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.
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