fantasies,
to a point.
No. The basic training Freddie has undertaken with me, age
18 thru 20¼, was focused on equipping him with the character necessary to
endure in my facility, where the other boys making up his quad of recruits will
be a little older: 23 to 29 years of age is my usual range. When his nightmare
begins, the extent of Freddie’s disadvantage will be tiny, compared to
snatching him at age 18 and almost virgin.
***
‘Stand up, then, so we can change the sheet,’ I tell him.
And when Freddie gets to his feet, straightening cleanly to
his full 183cm, there’s always a bit more height in him than I expected. It’s an
illusion: he topped-out last year, but he continues to get bigger in the girth
of his limbs and the puff of his chest, elevating his physical presence.
He’s growing into quite a boy… but still, with his back to
me now, this boy oozes cum from multiple providers, down the solid inner flanks
of his thighs. The seed trails wiggle, losing momentum not far from his knees, where
they dry in white scales. Back at the source – Freddie’s hole – remnants of man
juice bubble lazily, and pop without noise. It’s a cum dump experience
for my youngster, though I wouldn’t call him that to his face: it’s best to
keep loaded terms out of training routines.
Freddie’s ass mounds have built-out and firmed-up, since
I’ve known him. If anything, they’ve bulked proportionately more than his other
key muscle groups, such that the eye is drawn to the pressing curves in the
seat of his trousers, when worn. This evening the globes are exhibited, because
Freddie’s at work, and with their power they should be exuding the masculine
authority of a boy who swaggers when naked. But the picture I see is more
complicated.
The kid has been railed by nine men, and it shows across his
butt cheeks, variously manhandled, slapped and clawed-at by his tops, whose
greed for penetration ran ahead of Freddie’s speed in positioning himself for
his next set piece of passivity.
Freddie’s toughness makes it unlikely the boisterous marks
hurt him much, but they’ve sullied the perfect pale canvas of his ass. He’s
wearing his souvenirs of time spent as a pass-around fuck toy.
I’ll get Freddie to help me swap the sheet he’s being fucked
on. Turning the chore into a two-person task, needlessly, will trigger a
further little reminder of his status. But… his rear pulls me like a
magnet, and I find myself cupping then kneading his mounds whilst he stays
planted on the spot, modelling a learning point from the protocol training I’ve
delivered.
A sense of regret washes over me. His teenage years have
slipped away, like his butt muscle through my spread and trawling fingers. This
is a boy who could withstand more than I’ve asked him to take, and he deserves a
higher tier of challenge, with real jeopardy. I could have escalated earlier,
but now he’s 20, and I’m finding insufficient fulfilment. Anyway – pull
yourself together, Ryan! Take charge.
‘I’m going to fuck you, now,’ I whisper, into his left ear.
‘Aww fuck, Sir!’ he murmurs back to me, delayed.
Hammering by the boss wasn’t in his programme and will ruin
Freddie’s precious down time, between the two halves of this fuck fest. The
opportunity for him to grab a quick shower in the ensuite bathroom will be
sacrificed. It’s going to be Sir’s shaft, then straight onto the next cycle of
top men. It’s asking a lot of Freddie, but then, he’s not 17¾ anymore, and I’m
thinking of a boy who’s ready to jump a threshold.
‘Yeah? Gonna stretch yourself out for me, too?’ I ask, like
he has agency.
‘Sir….’ he starts, then peters out. The boy has pivoted to
face me, with his nonplussed look.
‘Freddie?’ I probe.
‘I am SO tired…’
‘Yeah?’ I say, but my mind has raced ahead, to sweet hole.
‘Come here,’ I say, opening my arms wide, encouraging him to land on me for
solace, again.
I wrap an arm around his back, soothing Freddie by hand over
that broad expanse of flesh, undulating gently with muscle. And I move my head
to one side of his, nuzzling-up close and searching for his ear which blushes
at my approach, before I’ve so much as touched it.
I nibble, letting my incisors press down upon his pink
cockle shell. Then I move a fraction, along the curve at the top of his ear,
and bite again. It’s calibrated to mark him and send a burst of pain, without
causing damage, whilst I’m hugging him tight. Freddie moderates his responses,
issuing low gasps and softly spoken curses, but not attempting to jerk away
from my carnivorous advances.
The boy is salty to my taste buds. I linger, using-up his
time, teasing him with my humid breath against his cheek as I threaten to make
a meal of him. He knows I might, for real, though this is just a bit of fun, yeah?
My hand that strokes Freddie’s back moves to his ass mounds,
where I switch-up the intrusiveness of my attention. I slap his rump, just the
once, but the crack of the meaty collision rings loud.
‘Fuck time, for you,’ I say. ‘Bodyguard position. Face the bed. Let’s get you nailed.’
***
I was Freddie’s second fuck, and now I’m pounding him for his several dozenth time – we’d stopped keeping count of his adventures before his 19th birthday, so estimation is now involved.
Having taken him then, and now, I’m able to reflect upon the
changes I’ve caused:
Then, excruciatingly tight; now, slipping open
for me like a familiar glove onto the fingers, relaxing to an assured grip
around my dick.
Then, pained tears and scrunched grimaces as I
entered him; now, just the one sigh as I part his sphincter, and dry
eyes that glaze only when I plow him deep, and fast.
Then, leaving me to do all the work; now a
more responsive bottom, pushing his ass back, feeling for my hips to connect
with, working his rectum around my shaft to heighten my pleasure, when he
remembers.
Then, a naïve teenager; now a boy of 20, of
whom I have unreasonable expectations.
For what worth, Freddie still doesn’t like/enjoy getting ass
fucked, so that hasn’t changed from then to now. I asked him
again, recently, and he confirmed it. But he’s 100% invested in the mindset of
doing stuff with pride and expertise, even if he hates it. That is a
change – well, a maturity of outlook, I suppose – since he came under my
mentorship.
When a man names a sexual position to suit their preference, Freddie knows to arrange
himself suitably for imminent penetration, like a good boy. I’ve encouraged him
to absorb encyclopaedic knowledge of anal bottoming, in all its varieties.
I don’t know Freddie’s favourite way to get fucked, because
I’ve never asked him. For the both-standing fuck in the bodyguard
position, Freddie puts himself against the long side of the bed and raises one
leg, resting that knee on the mattress top. As he refines his stance, I slip on
my black latex glove – left hand only – and the kid sees me from the corner of
a swivelled eye that’s always keeping tabs on my intentions, wary.
‘Awww shit,’ he groans. ‘Fuck!’
‘Shush,’ I tell him off. ‘Gonna be okay, yeah?’
Honestly, I hadn’t intended to use Freddie’s ass at this
time. But I’m opportunistic – he knows that – and my decision to stuff the
glove in a back pocket before visiting my toy boy was a deliberate one… just in
case.
I’m not using lubricant. Those men who’ve taken Freddie
before me have left him squelchy enough to cope without a skin of oil on my
dick, and I need it to be a bit of a struggle for the recipient – no
easy rides, at this stage.
Freddie’s rectum is a quagmire to my prick. Layers of
vintage cum ease my first entry, then bog me down with their clingy stickiness.
I’m joined with him, my front pressing into his back with both my hands splayed
over his slick abs, pushing the boy onto me by his core as my cock thrusts in
the opposite direction.
Being slightly taller than Freddie, he flexes on tiptoe to
align his hole with my shaft: it’s a practised move for him, these days, done
on autopilot so fluently I fail to notice his silky implementation. Balancing
on the front of his sexy feet will become more uncomfortable, the longer I make
him endure.
We’re almost one form. I slam into him, from the off, with
the clock ruling-out the indulgence of foreplay.
My furry groin slaps at his smooth ass. He’s hot (in every
sense), and still manages to look flustered when on the receiving end of a
savage dicking – it’s endearing, as today’s gang of tops will concur.
His doesn’t feel like a teenage ass, anymore, and we mourn the
loss of that fresh grip coupled with nervous reluctance to put out. What I’m
fucking, instead, is a more sophisticated hole that bucks and twists in harmony
with my prong, sympathetic to my pleasure but feeling, always, like it’s an ass
that’s operating close to its current limits of deployment.
I’m in leather boots, worn with thick socks. My left toecap
scrapes at Freddie’s ankle, and the fur on my chest slides over the sweat of
his back as I press him, physically and in respect of his performance. He’s my
young boy, and I expect him to give it all up for me.
There are few words. This is too demanding for Freddie to give
a running commentary, but when I switch angles unexpectedly and skewer the boy
from a direction he finds awkward, he lets me know:
‘AHHH…. Fuck!’
As he copes, I arc my head to kiss the back of Freddie’s
neck. It’s the lightest of touches, my lips only swiping his tense flesh as
they pass by, but I feel his electric jolt as the union registers.
I move my gloved hand to Freddie’s sex. I squeeze the whole
package – cock and balls – as one soft collection, and Freddie whimpers as he
rises further on his toes. Then I tug at his neglected dick – always a sideshow
during his training, if that – to plump it and prime it, but no more. He’s dry,
at his crown; the only part of his body that’s arid to my touch.
My critical hand shifts to Freddie’s throat, running
individual fingers down an invisible centre line, and over the hump of his
Adam’s apple. I’m being gentle; loving.
‘No…’ Freddie whispers.
‘…is a word we try not to use, huh?’ I remind him.
‘Sir…’ he says, imploring me to hear him out.
‘Gonna be okay, yeah?’ I tell him. ‘But it’s needed.’
The closure of my sentence coincides with a ramping-up of
the anal intensity I’m dealing. I’ve got rough.
I’m self-satisfied with my stamina, at more than twice
Freddie’s 20 years, pile-driving the kid to my hilt, super fast and relentless,
not easing off even fractionally to allow him to catch-up with what I’m
inflicting. I wish I could deliver such an energetic performance on the tennis
court, but I’m more competitive in the bedroom, with a suitable boy.
Sustaining the assault I lean onto Freddie, forcing him over
at his waist and I copy his bend, so we’re both tilting across the bed. He’s
panting hard, chest thumping, managing just the odd punctuated word in response
to my control of him:
‘Jeeesus….Awww….Fuck….Shit….Ahhhh….Sir….No….FUCK….Damn….Please!’
There’s an odour from his ass, of stale cum heated to
simmering by my friction. He’d arrived dabbed with the Emporio Armani scent, Stronger
With You, but had sweated it off by fuck no.3, after which he smelt simply
raw and 20.
The endgame nears, so now, instead of massaging the boy’s
throat with my gloved digits, I begin to press at his windpipe, at once brutal.
There’s no point doing this half-heartedly.
Freddie knew this was coming, when he saw the glove. I’ve
used the prop before, building an association. That’s what caused him to feel
upset, or hard done by, a moment ago.
I keep pushing – two or three fingers held close, adjusting
the application of pressure minutely, whilst watching his face.
He gets snotty in an abundant, near-liquid way. He’s a
miserable boy.
The heaving of Freddie’s chest becomes heavier, but with abandoned
rhythm and more panic in his cycle. This is a moment of engineered chaos, for
the kid.
His sphincter becomes suffocating around my prick, as he
loses focus on turning himself out for me.
The face had darkened from red to purple, almost, but now
it’s draining of colour at a dramatic rate.
He can’t speak to me, anymore, but the creeping rigidity of
his fingers as their reaching grip of my thighs, fails, informs me of his distress.
Freddie rasps and wheezes, and I feel fluttering through my
gloved fingertips.
I hurt-fuck the boy with my final sequence of invasive
thrusts, driven from the engine room of my core and still finding
unravaged spots, deep inside of him.
I shoot hard, into him – all of it – and he shudders on
receipt of the flood.
Freddie has a half-mast erection. It grew after I’d
brought my fingers to his handsome neck and asked him to fight for me. But this
is as far as Freddie’s stimulation will go.
I relinquish my grip of his throat, in one decisive move,
and the athlete slumps forward with haphazard rolling motion, using all of the
mattress to throw-out his limbs. He rattles away, recovering his breathing, and
I spectate over his struggle.
Then his tears start, and they don’t want to stop however I mentor
him, with my coaching clichés, about manning-up and moving-on. I remind him of
his words, when we first met at my hotel:
‘A big part of me wants to be noosed, right now, like Chris
in The Drop. Seriously, it’s like an infatuation, for me.’
In all honesty, I think that era of certainty is best
described as a phase, which Freddie grew out of. But I stopped growing out of
things by about 1995. What a mess he’s in!
I check my watch. There are horny men waiting.
***
Plans will be made, to welcome Freddie to the facility
within the next three months. He’ll complete a new foursome of boys, of whom
he’ll be the youngest, working one of my epic, last man down wins,
sexually-centred battles.
The clean course of action, for Freddie’s sake, would be to
let him finish his university degree and then start his ‘new job’ with me,
before he accepted a more conventional offer of work. But that would entail an
18-month wait for Freddie’s service, and my patience isn’t infinitely
elastic.
He’s ready, I think, to step-up some gears for his complete
immersion in pain. Intricate scenes, competing against other desperate boys,
overseen by my nasty Russian sadist, Ivan.
When his time comes, I’ll contact Freddie and ask whether
he’ll present himself at my door under his own initiative, as a willing
conscript. Otherwise, I’ll send my boy hunters for him, to his university hall
of residence or wherever he’s fled to evade me. It will be easier for Freddie
to come alone, without fuss, carrying just his day pack with a few contents he
won’t need, or be permitted to keep.
He will be expecting my encrypted message, telling him it’s
time to start the serious business of sex work. It was a matter of when,
not if, from the moment I met him as an under-cautious lad of 17¾, and
he gets it because he’s a smart kid. Even so, there’s bound to be a cocktail of
emotions as Freddie considers – his phone in trembling hands – how he’ll
respond to me: fear, shock, rage, anticipation.
On their day one, boys who know me sometimes assume our acquaintance
will give them an advantage over those who’ve been snatched from the streets, disoriented
and resisting. I think Freddie will be one such boy, hoping to capitalise on
our structured two-year connection. If so, he’ll be saddened at the changes to
our dynamic, and squealing at the impossible unfairness of his new
S&M workload.
No favourites, and no compassion.
***
‘How many people are watching the live stream?’ Freddie
asks, forgetting to address me with deference.
He’s still in recovery mode, puffing away, dragging air
through flared nostrils.
‘967, when I last looked,’ I tell him. ‘It fluctuates a
little, but most folk stay the course. You have solid metrics,’ I say, reducing
Freddie to the statistical dataset of an Instagram reel.
‘Right,’ he says, but his mind is wandering.
This is Freddie’s first exposure, for the customers of my Liberty
Live imprint. The stream has a real time comment function, and the boy is
proving popular. Many contributions are, already, imploring me to showcase this
youngster in something stronger than a gang bang scene.
They’ve paid $495 each for my Premium Package, which
includes the stream; a movie file of highlights to follow, post-editing; and
six still photographs of Freddie, posed erotically, to be taken after
his fucking, with tear-stained cheeks and hair dishevelled.
Income, approximately 975 x $495, and I’ll leave you to
complete the sum. I’ve paid for Freddie’s domestic travel, and I’ll give him
£100 on his way out, to buy snacks for the train journey back to Manchester,
and also a seat cushion for his ass. If USD continues to depreciate against GBP
then I will, reluctantly, be forced to increase my pricing structure for future
live streams.
‘Is there any actual feedback? Like, any responses?’ Freddie
asks.
I force a thin smile for him.
‘Well, it’s a bit early to draw conclusions,’ I say. ‘But, I
think your viewers like what they’re seeing of you. And they’re staying tuned
for your part two.’
‘Okay. I’m not a star yet, then,’ Freddie says, with a weak
grin.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
Like most good-looking lads, Freddie scored dopamine hits
from attention and appreciation – these days expressed through the easy medium
of likes. But, as a realist, Freddie knew that performing hardcore porn
– building a personal brand, amongst the wicked men who form his virtual
audience – would change the course of his life. The question was whether he sought
that change of course, or just suffered it?
The kid is central on the bed, legs folded beneath him and
back bolt upright, resting on his knees and toes with his bare soles
out-turned. In this position, Freddie’s thighs and calves are sandwiched
together in an impressively substantial display of boy meat. Look at that
presence, and then try telling me that Freddie isn’t ready – right now –
for his turn pushing the Capstan, or a long Heavy Haul of weight by his
balls.
My seed flushes back from Freddie’s hole, between and over
the raised ankles on which he squats, hands on his knees with fingers spread.
He’s been intensively bred, but there are a number of stand-out fuckers waiting
in the wings to ravish that ass, in part two.
There’s the bisexual rap artist with the gold tooth, known
to be a top tier organiser in the London ketamine market. Then, a veteran of
the porn scene from the days of VHS video tapes bought from malodourous
basement sex shops: this actor is 51 years older than Freddie, still
active in every sense, and the spectacle of a boy getting plowed by his wiry
‘grandad’ will keep eyes on screens, and engagement high. At the end of the
cavalcade is the Marine Corps sergeant, hirsute and with tree trunk thighs,
whose every fuck stroke registers as a punch to the anus, and whose stamina is
legendary.
So, I’ve scheduled quite a ride for the student, over his
second half. I’m expecting blood.
It’s almost time to re-start, and we’ve still to
change the wretched sheet.
The boy’s head has drooped into his catching hands, and his
mood has darkened from tearful to all-out sobbing in a matter of seconds. The
tears plop to his sweat-damp thighs, and run.
‘I don’t wanna do the next part,’ Freddie sniffs. There’s no
apology in his tone as the boy tells me what he wants.
He’s tired and fucked, and tired of fucking. He’s in the
early stages of mental disintegration, but not yet a broken boy. He can
go on, and it will be character-building for him to do so. He’ll admit I was
right about that, later.
‘What’s up?’ I ask him. I’m standing at the bottom of the
bed, restless, hands on my hips, and he’ll note the protective arm around his
shoulders is missing, now.
‘Boss… I am SO fucked-out. My ass is so sore, it’s unreal.
Sir… I feel, basically, destroyed.’
I snort. ‘Not fair, huh?’
‘It’s not that…’ he stumbles, but I cut him off.
‘Because, in challenging times, you take a moment to shake
yourself down and pull yourself together. You think, carefully, about what you
need to achieve, and what good boy behaviour looks like. You knuckle
down, and you push on. And you don’t say….?’
‘No…’ he responds, finishing my cliché-ridden exhortation
with the right answer. ‘You don’t say no… and I’ve tried… but this is just so fucking
brutal!’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘But you’ll walk away from it, just about.
And many boys don’t have that privilege. You know?’
Freddie jerks his head up, rotating his neck to read my face
for sincerity.
‘Sir, I think I should tell you… I’ve given things loads of
thought – not just tonight – and I really think that this is my limit.
Honestly, this is more than enough for me…. it’s all I can give. It’s all I
have left to give. And I’m sorry….’
He’s panicky, and it’s no longer about the next couple of
hours.
I click my fingers and point to the mattress.
‘C’mon, honey. Let’s get that soggy sheet changed, then
let’s get you fucked, properly.’
***
