Milk Today (2/2): M/m; MtF; CBT; NC

Chapter Two

It’s impossible for Sam to doubt the process, because statistics don’t lie.

When the boy was taken into Bernadette’s care, baseline readings were accumulated over his first two days, proving that Sam shot 56 units of cum/milk from an average, unassisted orgasm.

Now, benefitting from Bernadette’s programme of ejaculation enhancements – tweaked every day in light of experience, to maximise the boy’s output – he’s shooting a reliable 64 units of the gooey stuff, each cycle, and pressing-on for 70 as an average. Here is the payback from technical investment.  

Beyond the Fantasia helmet, a suite of tools are available to Sam in support of his hands-free climaxing. With research showing that 34% of boys have nipples hard-wired to their dicks, Sam’s correlation was worth exploring, and a slight positive relationship between nipple stimulation and stiff prick was established. Consequently, Sam wears little suction cups over both tit nubs, every time he’s in the chair. Now, those cups are activated from their dormant grip and set to suckle at Sam’s teats – gently, at first – squeezing then releasing his delicate points, with a rhythm of work matching that of the piston around his cock.

This isn’t tit torture, but arousal. That’s the intention, though the boy’s responses to the opening of a second front in this fight for his orgasm, are pained:

‘Ahhh… fuck,’ Sam groans, his voice deep as his hips squirm in the chair. He’s uncomfortable with this, though it’s a familiar escalation for him.

The boy’s areolas look small, set on the gym-pumped chest they cap, but the suction cups extend those dark brown tit plates, tugging and nursing Sam’s nips whilst the bigger device gives the same attention to his dick. It doesn’t look like a turn-on, for Sam, but so long as the process is effective, the state of his pleasure – an emotional condition – is irrelevant.

Musk has lauded the ethical virtues of his Fantasia product, on the basis none of the action projected to the glasses, took place. The library is 100% AI-generated porn, therefore no girls were harmed in the making of the faux movie sequences. As we know, the porn industry is a sordid one; superficially attractive to a certain type of girl (or boy) desperate for funds to feed an addiction, or low in self-esteem. But it uses them and spits them out, and the career of the typical ‘star’ got shorter and less remunerative, in the PornHub era of plentiful choice.

The altruistic take, then, is that thanks to the genius of the Tesla Corporation, men can whack-off to whatever content floats their boat – every kink is catered to* – without a single performer needing to step into a seedy studio.

*No AI minors, though. There was a big legal battle on that, after the corporation pushed the boundaries of acceptance, too far.

Is it any good? Well, let me say that my Liberty Media group will continue to showcase real boys in peril, because there’s enduring demand to see pain in the eyes of youths, suffering for sadists. That said, Bernadette tells me the streamed content is of an excellent standard, with the AI processors having learned from millions of hours of original footage – which kind of detracts from the claims of morality, perhaps?

Sam is treated to a compilation of action sequences hitting his turn-ons squarely, every time. Charlotte – his smart love interest – is a prim white girl, but Sam’s visual treats are dominated by a different sort of chick: mixed race or Hispanic; soft eyes; big-breasted; sucking a cock of unreal dimensions – or getting fucked in the asshole by it. Sam’s sweet spot girls are younger than Charlotte – barely legal, even. And they shed tears when a brute of a man pumps them anally. He spanks them, hard, and they don’t appreciate that sort of encouragement, so they whimper, and Sam is triggered by that, too.

What works, in stimulation of Sam, is continually assessed and refined for his next orgasmic cycle. The sensors in Sam’s Fantasia headgear provide analyses of neural activity at his hypothalamus, as a proxy for sexual excitement, whilst those in his dick cylinder report the status of Sam’s schlong – the engorgement of the blood vessels; the erectness of that mast, and the dampness (with precum) of his uncut crown, as dirty movies are presented to the kid.

Crunching every dataset on Sam’s condition, live, the programme assesses the optimal time to premiere porn content he’ll find to be a 10/10 watch, and not ‘just’ 9.5/10.

There’s no intention to shame Sam on his raging hard-ons over olive-skinned girls, just out of high school, getting brutalised around big black cock. This is purely a matter of science.

Perhaps you’re wondering, why does this boy engage with the porn being fed to his eyewear? Surely he’d try the tactic of non-cooperation? Well, he finds resistance difficult, you see. The glasses monitor Sam’s eyelids, and if they’re found to be closed for five seconds or more, in any one minute, they snitch him up to the crank generator unit, linked to Sam’s balls by wires and two crocodile clips pinching his sac flesh.  

In short: if he tries to stop watching his porn – or dozes off – Sam is on the receiving end of shocks, through his scrotum, that get him thrashing in his bondage to the extent of muscular sprains. Sam ‘tested’ this behavioural remedy for Bernadette, in two of his earliest sittings, and it’s not an experience his wishes to repeat. So his eyes stay wide, tracking the sleazy action.  

Without operator intervention, the apparatus is building Sam’s erotic crescendo. The shape of his mouth, the slant of his neck, and the fidgeting of his torso on the chair speak of a tipping point, so near, beyond which his containment becomes impossible. Add to these signals his gasped frustrations, now frequent:

‘Ahh….fuck…Awww shit….AWWWW!’

There’s a 32” monitor on a trolley, behind Sam’s fun chair, and it’s displaying a confusion of numbers and graphs. The cursory run-through Bernadette gave me didn’t include an explanation of these statistics, and much of the screen is beyond my comprehension, though some of the statuses can be deduced. Prominent indicators relate to Sam’s dick tube and the vigour with which it’s masturbating him, deploying friction, tugging and tingling in any combination, to jerk him off. This intensity continues to rise, evidenced by the fast clicking and sighing of that udder-milker.

Another segment of the monitor confirms the sensations being relayed to Sam’s butt plug. With the porn stream really tripping the boy, the background passivity of his anal intruder has ended and it’s vibrating as well as buzzing with current, at a level tailored to maintain in Sam a high level of alertness, and engagement.

It was a contested decision, for sure, to take this 100% hetero boy and subject (or treat?) him to deep prostate massage. But it has continued because it was proven to work, in Sam’s case: not a game-changing intervention, but one which adds those few extra drops towards his milk quota, when he’s ready to produce. And as we know from studying the great Olympians, tiny advantages clinch marginal victories in critical competitions.

Stimulated via his boy cunt, unseen, there are grimaces from Sam as he twists at his hips instinctively, hitting his limits of movement to a soundtrack of jangled chains and stretched leather, creaking. He outpours chronic discomfort at the package of arousal being thrown at him:  

‘Awww Jeezus… FUCK!’

…but his dick sausage gets ever prouder in its cylinder – a fat sword of meat.

And then, the emotional sadism of his girlfriend, Charlotte, making cameo appearances in Sam’s goggles, between sequences featuring the teenage temptresses of his dreams.

Charlotte – her spectacles on, looking every bit the geeky girl who’s destined to date the football star, in any American high school movie – fingering herself, on the bed.

Charlotte, soaping her curves in the mist of a shower cubicle, then lingering at her pussy; flowing hair swishing across her back. 

Charlotte, standing full-frontal naked at the bottom of the bed; hair still wet and with a come-on look in her eyes, and in the pout of her lips, beckoning Sam to join her right now, for coital bliss.

Fragments of lovely, level-headed Charlotte from days gone, spliced between the crude scenes that do so much more to nurture his towering erection.

He’s moist with perspiration, now. This is taxing, for Sam – physically, and ethically. And yes, it hurts.

There’s a great deal happening, to support Sam’s focus. The cylinder pumps his dick harder than ever, as his tit nubs are suction teased. What’s building through Sam’s butt plug must be profound, judging by the stress he exhibits in the chair – toes curled; knuckles white.

He’s nearly there, in this programme of assisted ejaculation. The slabs of his pectorals almost steam with his sweat. Everything that can be scrunched or taut, is. It’s agony, this pleasure.  

 

‘Ahhh fuck!’

‘FUUUUCK!’

‘FUCK YOU!’

He’s been snuffed-out. Stamped upon. Denied, on his precipice.

His porn, turned off – cut, abruptly, to a black screen.

His dick-stroking machine, chugging away at speed – reverted to standby, with the flick of a switch.

The hated stimulation in the darkness of his rectum – halted.

And he’s raging mad about this edging:

‘Ahhhh no, no, no…. FUCK!’

‘Please, no… not again… FUUUUCK!’

The Tesla Fantasia tech package – with learned experience of boys generically, and Sam specifically – knows exactly the right moment to ruin an orgasm. As the oozing of precum is detected, the software poises to void a kid’s ready-to-burst ecstasy. No human practitioner, be they a girlfriend or a BDSM dominant, could judge the timing so acutely, to maximise male anguish.

This bundle of kit can shepherd a boy to his edge, then yank him back when his toes are already over the cliff, as often as his supervisor desires. There is, already, a thriving torture scene that subjects innocent boys to a whole working day in the chair, hooked to Fantasia, denying them half a dozen times with no relief before they’re crammed, traumatised, into a chastity cage for their evening and night.

Sam should have gratitude that perpetual denial isn’t his fate, though he fails to show it. No, in his case, the calculation is that one scotched climax adds strength to the next, permitted eruption, on which his spunk count will be measured for productivity. Not every cycle is edged, because time is another consideration, but the unpredictability piles on the frustration for this forced boy.

Getting extinguished at the cusp of something huge requires a re-building of his passion from embers, and that’s a hard slog for Sam.

He’ll be left in edged mode for six minutes, unmolested, before the apparatus goes to work again. I’ve been a silent witness, but I take advantage of the intermission to move my chair closer to his place of suffering.

‘What’s your goal?’ I ask him. ‘Huh? What’s obsessing you, right now?’

Sam couldn’t see me join him, with his glasses remaining on, but I’d been careful to make noise so as not to surprise him with this new intimacy.

‘I just wanna get off this fuckin’ chair, out of this fuckin’ room, and away,’ he says.

A perfectly modest ambition for a boy resigned, deep down, to his new role of serving: A purpose so limited in his eyes, yet so vital for his Madame.  

‘When did you last have a break, from this milking?’ I ask. ‘When was your last day off?’

He snorts. ‘Fuck… there was talk of me getting a Sunday off… ages ago. She said I’d get a break, if I….’

‘Worked well?’ I suggest, as his sentence finisher.  

‘Yeah, that was it. But it hasn’t happened… it’s been forgotten… and I’m in here every day… first for, maybe, three hour sessions… then a full afternoon, basically…. and obviously, it will become every evening, too.’

‘Frustrating?’ I ask.

‘Fuck, yeah. Immensely!’

‘Ever thought about – you know – just giving Bernadette what she wants, then?’ I say.

‘Fuck you!’ he says.

‘Hear me out, Sam. I mean – I’m confident you can achieve this! Next time you lactate from that thick hose, just squeeze out the number she needs, to get her off your back, right? Take the path of least resistance!’

‘I try!’ he protests.

‘I know you do, soldier,’ I say. ‘But, maybe you can try even harder?’

‘Fuck, man…’ Sam moans.

‘I want to help you,’ I assure him.

***

There is a strategy, beyond this rivalrous quest for high output.

The international players, including Bernadette, will soon pool their learnings and their boys. Competition will turn to cooperation.

A parlour will be established, populated by five trained ‘dairy boys’. In rotation those boys will sit for milking, ensuring at least one of them is getting drained at all times, 24/7 through the week.

In shared adversity the boys may find solace, but it will be short-lived. The pressure on those boys to give more, will be overwhelming.

After, perhaps, four months, their outputs will diminish irreversibly until they’re shooting dry, more or less.

With a barren boy being of no value to a milking parlour, their time will be up and they’ll be moved-on, making way for productive substitutes.

If they’re lucky, the newly infertile boys will find different work, with men focused on their assholes and pain thresholds, not their empty tanks. I may be interested in Sam when he becomes available, but his price would have to be low – an insulting sum of a few hundred dollars – because once they’re dry, the market considers boys to be washed-up, and past it.

The boys who aren’t picked-up for alternative sex work will have no future. Whatever they may be told during those excruciating shifts in the milking parlour, to buoy their morale, there is no way back for a cum slave.

***

Sadly, there have been cases of psychosis associated with the Fantasia equipment. The first lawsuits are already going through the courts. It seems that, for some men, too much pornography can be dangerous, but there’s more to it.

The way the package has better insight than the wearer, on the subtleties of their sexual arousal, can be disturbing when it starts to play on the mind. And the introduction of fetishes gives rise to questions of consent, if those kinks are interests that the man had chosen to block-out of his sex life, to prioritise his own moral code, or mental health.

Sam is a user who can’t opt-out of his Fantasia sessions, so I think a human presence in the room with him must be a safeguard. It’s strong stuff that he’s binge-watching for hours each day, but this afternoon I’m beside his chair, holding his hand – metaphorically speaking. 

With Sam already in a state of latent horniness after that edged abort, his cycle when re-started can be compressed.

The apparatus busies itself with extra pace, tugging Sam’s dick with intent and suctioning away until he’s solid again, in his tube, and his mini-teats are erect in their cups.

In his goggles the porn sequences have been clipped further, down to a highlight reel of material assessed to hit Sam’s favourite predilections, over and over.   

Up his ass, the vibration in the butt plug has a fresh insistency. The trickle of electricity to Sam’s balls is stimulatory, now, and not a punishment zap for his inattention.

He’s overheating, in the chair. Unilaterally, I use the teal handkerchief from my pocket to wipe beads of sweat from Sam’s brow, in the slot above his specialist glasses but below his helmet.

‘You’re doing so well,’ I tell him.

‘Fuck my life!’ Sam complains, as machines jerk him along to his ultimate porn.

‘There’s too much hostility, between you and Bernadette,’ I say. ‘And that can’t be helpful.’

‘He’s such a freak!’ Sam says, misgendering my friend. ‘It winds me up… on top of… everything else.’

‘A-ha, fine. But, like, you’re not in the driving seat here, Sam? I think you need to leave the acrimony behind, and put your total commitment into performing as instructed. You want to get out of here… don’t you?’

‘Fuck yeah!’ he snaps back.

‘Because, mean people come in all ages, shapes and genders, right? That’s just a fact you need to deal with.’

‘Ahhh….’ Sam moans; his concentration drifting from my coaching chat.

‘Getting close, again?’ I check.

‘Mmm!’ he indicates.

‘Okay. I’ll shut up!’

I’m within touching distance of Sam’s right flank, and I reach through the space under his chair arm until my fingertips find his muscular thigh.

Sam gives a sparking jolt – though I flatter myself if I claim it’s a result of my contact: He’s undergoing a process of extreme arousal through all his sensual parts, whilst watching a festival of teenage nymphettes.

‘Please… don’t touch me!’ he whispers, urgent. ‘It doesn’t help me.’

‘Ssshhh,’  I say, relaxed.  

My fingers have advanced, wrapping over the top of Sam’s thigh meat and down the inner, close to his hooked-up sex.

I squeeze his flesh, appreciating the fine hair of his legs. It’s a premium masculine feel. I press into him with my fingertips as the kid bucks and groans, unable to escape this perversion of a happy ending.

‘I said don’t! It makes this harder for me.’ Sam implores.

‘Gonna serve me up some rich cream, yeah?’ I say, soft.  

‘Please…’ he tries again.

‘Time to spend all of your seed, huh? Give it all up, right? Show a bro what we can do, together, yes?’

My digits spider along his gym-bulked quads, approaching his groin. My touch is light, and ticklish as I disturb his dusty down with the circular motion of my tips. He feels a little sticky, up in his arch – nervous, and shamed.

I hear his tearfulness, though the quality of the seal on his Fantasia glasses denies me sight of that saltiness as it starts to roll.

‘Time for excellence, Sammy-boy. Time to push, hmm?’ I whisper, into his ear.

Scrunching into himself with such intensity he looks physically diminished, on his sex chair, Sam’s orgasmic convulsions begin.  

That prostate has a rocket behind it, discharging Sam’s cum in a torrent to the end of his cylinder trap, from where it will be extracted and measured – all automated, of course.

He spasms on his milking seat, vascular in great cords along his arms.

‘FUUUUCCCCCK!’ Sam protests his mega-climax with a roar. He’s white-knuckled; molars grinding; a string of drool hanging from his chin.  

‘C’mon, push hard!’ I encourage him. ‘Let’s shoot this out of the park, yeah?’

He gushes in barely broken squirts, pulsing his thick cream into the vessel as ribbons and scudding clouds. It’s an authentic, core-driven eruption.

‘And more?’ I purr. ‘Give-up what you’ve been holding back for too long, yes?’

My fingers travel to Sam’s on-fire nut sac, shrivelling before my eyes as he unloads in blasts of boy seed.  

The power of the expulsion dials down, but it remains a confident stream of jizz. Emerging from orgasmic paralysis, Sam vocalises his tail-end discharge with a series of lowing groans:

‘Ahhh shit…. Ahhh, no… Awww fuuuucccck!’  

‘Keep working, until the end. Show me a boy who wants to go home, sometime, yeah?’ I say.

‘Fuck, yeah!’ Sam responds, self-motivating as though I had floated a real possibility. The manipulated orgasm is a moment of confusion and delusion, I suppose.

He’s twisting at his hips, squirming his thigh under my hand, still squeezing so diligently and he continues to produce. Sure, he’s down to droplets from that hose, now, but they’ll count. The tension in Sam’s square shoulders starts to ease, and he pushes back onto the seat.   

‘Every. Last. Drop.’ I whisper, and – as I conclude – I peck him with a kiss to his cheek, below the glasses. Then I remove my groping hand from his thigh.

‘Fuck,’ Sam moans, softly now, entering his comedown vibe.  

‘Do you feel you gave that everything you had, Sam?’ I ask. I’ve changed my tone, with that question, and perhaps he’ll notice my serious voice?

‘Fuck… that hurt!’ he whines. Okay – he hasn’t noticed, and hasn’t answered. He’s back to ME, and how he feels.

He’s dripping into the cylinder from that shrinking schlong, still.

‘Hurt you, more than it usually does?’ I ask, deferring to the boy’s preoccupation.  

‘Mmm!’ Sam confirms, struggling to find a position of post-orgasmic comfort on his hard chair.

‘You’re a good fit, for this,’ I tell him. ‘A natural, in fact. So much potential!’  

There’s a bead of milky cum, poised in the complex glans of Sam’s dickhead. If he could propel it off, and into the tube, it would be measured with the rest. But his focus has gone, and the opportunity is lost.

‘Not long to wait for your numbers, huh?’ I say.

***

‘78 units of milk! 78 fucking units of Sam seed. You know how blessed you are to have me as your friend, Bern? Will you be thanking me now, or later?’

‘You’re a lucky bastard, Ryan,’ says Bernadette, maintaining her unimpressed act with quite hilarious rigour.  

I shake my head. ‘No luck involved. Just my charm, and persuasion.’

I offer my palm for a celebratory high five,  and – after a pointed show of reluctance – she slaps it with hers.

The apparatus sucked-up the boy’s spent juice like a powerful vacuum cleaner, from his dick cylinder into an adjacent vial, where measurement took place. Analysis complete, the digital read-out confirmed a personal best from the 26-year-old. It’s gratifying, after the efforts made by all to morph Sam into a consistently high-yielding boy.

Sam has been told his score, and a burst of howling euphoria followed, though he’s been left on the chair whilst Bernadette and I chew over his situation, in her upstairs boudoir of… startling decoration.  

‘He’s deeply phobic about you, Bern,’ I say.

‘Obviously, I know,’ she says. ‘He’s been hard work – but fun.’

‘Off to the milking parlour for him soon, then?’ I ask. ‘Sam will fit sweetly into a team effort of milker boys, I think.’

‘A couple of weeks,’ says Bernadette. ‘Lots of practical stuff still to be finalised, amongst us dairy leaders.’

‘Sure,’ I nod. ‘But, I hope his remaining time with you, draining solo, will be memorable for him.’

‘Of course,’ says my kinky confidant, with a touch of irritation in her voice. My tendency to take-over, where the management of boys is concerned, is a habit I should learn to curb on social occasions. I just can’t help myself mansplaining, though.

‘Keep him writhing in that chair, whilst he still dares to hope,’ I say. ‘Have him explore – in deeper ways – how the connection between pain and productivity works, for him.’ 

‘He’s already doing four… five cycles, in the chair,’ says Bernadette.

I grin at her, stay silent, and she hates it. ‘What? Ryan… you’re pissing me off, now. Why are you always so know-all… so fucking arrogant.’

‘I think you should hijack Sam’s evenings, as well as his afternoons,’ I say. ‘Seven cycles in the chair… with three or four last-gasp edgings, along the way. 78 units will be his new baseline target, every time, obviously.’

‘You’re so unreasonable, you know? Please, leave my house now.’ Bernadette says, but her tone is humorous.

‘I’m ambitious for him!’ I protest. ‘But be sure to give Sam my love, and tell him, I hope to see him again… in a few months time.’

 

***

Milk Today (1/2): M/m; MtF; CBT; NC

Milk Today

Chapter One

2029

 ‘You’ve fallen short of target, again. I need to see increasing output, and I’m bored of telling you. So, you’ll do another cycle.’

I wince at the way Bernadette speaks to the boy. She’s brusque with him – dismissive of his efforts – where I would, at this point, be offering him encouragement along these lines:

‘That was a good shot, Sam! BUT… I know, working together on this, we can squeeze a little more out of you, huh?’

After all, their short-term interests are aligned. Bernadette needs Sam to produce in quantity, earning her bragging rights, whilst Sam wants to produce – really, he does – to end his shift for today, at least. This suggests that finding harmony would be the best approach, rather than belittling the boy.

But we all have our unique management styles: Bernadette’s is not mine; this is her facility, and I will bite my tongue as a polite house guest should.

Sam looks beaten, though. It’s been a long afternoon, with four cycles completed and now the bitch is going to extract a fifth, working him until dinner time in this basement from hell. He’s sore, and unsure what more he can give from his rigid chair.    

The big risk, for Sam – and he understands it very well – is that diminishing returns set-in. That can’t be allowed to happen, because it would upset Bernadette very much and poison their interactions still further.

I fancy a turn at coaching Sam, and I’m arrogant enough to suppose I could improve his output, which is all that matters. I’m sure Bernadette trusts me well enough to leave me unsupervised with her boy, so I’ll ask her.

***

Sam’s dick shaft puts him in the top 2% of male size, whether length or girth is your preferred measure. He’s a strong ‘grower’, but even when flaccid that uncut meat slab has an outstanding profile, trunk-like between his big thighs.

No doubt the 26-year-old would wish for his other qualities to be considered, before lewd talk of his penile dimensions. There is much else to admire of Sam’s body and soul, but his schlong will always be the boy’s stand-out feature, dominating the gossip.    

That prick is fed by a balloon of a nut sac, hanging heavy and low as a natural state. His jewels are twin rocks, with the heft of marbles. 

Coming well-equipped was an advantage, but not enough. More important to Bernadette was acquiring a boy with a deep well of cum, able to empty it efficiently and then replenish it fast, ready to go again. Sam meets all her criteria and that’s why he’s in the chair, again, through the second half of his day, following his morning routine of gym work which is, itself, designed to be punishing of the muscles. 

Physiologically, Sam is an exceptional specimen, but there’s no awe in the way Bernadette treats him: he’s here to better himself, over and over, and to smash ‘records’ of dubious veracity which the lady – an eccentric type – obsesses over.

She has removed the cylindrical apparatus from the boy’s dick, temporarily, and tends to his mast using a sponge dampened with warm water that’s comfortable to the touch – soothing, even.

His pubes having been trimmed close to extinction adds to my perception of scale, as a visitor leering over a cock that warrants a mumbled apology-in-advance for any discomfort, before it dives into moist pussy. Not that bedroom etiquette with girls will feature on Sam’s worry list, any longer.      

The process of cleansing Sam’s shaft is a preliminary, to prime him for the next turbocharged orgasm that Bernadette has insisted he’ll perform. She dabs and swipes at Sam’s length but particularly his sensitive cock head, clearing his soggy cum from retracted folds of skin, and cleaning his crimson glans with gentle taps of her sponge. Tickled, the boy pushes back in his chair, recoiling.

Bondage, in the form of straps securing his forearms to the chair, prevents Sam from touching his dick – or anywhere in that vicinity – throughout the session. He doesn’t get regular access to his boy meat at all, anymore: Even when freed from the chastity cage he’s locked into during his ‘down time’, by way of rare privilege, Bernadette imposes hand/dick contact restrictions on Sam, to be managed by way of his willpower and capacity to self-regulate. The boy finds self-control so tough that he ends-up longing for the simplicity of his cock cage, again.

When there are lapses of discipline around touch, then Bernadette punishes Sam. Apart from the stinging pain, it’s degrading for a youth of 190cm with a quarterback build, to dance to the whiplashes of a girl. Sam, held in chains, stays stubbornly flaccid when Bernadette works her flogger and cat over his back.

Sam’s isn’t the prettiest dick, granted. But it’s a functional hosepipe that must serve him well, if he’s to liberate himself from the milking chair.

He’s hygienic again, root to crown, so she’s done. The apparatus, including the outer cylinder of clear glass, is re-secured on Sam’s sex. There are numerous accessories in the form of tubes, valves and sensors that link, ultimately, to Bernadette’s laptop computer with the control software installed. Having learned and adjusted itself through hundreds of hours of trials, this stimulation system can be left on ‘auto-pilot’ in safety, once the operator clicks the Start icon. 

‘Ten minutes, and your build-up will start again,’ Bernadette tells Sam, matter-of-fact.

‘FUCK you!’ Sam spits at my friend.

***

Having opened by taking a free shot at Bernadette’s manner, I’m glad to redress the balance by conceding she’s smart.

Neither hardware nor software are her inventions, but their real-world deployment on a boy is a skill in itself and – in this beta stage of development – bug fixes had been required.

The scientific application that has gone into this kit is, I admit, beyond my comprehension. That’s why I’ve travelled to see my old confidant, to learn more. In theory, the package would make a useful upgrade for my own facility.   

The set-up that Sam is attached to is a potent combination of old-time mechanical, and cutting-edge, AI-boosted computing. His performance benefits from machine learning, and sophisticated modelling.

It’s almost a month since Sam first sat for Bernadette and found himself hooked-up to her big toy. He’s sat almost every day since, with a handful of unavoidable breaks whilst the programming was taken offline and coded with significant enhancements.

Bernadette is in competition with two further pioneers – one American, the other Chinese – to perfect the ultimate milking strategy, capable of draining a boy Sahara-dry. But their rivalry isn’t about single shots, because there’s nothing new in that. No, the race is to maximise total output over a duration agreed between them, currently set at five hours.

The rivals compare notes on the productivity their systems have achieved. There is some intellectual collaboration in the way these ‘dairy leaders’ communicate, but – make no mistake – they all want to post the highest scores, through the medium of their captive milking boys.  

In a game where victory may be won on a fine margin, the critical components of triumph will be (1) using a naturally productive boy and then (2), optimising his output with relentless, systemic improvement.

Sam is the gushing entrant selected for Bernadette’s competitive debut, and her expectations of her fire hydrant cum source are high. That first time he was hitched to the apparatus, Sam sat for a one-shot trial, but life for this heavy cummer has got harder and harder.  

Yesterday, Sam expressed an average of 64 units* of cum, per orgasm, with a session best of 71 units. But it’s early days over this duration and, as Bernadette has just reminded him, she needs to see more.

*  Don’t ask me how a unit is defined. I’ve told you, I’m not the scientific mastermind of this story.

***   

‘If he crashes and burns it will be your fault, Ryan. I mean it! I won’t forgive you, if I’m humiliated on the daily data sheet. The Chinese are already getting some incredible outputs from their boy… but I’m interrogating their statistics… the squint-eyed cheats!’

Sam is left unattended whilst the programme runs, in normal circumstances: that’s the purpose of automation. Bernadette has calculated that her constant presence by his side would detract from Sam’s productivity – and frankly, with her off-key people skills, I think she’s made the right call on that one.

I’ve made my suggestion – okay, my request – that I stay in the room with Sam over his next cycle and, as you can see, Bernadette is sceptical. The lady has more affinity with machines than humans – you know the sort? But we go back 17 years; she has begrudging admiration for what I’ve built at my facility, and she is – to her credit – open to experimenting with what works, if it drives the numbers in the right direction.

So, I have permission to remain, with Bernadette’s warning duly noted, and I know to take her seriously. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d fallen-out, over our contrasting approaches to some nuance of hardcore BDSM practice. I have my orders.

As she closes the door behind her and retreats to the comfort-zone of her laptop computer, in a control room no bigger than a closet, the boy’s fifth cycle has already started in the gentlest way.

Light suction drags at Sam’s dick, with a purpose (for now) of encouraging it to move-on from that underwhelming eruption of 20 minutes ago, and to consider the possibility of fresh stimulation. He’s totally flaccid and unmoved by this teasing as it begins, which is to be expected, but his rejuvenation needs to start soon if his non-productive time between orgasms is to be cut back, as it must be.

‘Actually, who the fuck are you?’ Sam asks me because, true to form, Bernadette didn’t think to introduce us whilst we were all together.

‘Oh, I’m Ryan,’ I say. ‘My experience is in helping boys to smash their targets. And it’s great to meet you!’

***

‘Fuck off… watching me,’ says Sam.

That’s all I’m doing, in the foothills of Sam’s cycle – watching, and learning. But I’ve positioned myself behind his chair, and my arms-crossed lurking out of his sightline has irked Sam. Used to being alone in here, a voyeur is unwelcome.

I’ve been appreciating the apparatus to which Sam is attached, applying my brain to the ways in which Bernadette has prepped the boy, for pleasure as work.

What’s unseen is the probe lodged in Sam’s ass, but I know it’s up there, ready to vibrate and send electrical pulses, but also to gather data on what’s happening with Sam’s prostate. Every statistic helps build a picture, driving follow-up action. I don’t know how big that plug is, and it’s rude to ask, so early in our acquaintance.

I don’t respond to Sam’s invective, and he quietens.

I’ve also been appreciating him, impaled on his prong and tied in his bondage. He’s a real unit of a young man, and were he to become surplus to Bernadette’s requirements, I’m sure I could find him an impossible role at my place. But I won’t poach talent too blatantly.

Bernadette’s selection makes sense, because there’s a need for the highest levels of stamina to sustain multiple empty-the-well orgasms, back-to-back, day after gruelling day. Sam is/was a globetrotting fitness influencer, with a good income from easy work as an online PT. The highlights of an imposing package include the legs: long limbs, with a light coat of hair from thighs to calves, gym trained to a muscular structure that shouts of power, and authority. Those legs are kept spread, secured by cuffs to the front uprights of the chair.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ I ask.

There’s another chair in the room; this one a basic plastic bucket seat on a metal frame, resembling a 1980s high school relic, left for those who need (or want) to stay with the boy. I let it drag across the floor with chalk-on-blackboard squealing.

‘Do whatever you like – I don’t give a shit,’ Sam says, noting I’m on the move anyway.

I settle two metres in front of the boy, offset to his right and facing him. I cross my legs, making myself as comfortable as possible on the seat base, and fidget with my fingers. I glance to him and he glances at me, without any staring from either chair.

The machine continues to work on Sam’s horse schlong, tending it in near silence and with no apparent effect, so far. It’s a multi-function contraption that can jerk and suction and abuse with friction, tenderly or roughly, in short bursts or long hauls.   

Sam has a sculpted jawline of straights and angles, but it sits beneath a face that’s eerily expressionless. I wonder whether Bernadette has sapped the zest from him or, alternatively, whether he was always an inscrutable one. As the device masturbates Sam, you wouldn’t know anything was occurring from his face of stony features.

‘How will you spend your first day, when you’re free of this shit?’ I ask him.

I can see it’s not a question Sam was expecting from me, and therefore not one for which he has a rehearsed answer.

The boy makes a laughing noise without moving his lips. It is, on reflection, a ridiculous proposition.

‘I’ve stopped thinking about getting out and going home,’ he says. ‘Unless… you’re here to release me?’  At which point, he looks to me with big brown eyes, hoping.

‘I don’t have control of you,’ I say, rapid with my expectation management.

He sighs. ‘Okay… fucking useless, then.’

‘But you would like to leave here, though?’ I ask. ‘Or, has the bitch taken you beyond the point of no return?’

Now, a look of surprise crosses Sam’s face. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’ he asks.

‘I thought it was obvious? I mean, does your imagination – your horizon – extend beyond days of milking, anymore? Or has this equipment… your work… become all-consuming?’

‘Fuck, no!’ he’s quick to hit back. ‘I wanna go, of course! What the fuck are you on about… all-consuming?’

As this testy exchange concludes, the computer programme steps-up a gear – only one, mind you, not a shift from 1^st to 5^th – and the boy forgets about me for a moment as an enhanced level of vigour takes hold of the pumping on his shaft. He knows each increment is coming, of course, but the changes remain prone to causing a gasp.

Battling the constraints of his bondage, Sam wiggles at his tucked hips, wincing just a little though he’s soon over it. I can hear more activity, now – a series of deflating sighs, hisses and electronic clicks, from the equipment manipulating his penis.

‘So – your first day of freedom,’ I say, returning to my question. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Jeez… I suppose I have dreamt of that. A long walk on a beach, or the countryside, in sunshine and with a breeze through my hair. A cheat day of crap food… sugary and processed… the stuff I’m not allowed here! Maybe a game of padel, with a mate. But mostly to see my family again… and my girlfriend!’

I make a sweet smile. ‘Nice – and very wholesome. See, that wasn’t so hard!’

‘Just a fuckin’ dream, though,’ he says, bringing himself straight back down to earth.

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ I say.

‘Nah… forget it,’ he says.

‘What’s your girlfriend called?’ I ask.

‘Charlotte,’ he says, and I watch despair fill his eyes, as he recites the name of his love interest. It makes me hard.

‘Cute name,’ I say. ‘Quite…’

‘Posh?’ Sam suggests, forcing a little smile as he reads my mind. ‘It’s okay, and basically true. She’s a top classical musician.’

‘Strings?’ I guess.

‘No, clarinet.’

 I leave a silence – a moment for his melancholy – before speaking again.

‘Does it hurt?’ I ask him.

Sam gives me a contemptuous glare like I’m stupid, as well as interfering. ‘Being apart from my family? Not even allowed to let them know that I’m alive… of course it hurt…’

‘No,’ I cut across the boy, with a slicing hand gesture. ‘I meant – is this machinery hurting you, physically?’

‘Ah, right,’ he says, catching-up, with sadness in his tone over how quickly I moved on from my supposed interest in Charlotte. ‘Umm… yeah… I mean, it’s not agony… not quite, anyway… but the pain does build, over time.’

‘Understood,’ I say. ‘And how many times have you shot a load this afternoon, already?’

I detect counting going-on as his pouty lips form numbers, on mute.

‘Four times.’

‘So you’re building towards your fifth orgasm of the session?’ I check.

‘Yeah.’

‘Hmm, that’s either bliss, or cruel, depending how you feel about it?’

‘Oh fuck, it’s cruel!’ Sam says, free of doubt.

‘Because….?’ I ask.

‘Because the amount of milk – and I mean cum, but she calls it milk, right? – that she expects from me is absolutely insane. And the sessions get longer, all the time… they go on and on, with no fuckin’ hope!’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘But have you actually managed to produce more milk, through all these sessions? Or have they been a waste of time? Let me call it milk, as well, to stay consistent with your language!’

‘I dunno,’ he prevaricates. ‘I am making more in total, right? But she expects more, each cycle, so it’s like I’m always behind her expectations… or that’s what it feels like.’

‘Grim!’ I say, straining for my sympathetic tone. ‘You know, it’s not my place to say stuff like this, but fuck it… I will. I think Charlotte would be proud of you and the way you’re grinding on, through this tough shit.’

I don’t believe he’s buying my good cop routine, so I don’t receive thanks, but Sam looks contemplative and I sense this isn’t the sort of conversation he’s had with the tunnel-vision numbers ogre, Bernadette.

‘Anyway, I hope – sincerely, Sam – that climax number five will close the book on this afternoon, for you, because it seems crazy to keep going. You must be shattered, apart from anything else.’

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, sounding at rock bottom with his morale. ‘She’s always vague about how long she’ll keep me on the machines. It’s maddening, so it’s best to think the worst about each session.’

I tut, so the boy hears me well. ‘Crazy!’ I say. ‘Like, how can it be conducive to productivity when you don’t even know your volume target for each session, and the goalposts keep changing?’

‘Right,’ he agrees, sullen.

‘Still. All you can do is produce an exceptional output of milk, this time, with a positive mindset that this will be your last udder load of today. Shoot that jizz out of the park, and challenge her to find a reason to make you go again, when there just isn’t one.’

‘Bro, she doesn’t need a reason! Never has done,’ Sam says.

‘Sure… but try it for me, hey? Yield a massive number that embarrasses her, right?’

The boy laughs. ‘Man, it’s the machines doing the milking. What the fuck influence do you think I have!?’

I have an understanding look for Sam, I hope, but the context is a fundamental disagreement:

‘Ah, the machines are just your tools, Sam. Success is built in your mind: 70% of this is on you, alone.’

‘Oh, fuck off!’ he says, raising his voice.

‘You’re angry and frustrated, I get it,’ I say. ‘It’s none of my business, I suppose, but I want you to consider your accountability for bringing this to a close, right?’

‘Man…’ he says, eye-rolling and shaking his head laterally to the limits of its travel within his neck bondage.

On Sam’s dick the apparatus has, again, stepped-up the intensity. The piston and its associated components are stroking him; tugging him. The sequence of gentle pump-priming moves is over, with the equipment now demanding of Sam his stimulation.

‘I despise her, truly,’ Sam says. ‘I don’t give a fuck whether she’s listening to us, from her hideout – I hate her, right? Stupid tranny looks nothing like a woman! She’s six foot, yeah? No way would she ever pass as a girl. It’s truly pathetic!’

Sam unloads the keenly-felt transphobia he’s not had a listener for, until I rocked-up. I give him a stern look, icy cold, because Bernadette is my friend and I condemn the sort of bigotry and language this privileged cis boy has just spouted.

‘That’s disappointing, Sam,’ I say.

‘It’s fucking true, though!’ he protests.

Sitting with the boy, it’s hasn’t taken long to uncover the toxicity at the heart of this working relationship. No wonder the Chinese are reporting superior numbers from their dairy!

‘It’s a nasty thing for you to say, but anyway, it’s a bad distraction for you. Time to focus on your milk numbers, and to take them seriously,’ I warn him.

***

So often, the bullied become the bully.

Young Bernard struggled to cultivate friendships, what with the grating monotony of his voice; the niche interests he talked about at length; his hopelessness with all athletic pursuits, and being a gay teen – two decades before that was so cool. Other queer boys shunned poor Bernard but they weren’t actively hostile, unlike the jocks.

He was 29 when we made first contact, and already wearing spectacles, the lenses of which were flecked with the dry skin he scratched from his forehead – just one of Bernard’s anxious tics. His curly hair grew big and unkempt, and this too looked dry from the stress he felt in existing as him.

I had no sexual or romantic interest in Bernard – still don’t! – but in his fantasies of pain for boys, always richly detailed, I found an unexpected sense of engagement that kept me coming back to BlackBerry Messenger, to check if Bernard had unbundled another of his fiendish schemes of revenge on male youth, for my erotic interest. This being around the time I turned dreams into reality with my first BDSM facility, Bernard followed my planning eagerly, as well.

Long story, cut short: Bernard, like me, became one of those rare men who doesn’t just talk of their darkest desires, but implements them.

Eight years ago, he transitioned to Bernadette. Sam’s withering assessment – too tall, bad wig, doesn’t ‘pass’ – is accurate enough, but I wouldn’t jeopardise our friendship by giving an honest opinion to her face. Anyway, what matters is her happiness and self-acceptance, not my judgment. She’s calmer, now, in her settled gender, with money in the bank from an entrepreneurial career in IT, and ownership of a bird observatory on Shetland and an historic London bus – I told you her interests were niche.

BUT – the sexual rejection Bernard experienced as a young man, Bernadette continues to experience as a middle-aged woman, and that hurts. As the years of hurt accumulate, so does the cruelty of her programmes to work boys, to conquer them, and to finish them.

It’s a nightmare for Sam, sat impaled on the mechanised jerk-off chair, day after day as Bernadette’s scapegoat for all those times she was laughed at, or left-out. Now, his temper has become poorly controlled, and I see a disintegration of ambition in what should be a record-breaking environment.

For my friend, I want to get this kid back on track.

***

‘Will you tell me the size of the plug, in your ass?’ I ask him, nicely.

Sam huffs. ‘Get lost. I’m not feeding your fantasies.’

I anticipated such a reaction from a straight boy feeling the pressure. He hates being cunt-stuffed and it’s humiliating, still, getting wedged up there. Still, it was worth testing Sam’s receptiveness to the question, interested – as I always am! – to know the scale of a boy’s anal challenge.

‘A long, veined dildo; or a short, fat, bulb-like plug?’ I persist.

‘I told you… I’m not giving you easy material for a wank. You’re such a loser!’

From the boy’s defensiveness – such a strong reluctance to divulge – I deduce he’s impaled on a toy of substantial dimensions, though this isn’t an ass-centric engagement. Too bad I arrived after Bernadette had Sam sit for the afternoon.

‘It aches?’ I ask, trying a blunt approach.

Sam says nothing, this time, but he flashes me a fiery look before evading me again. It was the opposite of a denial, that red hot glance, and I become certain he’s stretched-out in his asshole: not to a freakish extent, pushing girth to its absolute limits, but constantly painful after so many hours on the chair.  

‘Not for much longer, hey?’ I say, looking to rally him.

‘Right…’ Sam drawls, sarcastic. 

I am, to be honest, peeved at the kid’s rudeness towards me. Sam is in no position to piss me off, though I recognise this session is uncomfortable for him. If he’s bored with my conversation, then it’s time to move the process along as his schedule suggests. I get up from my chair.

‘Okay… back into the helmet and glasses you go then, Sam. The indicators are telling me that you’re ready for this.’

And now the boy is agitated; his eyes following me as I retrieve the equipment from a shelving unit.

‘Hopefully, I’ll get this right. Bernadette said it was simple and foolproof to set-up, but maybe she hasn’t reckoned on the clumsiness of this particular fool!’ I say, though my light-heartedness doesn’t amuse him.  

‘Sir… I think it’s too early for me to go back into immersive mode. I can barely feel my dick after that last shoot!’ he says, addressing me with respect for the first time, now he wants something.  

I pause in front of him, strapped-down and distressed on his seat.

‘I get you – really, I do,’ I say. ‘It feels too soon for you, as it always does, I guess? But I’m working to the instructions left for me, and we have to keep you productive. So, your orgasmic cycles need to be sharp, not lazy, yes? You know this by now, Sam.’

‘Fucking hell,’ the boy groans, with a resigned tone.

I appraise the Tesla Fantasia headgear*, making sure I know front from back, though it resembles a bicycle helmet so it’s not difficult. Inside the bowl where Sam’s head will fit is a domed network of sensors and circuitry, miniaturised in profile to a quite remarkable extent.

*  A diversification, after the driverless car initiative hit some obstacles. Specifically, the obstacles it hit were seven seniors crossing the road outside the Abundant Grace retirement home. Still, as the defense attorney said in court, they weren’t looking where they were going – and two of them survived, anyway! 

The boy has been shaved bald in squares of 5cm just above his ears, on both sides of the skull, spoiling an otherwise neat head of hair in dark brown. Without the services of a barber, the haircut has grown-out in volume and density such that Sam now wears the style of a leading man in 1950s Hollywood: safe and conservative, but too old-fashioned to look timeless.      

The shaving was a technical necessity because the hypothalamus – the part of the brain regulating sexual arousal – is located deep in the core, adjacent to the stem. Powerful though the Fantasia helmet is, the accuracy of measuring electrical activity at this depth is improved by eliminating the signal suppression effect of hair.

In positioning the helmet, nice and snug, care must be taken to align the hypothalamus sensor banks with Sam’s bald squares. Under his chin, a strap is buckled to keep the headwear lodged securely, should the kid thrash with the unit in operation – and he will.

Handling the 3D/4K glasses which pair with Sam’s helmet as a set, a thought occurs to me. There’s an aspect of the stimulatory process I’d not discussed with Bernadette, and now it’s spurred my curiosity, I need an answer.

‘Sam… about the content you’re shown, through the glasses. Is your girlfriend one of the models? Have they put Charlotte into hardcore porn, Sam?’

I assume he’ll clam-up on me again because this, more than anything, is personal. In fact, he’s keen to tell me.

‘Oh yeah,’ Sam says. ‘She’s in it, quite often.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ I say.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. That’s a low trick for Bernadette to pull. What a fucking bitch! What a cow.’

‘It’s the meanest thing,’ Sam agrees.

Still, it’s time for the boy to plunge into his immersive experience, once again, and I hook the eyewear over the bridge of his nose. This is a chunky piece of kit, in black, strapped over Sam’s helmet to the back of his skull.

The goggles are blanked to the front, so there can be no further eye contact between us whilst he’s watching the porn features to be streamed into those mini-theatres.

The glasses fit tightly, drawn onto Sam’s face by the elastic strapping, stretching across his cranium. There will be no light in his peripheral vision to distract him, and Sam will see nothing but his personalised selection of programming, until he milks-up.  

The cylinder continues its stealthy work on Sam’s prick, forcing him into a plump state of readiness with its suctioning and stroking and teasing.  

I’m by his side, now, and whilst Sam can no longer see me, he can hear me. There’s no need to raise my voice.

‘For your sake, let’s try and make this your final cycle today, huh?’

‘I’m always trying for that!’ Sam objects.

‘Maybe…’ I say, sceptical. ’Ready to enjoy some top quality porn, then?’

‘I have no choice,’ he says.

‘Good lad.’  

Coming soon: Milk Today

 ...in which Ryan takes an awayday to a friend's specialist facility, where high productivity is fetishised. 

Milk Today will publish at the end of the month. 

Separately: my email address is ryanauthor@protonmail.com , should you wish to contact me regarding my fiction with private feedback, suggestions for new scenes, or just to say hello. I have lots on, so don't feel offended if I take a while to get back to you.  

CNC (2/2): M+/m CNC

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 19^th 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.’

***

 

CNC (1/2): M+/m CNC

Chapter One

2025

It’s hard work, getting ass-fucked by this posse of random men. There’s zero emotional connection.  You’re just a hole that’s been marketed to a crowd.

Some of them wear masks, to avoid their faces being seen on screen. Others are proud to be identified. Either way, you’ve been made available for their gratification.

It’s a grind, when your chute is raw and your latest top tosses you around like a rag doll, hunting for his deepest anal penetration of you. They pull your hair and drag you, because you’re not quick enough.

It’s tough, mentally, accommodating the whims and fetishes of strangers who barely speak to you – they’re in and out of you and gone, in twenty minutes each. You struggle to stay at the top of your boy game, faking confidence and sexually satisfying.  

It’s a big ask – all of this – when you’ve just turned 20 years of age, and the procession of men in the fuck team includes gents of 45, 55, even 65: a generation older, or two.

But… you feel trapped by the commitments you’ve made. You don’t want to let your boss down, because you defer to his polished dominance, and you fear letting him down, because he kills for kicks and you’re shit-scared of him. It was his ultra-sadistic reputation that drove you to make first contact, so little sympathy is now due in respect of your plight.

You’re halfway done, with nine men having railed you in close sequence, but with nine yet to service, and this is your only break in the programme. Your head is down, and you’re shattered. The boss joins you, sat on the bed, and his arm wraps around your bare shoulders, hugging you tight. He’s being kind, for a moment, but you know that’s just tactical. 

Though it makes you feel utterly hateful of yourself, you crumble, and then you’re crying over Sir’s hairy chest.

***

Loosely, the inspiration was Bonnie Blue. If you haven’t heard, then congratulations, because it’s another trashy triviality from our broken society, but I will provide a summary to spare you an internet search.

Bonnie Blue – a blonde British ‘lady’ of 26, and some time creator on OnlyFans – earned notoriety and her personal fortune, plus some whipped-up outrage from online moral guardians, by having sex with a very large number of men over the course of one day, back-to-back – or front to front, perhaps. A tawdry show for horny adolescents, but her tax filing would make for more interesting reading than most.    

And I thought it would be hot to run this popular concept of multi-fucking, with the penetrative recipient switched to an attractive British boy, and the anal pass-around live streamed for my exclusive Liberty Media channel, avoiding the content restrictions of the big adult platforms.

My chosen screen star is Freddie: he’s been ass-fucked nine times over the last three hours, and it’s he who’s nestled on my pectorals, sobbing quietly. I suspect he doesn’t want to go on, into his second half, and it’s my job to listen to Freddie and persuade him, or otherwise to make sure he continues this lucrative broadcast.

‘You’re doing so well,’ I coo, kissing his soft brown hair.

‘I am SO fucked-out,’ Freddie moans, muffled in the cleft of my chest.

‘I know, hon,’ I say, oozing paternal (or maternal, as he’s on my tits?) compassion.

It’s a short break, scheduled at twenty minutes. The process of overcoming the kid’s objections needs to be handled efficiently.

‘I bet you enjoyed that, though!’ I say, trying to jolly him along.

‘Fuck… it hurts,’ Freddie groans.

‘C’mon baby,’ I whisper, squeezing his broad shoulders.

***

London, 2023

‘Tell me all about your hole?’

It’s one of the first questions I ask a new boy. It’s the most important piece of information, as I get to know them.  

Often there’s perplexion at my enquiry, or – assuming they have, at least, understood my meaning – disgust. This set of boys are unlikely to start work with me cooperatively.

Sometimes my question is answered with a harrowing tale of trauma, as the boy relives that time his dad, or a sports coach, or another person he trusted, overpowered him and used that private opening forcibly. These are troubled boys, and when I prise their A-holes – often for the first time since that incident they’ve supressed – there’s a tendency for excess emotion to surface.  

The third category of response is one of intelligent reflection, from boys who know what I mean immediately, because they’ve been giving it plenty of thought, themselves. Freddie was 17¾ years of age and talkative, when I asked him to tell me all about his hole.

He’d met me after school – a private one, though not too grand – and still in his school day attire of a dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. Not a uniform as such, per the English norm, because Freddie was in his final school year – upper sixth, as we call it – when students are permitted their own selection of clothing, within a structured (and well-policed) mandate of business smart.

I’d decided, within two minutes of meeting, that Freddie would become a warrior in one of my fight-for-your-life team S&M challenges, about which I’ve written and you’ve read. His one-way ticket to the most intense two months of training, sweat, punishment, achievement, and eventual failure.

But not that blustery autumn evening at the farthest booth in the bar of my Mayfair hotel, which wasn’t yet bustling. He’d travelled there by train from leafy south London, following an action-packed afternoon comprising a Business Studies class, and then a teacher-led review of his university application form. I have a few principles I won’t compromise easily, and 17 is too young for my squad demise programme… but old enough to enrol on the junior development pathway, and stay close to – to keep committed.

My instant certainty was easy to rationalise, with this boy. Suit jacket draped on the cream leather banquette beside him, Freddie presented to me in his button-up shirt that, by happy coincidence or design, highlighted the profile of his torso without hugging it for dear life. Across his shoulders, the cut of the cotton was filled without surplus, whilst over his chest, there were knobby bumps in the fabric where proud tit nubs pressed. Look carefully – I did; he noticed – and hints of pectoral swoop could be made-out, tantalising in their form I needed to reveal in full. Moving down, the tailored shirt tapered to Freddie’s belt line, aligning with the tuck of slim hips.

His eyebrows had a mesmeric curvature that was almost femme in its delicacy; yet his hair, although fine, had a sharp fade to the sides that was stylishly masculine. Meeting me for the first time and anxious, of course, the smooth skin of Freddie’s neck became just moist enough to gleam, under the suspended illumination of the bar. I watched for dampness on his shirt, under the armpits, but there was none.

His school was co-ed. I suspected Freddie was a popular boy in his year group – both smart and hot! – but also somewhat aloof, given the conflictions he was wrestling with. 

Over a draught beer for him, to encourage a looser tongue, and a terrible zero-alcohol lager for me, 17-year-old Freddie told me about his hole:

‘Honestly… I’ve only been with a guy – been fucked, I mean – once. That was last winter… he was in the year above me, at school… obviously he’s left, now, but it was kind of awkward around school, for a while. Lewis – that’s his name – is a top, I guess. Anyway, after doing other sex stuff, I agreed he could fuck me – and I wanted that, genuinely. But he was quite big, and yeah… it hurt… my first time… and I couldn’t suppress the pain I was feeling, so he knew it hurt. And… overall… I suppose it wasn’t a great experience for him, because it was all really… clumsy.

So, yeah, that’s the only time I’ve been fucked, although I’ve played with my own ass, with my fingertips, but only the ring… not deep. I’m not gonna lie.. because it hurt and it didn’t feel horny to me, I wasn’t bothered about trying to get fucked again… I just decided to give it a rest.

BUT, obviously, I’ve read all your stories about the facility, and your boys, and they get me instantly hard! Like, I want… I need… to be the boys in those stories… in theory, at least. I think my desires are deeply submissive… like… really deep! And yeah, I know that a big part of putting that into practice would involve me getting comfortable with being fucked, right? Like, it won’t be an optional activity, for sure. I’m not naïve!

So, I realise I’m ultra-inexperienced, and I need to get my hole used… find opportunities to get fucked, and stop making weak excuses. But… yeah… my first time didn’t go well! And it left me nervous of pushing it, I guess. So, that’s where I am… with my hole. If that makes sense??’

It made perfect sense, and I nodded my understanding. You know, when I invite boys to tell me all about your hole, the majority ignore my deliberate use of ‘all’ and give me ten perfunctory words. But not Freddie, who’d just detailed the full picture of a base camp boy, willing to learn. Lots of boxes were getting ticked, and we’d only been sat opposite each other for ten minutes.

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘And, by the way, feel free to take your tie off and undo a button. It’s warm in here.’

‘Thanks, Sir,’ Freddie said. That’s how he addressed his schoolteachers, and maybe there was force of habit about those two words he spoke to me with youthful confidence. But, on balance, I think Freddie had been weighing how he’d respond to me, on his thirty-minute train journey.

He moved both hands to his collar, dexterously loosening the knot of his tie before tugging it free from his shirt by pulling at one end with a single, resolute wrench, so it fell as a ribbon. Then he attended to the top shirt button, conforming precisely with my concession, and as he did so I thought what promising fingers Freddie had – generous in length and muscular-looking, not plump, closing with tightly trimmed nails. 

Quite exotically, Freddie’s sport of choice was water polo, with football a secondary interest. That’s where his gym shoulders and twunk thighs originated: a competitive locker room, coupled with ambitious coaches. But I knew, after fifteen minutes over beer, that Freddie was self-driven to an extent that was rare. And that’s why he’d end-up navigating the harshest of my sexualised assault courses, in search of a heroic deliverance; but not before he’d left his teens behind.

***

2025

The bed sheet is a cummy mess. All of Freddie’s fuckers have shot their loads inside of him, bareback, but after nine bountiful orgasms there’s a lot of spunk that has leaked: the greater part as backflush from Freddie’s hole, with a lesser quantity shaken or squeezed from dicks, post-withdrawal, in finalisation of ejaculation. 

We’ll change the sheet before part two. The stream of men had precluded a switch of linen, but anyway, they relish operating in a dirty environment.

I’ve been moving Freddie along, in terms of sexual experiences, horizons, expectations. Even so, he didn’t want to be the fuck toy of this scene. Politely, he’d declined the opportunity, citing time constraints with his undergraduate studies and sports fixtures at the University of Manchester. Anyway, my sanitised summary of the intended action didn’t appeal to Freddie, who isn’t a greedy bottom and thought this would be too stretching for him.

Cue some blunt exchanges on the encrypted messaging app, followed by a lengthy voice call – just me and Freddie, becoming emotional in his university bedroom – when I told him he must consider himself booked for my event, and cancel his clashing engagements. Adamant, he told me he wasn’t the right catcher for this one, but in conclusion I said that turning-up and stretching-out for anal stuff that you think you don’t want, is all part of learning to be a good boy, for me – please.

Alternatively – because I can’t work with unreliable partners – we might agree to go our separate ways, which would be a shame after two years of growth, for Freddie, but all good things must come to an end!

Freddie enquired about timings, thinking of potential travel arrangements, and I forwarded him the QR codes for the first class train tickets I’d already booked for him, on my account.

The boy turned-up, and now he’s putting-out, but still he doesn’t like it.

‘What’s making you so sad?’ I ask him.

‘Fuck…’ Freddie whines. Now I’ve made him order his list of woes, and he finds it taxing. ‘It’s just so fast… bam-bam-bam… one guy after another… so fucking intense,’ he whinges.

‘Yeah,’ I say, neutrally. ‘Hard work, right?’

‘Fucking hard work,’ Freddie echoes.

The kid didn’t swear much, when I met him as a schoolboy. With his manners and presentation he’d made an excellent first impression, like he was interviewing for a coveted management training scheme in banking.

Two-and-a-bit years down the line, and Freddie’s language is strewn with obscenities, ever more explicit, adopting the speech patterns of an army grunt. Some of the change will be down to his mixing with different social groups at university, but much of it is my responsibility: taking charge of Freddie’s sexual development has reduced him from thoughtful paragraphs to curt profanities. It is, for sure, an intense way of being that I’ve immersed him in.

Sitting on the side of the bed with me, his knees are parted wide. Freddie boasts a nice fat sausage of a dick, and heavy balls within sac leather that’s shaped tautly spherical, as I leer at his groin. He has remained flaccid through part one of his fucking marathon, and is likely to stay that way through his second half. One lesson I’ve taught my boy, is that his sexual experiences can’t be all about him and his pleasure.      

The thighs are strong. They’ve always been sturdy, to be fair, but I’ve had supervision of Freddie’s gym and nutrition routines for 18 months, ensuring his standards don’t slip. In small ways I’ve overseen changes to his body driven by my wish list – the definition in his abdomen, the muscularity of his calves, and an even starker taper from chest to hips so he could squeeze into trousers of 31” waist, whilst straining his shirts at their shoulder seams. No, Freddie doesn’t get to skip leg day in the gym, because we have an accountability system for him.

Freddie is letting-off some rasping farts, but they’re muffled by the bed sheet on which his ass is perched. It will be soggy, underneath there, when he rises.

My right hand travels to the inside of his left thigh, at the top, and Freddie accepts my incursion without flinching. I have unrestricted access, and woe betide he try to shut me out.

‘Remind me, which positions did you take?’ I ask.

He takes a while to recall what he’s undergone, with the early fucks already receding in his memory. I stroke Freddie’s thigh meat with a gentle, circular action that disturbs the sparse down that grows there. When he speaks, he sounds sketchy on the detail:

‘Mostly doggy style – four fucks, that way, I think. Two… I can’t remember… in the missionary position. Two done cowboy style, definitely…. and one, reverse cowboy. I think that’s right?’

‘Mmm… reasonable variety in your positioning, then,’ I say, but he will have heard my doubting stress of the word reasonable.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, sullen.

‘Must have felt like quite a workout?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, boss,’ Freddie says, wiping his brow with a forearm, now I’ve reminded him of his exertion. ‘Like I said – taking it over and over again… I’m shattered.’

‘I know. I saw it,’ I say, referencing the live stream that captures everything, which I’d watched from the technical suite next door.

He’d got very hot, on the receiving end of drilling after drilling. The remotely operated cameras caught sweat beating paths down the hairless slabs of Freddie’s pecs, and glistening across his thighs. When the kid raised his arms, the wetness of his pit bushes –  the hair there dense, but in elegantly compact mats – was evident from their seepage. And Freddie’s brow beaded with perspiration, around the drenched bangs that stuck to it.  

As he rode dick, cowboy style, the athletic demands of this particular test showed in the rapid rise and fall of Freddie’s thumping chest; his perfectly round, rubbery teats dripping with the fruit of his effort.

Evenings like this are the reason Freddie visits the gym six days a week, with an agreed programme of muscle groups to work and personal bests to smash, but no euphoria allowed when the records tumble: instead, stay humble.

The boy took his first gym membership to improve himself for himself, but he renews that subscription because – as we’ve discussed together – the sexual demands I’ll be placing upon him, require the highest level of fitness.

Freddie’s character isn’t naturally subservient, I discovered, but to an extent it can be taught. When he flexes in the mirrors of the gym locker room he should be thinking of me, first.

‘So, in your second half, I want you to pull-off two fucks in the pirate’s bounty position, and at least one in suspended congress – which requires a strong top, of course. Swapping things about will look good on camera,’ I say. ‘It will stop any creeping boredom the viewer might experience.’

‘Fuck,’ Freddie says, not really by way of objection, or even agreement. It’s just the parlance of this expensively educated, intelligent white boy, now. I’ve absorbed him into my world of unfair sexual challenges a boy can’t, realistically, say ‘no!’ to.

‘Yeah, fuck,’ I say. ‘But anyway – how is your hole doing? Tell me about it.’

Freddie’s head droops a little. I trace a crude rectangle in the misty dampness of his upper back, filling time whilst I await my response.

‘Honestly?’ he asks, turning his head in slow motion.   

‘As always!’ I say.

‘Okay,’ he falters. ‘It does feel pretty battered, like it might tear and bleed-out, somewhere, y’know? Four of the guys… maybe five, actually… just battered me down. You saw it, right? Sir, I am, literally… fucked!’

‘Sure,’ I nod, airily, and maybe it will grate with Freddie, as my dismissiveness of his worries sometimes does. ‘There are a few expert fuckers, out there, I admit.’

‘With glasses and fat bellies… hairy as fuck, and almost as old as my grandad!’ Freddie raises his voice and his pitch, duly provoked.

‘Hmmm… that’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ I say. ‘And there are plenty of fit guys in the fuck squad. Does it rile you, then, that they’re not all porn-stereotype tops?’ I ask.

‘No!’ Freddie parries back, but his tone is stroppy. We both know he’s lying. Two years into his contact with me, and part of Freddie still believes a boy should have right of rejection over who taps his holes.

‘Good,’ I say, and now my hand is rippling the soft scruff at the back of his neck. ‘Because there’s an eclectic group of fuckers still to come, in part two. Some conventional, and some freaks. Some compassionate, but others, meaner. Two in their early thirties… but several… rather older. Let’s say daddies, yeah?’

‘Shit,’ Freddie mutters.

‘But all of them, really keen to meet you and get to know that sweet bung hole of yours!’

‘Sir….’

‘Freddie?’

‘Sir, it hurts… so much.’

‘I know.’

And once again, I squeeze tight and pull his flawless, anxious trunk onto my chest.