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.’

***