Day Zero (2/2): M/m+; CP; NC

Chapter Two 

The three of them will remain here for six days, working through their basic training with me, conditioning them for what’s to come. We’ll focus on universally relevant credentials such as self-discipline, endurance, obedience and respect – all funnelling into the desired end-state of high quality submission.

Through this week in Asia, I’ll appraise their characters and come to decisions as to where each boy will fit best, in my conglomerate of perversion. In time, they’ll be split-up, ready to start their individual BDSM pathways.

I’ve moved to reticent Luke’s side of the bondage triangle. This one will already be missing the comfort of his sensible girlfriend – an 8/10 looker, who makes cameo appearances in Luke’s Instagram stories but has her own career, which she’ll be free to pursue without her globe-trotting hunk of a boyfriend.

The integrity of Luke’s trunks has been compromised by his fifteen strokes from Karen.

This round will be applied savagely.

 ‘Sixteen.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘FUCK…. nine-teen!’

‘Twenty!’

‘Eh? FUCK… twenny-fucking-one!’

I pause at this odd number, only to wrestle Luke’s shredding Speedos down, far enough along his thick thighs to clear his butt, wholly naked for my cane. He swivels his neck, anxious at this stripping, but to be fair I’ve kept Luke at an advantage, and the good times can’t roll forever. I press-on, without comment.

‘AHH! Twenty-three!’

‘Jee-zus… twennny… four!’

‘FUCK! Twenty-five!’

‘Hey!? Twenty-six?!’

We take a breather. Luke, as you can see, mis-counted on his re-start from the pause. Perhaps it was accidental, though day zero behaviours often include deceptiveness on the part of boys, who believe I may not notice trickery. Such naïve souls!  

‘You missed one,’ I say, calm. ‘Twenty-two just disappeared from your count! You’ve only taken twenty-five in total, I promise, baby.’

‘Shit,’ Luke says, without apology.

‘Shit, indeed,’ I say. ‘Now, you know the tariff – for all of you – was a concession, on the basis you kept an accurate count for me? But you went haywire on that last set of five, Luke.’

‘I mean… I guess I just missed one?’ he offers, weakly.

‘Well, I guess you did!’ I say. ‘And, maybe it was a minor infringement – this time – but still… we need to correct it, yeah?’

‘What?’ he says, blunt.

‘We can’t let sloppiness creep in. Three more, to mark the error… and then you’re finished,’ I say.

‘Seriously!?’ Luke blurts.

‘C’mon, petal… we’re just getting to know each other. Don’t make a scene, so early, okay?’

‘For fuck’s sake…’ he whines, jiggling antsy in his chains.

‘Brace, again,’ I warn him, generously. ‘And count them, loud; one, two, three.’

These extras, to end, will sting like fuck. It’s all part of my make-miserable strategy, for boys fresh to Liberty.

‘ONE!’

‘Two!

‘AWWW…. three!’  Luke moans, but he called those shots nice and clearly for me, despite his setback.

I check how this introduction to corporal punishment – CP 1.1 – has affected Luke. He’s sniffing on repeat, but not sobbing, and his cheeks remain dry. He flexes sexily in bondage, as Alex and Joe observe his handling of this pain they’re sharing.

I feel, with open palms, Luke’s hot buns I’ve gridded with welts. The kid squirms at my caressing touch, but doesn’t call-out. Maybe he, and the other two, long to curse me as a faggot, but the young steer-clear of that f-word now, don’t they? They’ve been warned-off unacceptable language. It’s one of the inhibitions that tend to fade, with time spent subbing for me.

‘Yeah, that was a cohesive effort across your sets, Luke,’ I say, in conclusion. ‘There were some great behaviours on display, from you… marred by one or two less positive moments. It gets harder though, right? So, keep pushing yourself… keep improving, huh?’  

He continues to twist in his creaking restraints, ignoring my counsel.

‘I expected a response, Luke?’ I tell him.

I’m squeezing injured butt muscle, to encourage him along.

‘Ahhh…. yeah,’ he agrees, belatedly.  

‘Good kid!’ I finish, slapping torn ass, and he yells.

 

Alex was the trailblazer, with his OnlyFans account, and though other athletes followed his lead with an OF presence of their own, it’s Alex who’s stayed the course, posting regularly and keeping his fawning subscribers engaged with content.

We’ve seen ass in thongs, and bare ass, and countless pouting poses. We’ve seen the bulge made by heavy balls in briefs, and the fat profile of dick, pumped to semi-hard in underwear that’s not quite see-through.

The blond diver has played with himself for the camera, through clothing, but – and it’s been three years, now! – what Alex hasn’t shown is full frontal; prick and nuts. His slobbering fans need to see shaft, so very much, but Alex established his ground rules on day one of his OF launch – no full nudity, ever; no cock.

Alex’s OF patrons should migrate to the Liberty platform, now his OF channel is going silent, for the duration. He’ll be showing plenty of dick, and low-hanging balls, and pink hole, for my label – like it, or not.

I haul the gold medallist’s Speedos way down his quad-zilla thighs. He boasts a pert, milky butt – that much has been well-seen on OnlyFans, but I’ll be transforming those insolent cheeks.

‘Take a deep breath,’ I forewarn him… but leave it fifteen seconds.  

 

‘Twenty-one’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Aww… twenty-four!’

‘Twenty-FIVE!’

Then a pause, though I’ll be moving on to another set, momentarily. This lad is restless, in his chains. Alex draws air through flared nostrils in exaggerated drags, and re-tenses as I let my cane drape over his butt mounds, anticipating my next move.

‘FUCK you! What the FUCK do you want from us!? We’ve done nothing to upset you… have we!?’ Alex screams.

It’s a common, day zero misunderstanding on a boy’s part: that I’m giving him pain because he’s wronged me in some way he can’t remember, though it must have been serious for me to get so vengeful!

The erection tenting my shorts should give clarity, that I deal pain for entertainment and arousal. When there’s a wrong to be righted – and that will occur, soon enough – they’ll fucking know about it.   

‘Last five, Alex,’ I say. ‘Perfect self-regulation, and strength, hmm?’

‘Fuck off!’ he mutters.

 

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Twenty-eight!’

‘Awww… FUCK me…. twenty-noin!’

‘FUCK! Thirrr-ty! Awww…. holy FUCK!’

And, where Luke held it together at his 25 (that became 28), I’ve made Alex cry with his 30, off the back of those two, final, tightly-spaced sets of five.

His trembling ass globes are on fire, close to shedding blood from the welts I’ve engraved, and it has upset Alex. My champ sheds his tears in dignified silence, through glazed eyes: his crisis of agony is a self-contained one.

I brush Karen up the insides of his thigh meat, teasing as I defer my verdict on Alex’s session.

‘Now, you’ve spoilt things. Dry those tears, man-up, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. I chose a gentle introduction, for you… and now look how you’re reacting, quite unnecessary. But – until then – I’d say there were some positives in your shift, Alex. Take your learnings, yes?’

‘Just fuck off, and let me go! Let us go!’ Alex whinges, his voice full of clogged phlegm.

 

Being a versatile piece of apparatus, the chain web will accommodate reversed boys, facing out from the triangle with their fronts on display and readily useable.

Later in the week, therefore, I’ll be back here with Alex, Luke and Joe, when I’ll be asking them to detail the totality of their sexual experiences, to date. I’ll expect full sexual autobiographies: no headlines-only; no withholding the unsavoury stuff they now regret.

To encourage these conversations along, their foreskins and ball sacs will be wired-up. After electrification, they’ll realise it’s easier to talk than to clam-up.

All three of them have flat abdomens drawn drumskin-tight. I, meanwhile, have a weighty rubber truncheon.

It will be a revealing evening of work.

 

 ‘Five more, to finalise your tariff, Joe. Oh – and plus three, because you’ve not counted properly, throughout! So, that will make thirty-eight as your closing total, yes?’

I’ve reached up, to run my fingers through his curly hair. It’s sodden and clumpy, now. The kid with the cruel workload doesn’t snap back at me; preoccupied, as he is, by feeling sorry for himself in a snivelling way that irritates.

I take tight hold of a clump and use it, to jerk the boy’s head back towards me, by his scalp; in one movement arcing his neck from vertical, to a position much closer to horizontal.

Joe screams hard, and incoherent. It triggers Alex to profanities, in sympathy, but they’re muted. He’s doing something to ease his conscience, without riling me too much.

‘Looking for a stronger performance from you, to close, right?’ I tell the boy in my grip.  

‘You CUNT!’ Joe yells, curdled by his ongoing grizzling.

There’s nothing in the public domain, but Joe is suspected to be queer. There’s more than a hint of fagcent in his voice, and he’s got to 25 without the introduction of a girlfriend across his socials.

It’s not homophobia that saw Joe landed with the worst duty on day zero. Over the course of the week, I’ll be switching my harshest tasks between the three of them. But… it’s fun to watch this lisping one go into faggy meltdown!

One last time cutting air behind boy ass, rehearsing my meanest strokes, and Joe is back to sobbing before I’ve started upon him. The other two twist in their bonds, unsettled by my singling-out of their friend, even if it’s not their problem (this time). There is, for now, a certain camaraderie in this trio.

‘OWWwwww…. Thirty-one!’

‘Nooo…. Thirty-two!’

‘Owww… PLEASE…. thirty-three!’

‘Please STOP…. hurts so FUCKING much!’

And that’s where Joe stops his counting, but I make sure to cane his full allocation of thirty-eight, taking advantage of the acoustics in here to amplify and echo the cracks of gnarled wood over bare, scarred, diver ass.

Joe is a broken mess. Alex’s eyes remain wet with his own stubborn tears he can’t wipe away. Luke fumes in his chains, jittery and tutting, frustrated.

All six ass mounds are striped, crimson over cream and – in the case of Joe with his extra burden – blood bubbles from wounds. Several welts extend across upper thighs, and many bridge cracks, cheek to cheek. It was a satisfying work-out, to get these boys on the right page.

With a dragging index finger I collect blood samples from Joe’s ass, and lick my digit clean. I could get a taste for it – for him – I think.

 

A group verdict may be helpful for them, but I weigh my words:

‘Helpful warm-up exercise, boys. I think we can draw some positives from that effort, right? Look… I know it hurts, and it’s not what you wanted to be doing, today, but I can see that early lessons have been absorbed. So – mission accomplished!’

‘Please… just let us go! What the fuck do you want from us!?’ Joe wails, a little camp. 

‘What kind of sick shit is this!? Where the hell are we?’ Alex follows-on.  

‘We can leave now, umm….??’ Joe says, though I’ve indicated nothing of the sort! He’s wild in his naivety.

Already I’m building pictures of character, and assessments of capability, ready to place square pegs into square holes.

There’s a stoic, reserved one; a unit of a boy, but opinionated with it, and far from submissive; and a tearful one, lacking in bravery on day zero, though perhaps he could be coached to a higher state of resilience?

And I have vacancies to fill, around the business. My latest venture – Liberty – for Rent – has just launched, hiring-out choice boys for an evening or a weekend, at my secluded facility with access to a full suite of apparatus, and toys. Subject to an additional charge, one of my no-nonsense Russian guards, Ivan or Nikolai (or both!), can be booked to support the client in working the hired boy, suitably hard. As my marketing campaign suggests: Rent – bring movie flesh to your fingertips.    

But, Rent needs to be staffed-up to cater for early demand, with a stock of prime twenty-something meat. Or 18-19, even.

Otherwise, I have a straight-to-snuff commission to film, under the working title Sundering & Evisceration. That will be a relatively quick end, for the chosen boy.

Commissions are lucrative business for Liberty, but I have a love-hate relationship with them, as you’re working to someone else’s specifications and timeline. That’s not easy for a man who needs to be in control, and now I’ve been asked to turn-around Sundering & Evisceration ‘as soon as possible’… so no pressure, then!

However; my options are not for these boys to concern themselves with, yet. When we’re done, here, the boys will go into full body sleepsacks, packed into a crate, travelling as air cargo to their final destination(s). But the tone I set today will let glimmers of hope linger, even as I detail new expectations, by monologue:

 

‘My name is Sir, though I’m fine with Boss, if that comes easier to your lips. Just make sure you use one of them, when you address me.

Boys… I want us to work well together. Your next few days will be so much easier if you follow my agenda, without fuss. All of you are high performance athletes, so this principle shouldn’t be hard to understand, right?

So, about your week ahead:

I’m a straightforward man, and I want you to have the best opportunities to prove yourselves to me. I want you to approach your futures with confidence. My purpose here is to help you to achieve, right? Think of me as your sadistic new coach, if you want!

You should keep supporting each other through this process, like the great teammates you are. Try to balance looking-after number one, with group success. You know how to do that, okay?

What can you expect, then? Well, you’ll be working harder than you’ve known in your sport training. You will grind yourselves to new places… dark places, I’m afraid… and, if you won’t, I’ll have to push you there myself.

There will be lessons three times a day – morning, afternoon, and evening. Your focal points will be pain, protocol, and – I must warn you – sex. I know it’s difficult for you to hear but - starting tomorrow – I’ll be accessing your boy holes, prising them, and challenging them. Also your mouths, of course. This programme is for all of you, regardless of sexuality and experience.  

Something you need to understand, about your training, is that your lessons finish when I say so, and not before. We won’t be stopping because you’re uncomfortable, or hurting bad. We won’t stop when you beg, or even when you call STOP! We continue the lesson, and from that lesson, you’ll learn about sex and suffering. Actually, you’ll also learn a lot about yourselves – and that’s the sweetest education, boys.  

It’s known, amongst kinksters, as No Safe Words play, and it will seem wrong at first, but you’ll get used to it damn quick!

Now, I’ve said enough for this evening. We’re going to release you from those chains and take you down from the net, you’ll be pleased to hear. I’m afraid the overnight accommodation is limited so – Alex and Luke – you’ll share the cell. Joe… I have an alternative sleeping space, for you, called The Drawer. It’s a little restrictive so, to be fair, we may swap you boys around, during the week. Okay?’

‘You CUNT! Just let me GO… let me go… please…’ Joe peters out, awash with tears.

I’m not interested, and I blank him.

‘Okay – a productive session, boys. Let’s get you fed, rested, relaxed, and in great shape for a trio of brutal lessons, tomorrow.’

***

 

 

This, and everything you read here, is a work of fiction.

 

Day Zero (1/2): M/m+; CP; NC

Day Zero

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 2024

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Fuuu… Four!’

‘Awww! Ff-Five!’

I give him ten seconds to release his tension, and to breath. Then, I offer my first piece of coaching:

‘Nicely counted – you held it together, just about. Good boy.’

‘FUCK you!’ Alex yells. Apart from anything else, he turned 30 just recently, and is unaccustomed to being addressed as anyone’s boy. But things have changed, as of today.

 

By way of content warning: there are more praise words in this piece than you’re used to, and I’ll guess that – for most of you readers – that’s an unwelcome revelation. You’re not here for gentle encouragement of truculent youth; I get it, and I’m sorry. Please trust me, and know that my soft soaping runs out of road by day three, if not before.

 

We’re at day zero – inside their first few hours as captive boys. There is much to resolve, but session one, underway, imparts two key learnings they’ll need to carry with them, over their time to come:

1.        Work isn’t always fun.

2.        Work isn’t always fair. 

I’m also teaching them basic discipline for Liberty boys: the behaviour of enduring, with little complaint.

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Four.’

‘AHHH… Fo-ive!’

And likewise, Luke gets his ten seconds of recovery time before my verdict:

‘Efficient counting, with a confident aura. Great start, Luke! You’ll see – all of you – that your work is only as hard as you make it!’

 

All three of them are in uniform. Okay, that oversells it – work attire. It’s a pair of Speedos in rich navy blue, as the house colour of the Great Britain diving squad. They wear nothing else.

These are competition trunks of superior specification, made from a technical material said to aid a diver’s smooth entry into the pool, supporting those crucial ‘execution’ marks from the judges.

Tightness of fit is preferred by professionals, as these boys are. Their sex packages are bundled into small front pockets of fabric, and, around the back, the hems of the skimpy garments rise well up their buttocks, leaving little to the imagination concerning the mounds I’ve started to cane. These are pitifully thin barriers against my rod, but better than nothing and more than they deserve, as protection.    

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Four.’

‘Five!’

‘Fuck… what!?’

‘Ahm… Seven.’

‘NO… fuck!’

‘Nine!’

‘Ten….no…please!’

‘El-even,’ (sniff)

‘Ta-weeeelve!’

And that’s it, from Joe, with his counting. Strokes 13, 14 and 15 – to finish this sequence – are lost to his sobbing, which continues as I lower the cane to rest, by my booted calf.

Of course, it hurts – up to three times as much as the opening pain I’ve given his teammates. But Joe’s tears reflect a medley of further concerns: the anxieties of captivity, shared by them all; with added anger and confusion, at being picked-on for this harsher salvo.

That said, I suspect Joe is more inclined to emotional expression than the others, and it’s all pouring out. Still, he deserves his coaching feedback, too. I run the palm of a gloved hand up his inner thigh, dusky with down, towards those ass-squeezing Speedos. He’s hot to my touch, through latex, after his trial caning:

‘Ssshhhh… and deep breaths, hmm? Nice deep breaths, and quit your fretting, huh?

I guess that stung a bit, because you lost your numbers on the count! Not too impressive… but it’s early days, honey. I know it seems hard, right?’

‘You FUCKING asshole! Why did you need to hurt him like that!?’ Alex pipes-up, in support of his tearful friend.

It’s a noble intervention, but an answer is unnecessary. They’ll come to understand my methods, soon enough. I owe nobody an explanation. Instead, I address the group:

‘Okay, round one, done! It’s easier, boys – believe me – if you just bear it, without fuss. It’s soon over, then. No tantrums, no complaints, just bare tenacity, yes?’

‘What the FUCK!?’ Alex says, incredulous at how a man can be like this.

‘Round two, yes?’ I tell them.

 

Arranged in a triangle, the boys get to witness each other’s pain and thereby to feel it by proxy, at some level. Calibrated correctly, my boot camp duties for boys make them sorrowful at the treatment of friends, and simultaneously thankful my attention is elsewhere, for a while. We will toy with those conflicting thoughts - of loyalty, versus selfishness – in their days to come.   

It’s a complex web of chains they’re held in, suspended 15cm from the floor, with cuffs at wrists and ankles pulling them into broad star shapes that stretch their hips and shoulders. It’s also a compact network of tautened chains, so they’re kept close to one-another, facing inwards, into their tight triangle of discipline in the centre of the room.

Practically, they’re held immobile but for their necks, which can turn - or drop to their chins, if this gets really difficult to take.

They can’t reach each other, in their agonies, but their proximity creates a perception of the three divers being worked as a unit, though their tariffs are individual.  

The trio are springboard divers and share the physical attributes of that specialism, so they’re all shorter than the average male – Alex is just 165cm – with big calves. They look young, for their ages, thanks to the dietary advice of nutritionists and daily gym, where they spend as much time as they do poolside, on the 3m practice boards.

With their inspirational sporting records they’ll bristle when I suggest that they lack tenacity, but working for me is a different sort of fight.  

 

I like to mix things up a bit, so the programme is unpredictable. Instead of starting round two with Alex, again, it’s Luke I get behind, swishing my cane through the air with a volley of practice strokes, before the contact strikes:  

‘Six.’

‘Seven.’

‘Fuck…. Eight.’

‘Nine.’

‘Ah shit… Ten!’

That’s all there is to it: register the impact, take a quick gasp, then shout the cumulative count for me. These boys will struggle to find an easier duty at Liberty.  

‘Sweet, Luke. Nicely controlled… though the swearing isn’t needed, so feel free to drop it from your routine, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ he offers, sounding vague as he flexes in his chains, dealing with the slicing and subsequent bursts of endorphin release.

I intend to position one of the three boys as a reasonable performer I’m fairly satisfied with. Luke – the youngest, at 24 – will, I think, fit the bill as a stoic, grunting type. We’ll see if I can provoke him, though.

The way I’m laying the cane, it crosses the bottom hem of the Speedo at an angle, stinging both covered and bare flesh, down to the top of the thigh. It’s such a flimsy garment, yet there’s no hint of gratitude – from any of them – for the token relief it affords.

Springboard divers need an explosive launch, so every day is leg day in the gym. Boys of short stature practice squat thrusts with well-weighted barbells almost as big as them, building thighs that stretch trousers and glutes of immense mass, finished with stunning curves. And I’ve got three of them to acclimatise to Liberty ways.

 

‘Who’s next?’ I ask the room.

‘Fuck off!’ I’m cursed, in Alex’s robust Yorkshire accent.

I extend the time I slash through air with warm-up strokes, inches from his quivering butt so he feels the draught rushes. He clenches at my false alarms, but then it’s time for action:

‘Six.’

‘Seven.’

‘Eight.’

‘Nine.’

‘Ten… and FUCK YOU!’

Alex tugs at the four corners of his spread-eagled bondage. He ripples muscle, coping with the pain as he tries to dissipate the tension in his frame.

‘Brace,’ I say. ‘Ready to continue your counting.’

‘WAIT… what the fuck!? AWWW… EEE-leven!’

‘Turr-welve! SHIT!’  

‘Awww…. thirteen.’

‘Fourteen!’

‘Ahhhh FUCK!

And sullen, but just about remembered in time…

‘Fifteen.’

He looks back, and it’s a wary check to make sure I’m not going to continue with this shit. For now, though, two sets of five is Alex’s lot. The straw blond kid stretches and groans, in his star.

‘Okay… you almost lost it there, Alex. This is an easy assignment, and I’m expecting you to get it right, yes?’

‘I counted!’ the diminutive diver objects.

‘Late – nearly too late – and petulantly,’ I remind him.

‘Ahhh…. c’mon!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t be a cunt…. I counted fine!’

I step close, flourish the cane, and use it to run-up his meaty inner thigh, stroking his paleness.  

‘I expect you’re accustomed to the hero treatment and getting your own way, blondie? But here’s the thing: with me, boys listen more than they speak, to a ratio of about twenty-to-one, ideally. They act on instructions, and they don’t answer back. Are we going to struggle with that, Alex?’

‘I literally counted all the way…’ he bleats.

‘Are we going to struggle, Alex?’ I press him.

‘No… we’re not going to struggle with that,’ he concedes, furious.

‘Good kid. And look… you’ve taken fifteen of your quota, now, so progress has been made. That’s what I need to see… if it’s okay with you, Alex?’

‘I don’t seem to have any fucking choice!’ he sulks.

‘Is it okay, though, Alex? Are we okay?’ I ask again.

‘Yes, we’re okay,’ he mumbles.

‘Excellent!’ I say, breezy.

 

I have a dozen canes in my toy library, and this one is at the meaner end of the range. I call her Karen – the boys have been introduced – and she nags: a deceptive bite, for one so slim.

Karen sings through the air and kisses ass with a satisfying crack, dampened somewhat by Speedo. Many canes are showy and designed to intimidate, but not Karen. This ‘ole girl is crafted practically, for maximum impact.

The boys’ Speedo trunks were finessed for optimal aquatic entry; but the splintery, lacerating thwacks of this cane weren’t in the design brief as the sort of shock that must be withstood. It’s an intriguing material; dense and elastic, to a point, but with fifteen strikes laid, examination of Joe’s fabric reveals the onset of bobbling and laddering, across his mounds, in diagonals matching my blows.

‘I don’t think these are serving much purpose,’ I tell Joe, with my fingers hooked under his waistband at both hips but not tugging, yet. There’s a faint whiff of chlorine, at close quarters.  

He’s sniffling, quite pathetically. ‘No… please… leave them alone!’, he says.

I get it. It’s day zero, and total nudity is hard to concede. Though diving sees them compete with hardly anything on, it’s this final sexualised exposure – for me, but in front of friends – that’s hateful.

‘They’re offering so little protection, you’ll hardly notice they’re down,’ I assure him.

‘Please… they’re helping… leave them on!’ Joe squeals.

Effort is involved, given the spread of the kid’s legs, to drag the Speedos twenty centimetres to the top of Joe’s thighs, just below his ass curvature, where I leave the trunks gathered and stretched. Here, the clothing functions as secondary bondage: he won’t be wrenching his thighs any wider with that over-stressed waistband digging down into them.  

Making Joe butt-naked has saddened him, again. I seek to divert the boy from self-pity with a resumption of his cane-and-call duties, across bared ass.

‘Sixteen.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Pur-leeze…. eighteen!’

‘Oww… Na-nineteen!’

‘Twenty…. please STOP!’

< brief pause, with silence >

‘OWWW… Twenty-one!’

At which point Joe opts-out of counting and his next four, to make twenty-five on the cumulative count, are received to a new outburst of sobbing and tear-dropping.

I trace the angry stripes I’ve painted over those buns, using only my fingertips, and Joe tries and fails to recoil from my irritation.  

It was a bitchy tactic of mine, to give Joe ten of the best – bare – having loaded him with fifteen in his first round. And these are the intended lessons being learnt in real-time: work can’t always be fun, or fair. It hurts, in every sense.

‘It’s gonna be fine, sugar,’ I tell the crying wreck of a boy, shaking in his chains. ‘But… just… try to keep-up with your counting, hey? Don’t be the kind of boy who falls behind, hmm? Stay with the programme… nice and strong, yes?’

‘WHY are you doing this!?’ Joe whines.

‘Ssshhhh,’ I bid him. ‘Deep breaths, compose yourself, and focus on Karen’s next visit, hmm?’ I say.

But already, he’s off again with his waterfall.

 

The easy requirement for this, their initiation session, is 90 strokes of my cane between them. It’s a number that divides cleanly by three, but that’s too straightforward, and too fair.

Underneath their places in the bondage triangle, on the floor, numbers have been scrawled in chalk. There’s a 25 at Luke’s position, a 30 at Alex’s, and a 35 below Joe’s zone. His salty tears are dissolving his numerals but they remain readable, for now, and I’ve a good memory, anyway.

I haven’t explained to them the split – just their team tariff of ninety – as I wanted to see how quickly they’d register the significance of their digits.

Further, I told them I’d be caning in sets – as I call them – of five strokes, and I’ve been true to my word. What I didn’t mention is that sets might be combined and delivered back-to-back, with Joe’s first 15 being a case in point. It’s sneaky, perhaps, but amalgamating sets gets them through their work quicker, so I’m not sure they have much to complain about?

I change my approach with Luke, and instead of wrestling-down his Speedos, I hitch-up the bottom hem on both ass mounds, using my hands to manipulate the high-tech material into a series of bundled rolls, trapped in the grip of his deep crack, and by the waistband. Most of the surface area of those creamy globes is now exposed, for Karen.  

I get slashing quickly, before the stuffed fabric unfurls:

‘Eleven.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Fifteen…. Awww!’

It’s a cute, purposeful set, thwacked straight onto that nearly-nude and hairless butt, given and received with the minimum of fuss.

Luke is stretching in, and pulling at, the four extremities of his bondage. When he does so, the entirety of the structure moves a little, taking the other boys with it in motion. The three sides of the triangle are inter-connected, such that they feel each other shifting in pain – or thrashing in pain. By design, I’m fostering an in it together mindset, even as their personal tariffs differ without apparent rationale.

I’m right behind Luke, cane lowered, and I twang his waistband as I admire the welted handiwork I’ve left.

‘Solid counting again, Luke. Exemplar shift, so far. Good boy… but keep it up!’ I say.

The 24-year-old has groomed facial hair, buzzed tight to his jawline and above his top lip, as a modest moustache. That fuzz grows-out brown, with a tint of copper you might predict from the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, and over his shoulders.

Luke won’t turn his head to face me, and doesn’t acknowledge my gushing praise of him. He’s still self-regulating after that sharp, short, set of five.

I slap him across his incised left mound. ‘Well done,’ I add, moving on as he winces.

 

‘What the fuck!?’ Joe whines. I’ve returned to him, without rotating through Alex, and he’s feeling oppressed.

It’s mega-humid and the tousle-haired, slightly effeminate one, is leaking sweat from his out-turned armpits, and also from the small of his back, down his dancing ass mounds.

We’re in Malaysia because that’s where the World Diving Championships are being held, though the competition is now curtailed, for these boys. It was a hell of a lot cheaper to bribe the local minibus driver to divert the team transport than it would have been in London, or LA.

I’ve acquired the whole squad, though Tom has been separated from the group already – he’s the hottest property, by far – and you’ll read about him elsewhere.

Wet heat aside, this windowless concrete box basement, outside Kuala Lumpur, is typical of Liberty facilities and could just as well be in Kansas, or Kettering. So, excuse the absence of local scenic references.  

I’ll be stepping-up the ferocity of Karen’s strokes, for this set. Her launch point will be way back, behind my shoulder, and the impact zone will take-in the very front of Joe’s bare cheeks, bridging his crack with slanting slices.

‘Twenty-six!’

‘OWWW… Twenty-sev… NO please STOP!’

…and three more for Joe, to complete his round, none of them counted because he’s worked himself into a state, again.

So here’s another day zero lesson: their programme doesn’t STOP! because it’s not being enjoyed.

 

Dirty blond Alex is famous – in different circles, but with Venn diagram overlap – for two exploits. Let’s start with the wholesome one, which is his sporting success, of which the highlights are four Olympic diving medals over three consecutive Games, including Gold at Tokyo, 2021.

Now, Alex is a senior member of the diving squad – I won’t call him the daddy, given his boyish looks and cheeky charm. Alex radiates the confidence that comes with experience, though. He’s a prize acquisition for my Liberty brand, and he’ll sell his content on name recognition alone.

I’m behind Alex, whose trunks remain up. I’m going to strike him at high intensity, making Karen whistle in her work.

‘Sixteen.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘FFf…. Eighteen.’

‘Awww…. Noin-teen!’

‘Ahhh…. Twenty…. FUCK!’

He’s animated in his bondage, getting lively with his yanking at wrist and ankle restraints, making the linked chains sway for the other kids, snared in my web of agony.

Those Speedos, once so distinguished in their rich blue – redolent of royalty and heritage – have frayed with the tearing slashes of my cane. They’re tattering, over Alex’s bubble butt, such that they’re useless as a defence of flesh from rod; but they’ve served our Olympic champion as best they can, to his 20th.

I assess the damage with fingertips, pulling the shearing fabric apart, until it ribbons from Alex’s ass. The waistband continues to hug hips securely, though.

‘Competent set, kid. Well received,’ I say, peeling technical material from clingy butt.

‘Fuck you… whoever you are!’ Alex tells me, feisty.

‘Save your energy, until you’re done,’ I advise him.

‘Fuck OFF, sicko!’ Alex reiterates.