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

Day Zero

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 2024

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Fuuu… Four!’

‘Awww! Ff-Five!’

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

1.        Work isn’t always fun.

2.        Work isn’t always fair. 

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

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Four.’

‘AHHH… Fo-ive!’

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

‘One.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Four.’

‘Five!’

‘Fuck… what!?’

‘Ahm… Seven.’

‘NO… fuck!’

‘Nine!’

‘Ten….no…please!’

‘El-even,’ (sniff)

‘Ta-weeeelve!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Round two, yes?’ I tell them.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

‘Six.’

‘Seven.’

‘Fuck…. Eight.’

‘Nine.’

‘Ah shit… Ten!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

‘Who’s next?’ I ask the room.

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

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

‘Six.’

‘Seven.’

‘Eight.’

‘Nine.’

‘Ten… and FUCK YOU!’

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

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

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

‘Turr-welve! SHIT!’  

‘Awww…. thirteen.’

‘Fourteen!’

‘Ahhhh FUCK!

And sullen, but just about remembered in time…

‘Fifteen.’

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

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

‘I counted!’ the diminutive diver objects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, we’re okay,’ he mumbles.

‘Excellent!’ I say, breezy.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sixteen.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Pur-leeze…. eighteen!’

‘Oww… Na-nineteen!’

‘Twenty…. please STOP!’

< brief pause, with silence >

‘OWWW… Twenty-one!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

I get slashing quickly, before the stuffed fabric unfurls:

‘Eleven.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Fifteen…. Awww!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Twenty-six!’

‘OWWW… Twenty-sev… NO please STOP!’

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

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

 

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

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

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

‘Sixteen.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘FFf…. Eighteen.’

‘Awww…. Noin-teen!’

‘Ahhh…. Twenty…. FUCK!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Fuck OFF, sicko!’ Alex reiterates.