 |
|||
|
|
Ravenswood Part 3
by Emile
2009. This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.
---
Charles' humiliations were exquisite and slow, and I began to look forward to the communal meals, where he often would publicly reveal his next humiliation. Sometimes he'd go days without anything new - although Zac never really got used to being around twenty rough and rugged guys in his humiliating state - but we'd just get used to seeing him butt naked with his tackle cinched in the garbage bags, when one day he would come down wearing a pink thong and tassles on his nipples, or he would be back in his overalls, invisible discomfort this time from scratching his loose hanging tackle, with something massive shoved up his butthole. I mean Zac was a big boy, solid, sporty pretty boy good looks, which just made you want to slap him, and so I frequently through a boner when Charles found new ways of making him sink lower into pain and depravity.
The first few months flew by, and Charles became like a piece of the furniture. Well maybe Zac became furniture and Charles became part of the family, and they probably didn't fly by for Zac, but anyway, you get the idea. Come to think of it, Zac came to me almost weekly, begging me to end his living hell. But somehow, I comforted him enough to keep him going, just a little longer, until I had "good reason" to throw him out. As I put it to Zac, until I actually caught Charles doing something wrong (and hassling a naked guy in the kitchen didn't really count for much), then "my hands are tied." As I put it, he could only be sent back to juvie if I caught him doing something illegal - which meant that if Zac was telling the truth about it all - rape, physical abuse (and I made it clear at this point that I didn't believe him) then he'd just have to prove it to me - catch him in the act - for me to do anything. I told him maybe he should leave his door open from now on, or entice Charles to step up the public abuse - if he was serious about the allegations. And just to hammer home my 'doubt', I reminded him that he was a big muscular guy himself, and there was no way I felt that a strapping lad like him would let a slim black kid push him around unless he wanted it, especially since "you and I both know you were crazy for cock when you asked me to fuck you..." Well of course he hadn't asked me so much as let me, but I knew he was wise enough not to point out the difference.
His big footballers body was leaner now, since I'd asked Charles to help with his training. He still worked out for 2 hours a day, with the rest of the house in the sweaty gym in the basement - I liked my kids muscular - but from the moment Charles came to the house last year, it was taken to another level. Charles controlled every inch of his life from the moment he woke to the moment he was allowed to sleep. He woke up at 6am and went into the showers, buck naked, standing there, arms out and tackle swinging, using his brawn to fend off the other boys until I turned on the hot water at 7. At about 5 minutes to, Charles would come and take his place, so the first of the meagre hot water coursed over his black torso while Zac had none. Zac had to sit on the basin, legs apart, and pluck out any pubes that had grown overnight. It was gross, and the boys complained, and more than once he chipped a tooth or bruised an arm when he was shoved off his perch. It wasn't like he wanted to sit there, legs spread, dick and arse showing, keeping his lean 25 year old body as bald as an eagle, it was freakish, but that way Charles could go straight from the shower to shaving without having to queue. Every month or so, when Zac found fewer and fewer of his precious hairs, Charles would stop him plucking them out altogether, and make him sit there, legs wide, frigging the shiny purple head of his cut cock until it burped beads of precum in pent up need.
Zac was never allowed to cum - not in all the months since Charles had arrived, and his dick throbbed heavily, stiff and painful, almost obscenely red and engorged. He complained of the growing ache, an almost constant pressure needing release. His balls hung smooth and heavy, and during these 'breaks', he would cry with anguish as he jerked, often bursting in my office when Charles released him, begging me to stop it. After a few days, when Zac began groaning in agony as he jerked, I would call a stop to it, and Charles would make him stop beating his throbbing tool, spread wide and count the cunthairs that had grown. The experience, in front of a dozen of so guys, was humiliating, all the more since over time, fewer and fewer hairs grew back. Last time, in a week, only 10 hairs appeared - one on his abdomen, two on his dickroot, three on his nutsack and four around his ravaged hole. His chest and pits were always smooth, although he'd been working on them much longer - only the seniors were allowed to keep their chest hair. Soon he'd be permanently bald. Once all the other guys had showered, Charles made him scrub up well, even though the water was always cold by then. He scrubbed his skin clean, alone in the cold bathroom while the rest of the guys finished up and went down for breakfast. The slops I served weren't gourmet, but I still insisted they were all fully clothed, for hygiene.
Somehow, Charles had decided the rule didn't apply to Zac, and from the first time he came down, dripping and cold, begging Charles for the key to their room, Charles had just laughed - that big booming deep chested laugh that made everyone stare. After that, when Zac entered naked and I began to voice my objection, Charles casually threw his arm around Zac, dragging the footballer to the centre of the room, hauling him up on the benchtop like a new bride. Zac struggled, but with his arsecheeks pinned to the marble, thighs stretched apart between Charles', his wrists held firmly behind him in one meaty black hand, it was a losing battle. Back then, Zac was still huge, almost Charles' match, and only years of abuse made him submit, eventually, to Charles' hand. I withdrew from the battle at that point, and Zac came to breakfast wearing whatever Charles demanded.
But I digress, since it all started before Charles even made him reserve the shower, or pluck out his pubes. It's just that the sight of this titan stud being wrestled to submission gave me a hard on so stiff I dripped precum all morning. What he did to make him leaner had a longer, more delicious effect. When he'd taken his free hand, and grabbed Zac's bowl, and threw it into the sink, he told him "You're my bitch now, and I like my bitches slim and obedient. Now you just lost yourself your food, so you better lose that uppity attitude. Next time, you sit here nekkid, and maybe you can eat some." Zac had struggled, ashen, but next day, after a night of muffled voices behind closed doors, we were treated to see Zac not only newly meek, but newly plucked as well - crotch bald and glowing. Of course he confessed Charles' words to me in his first complaint, but I had unfortunately heard nothing.
That next day, he entered shyly, keenly aware of his naked swinging dick and muscular arse in a room of fully clothed men, but still vaulted the bench, spreading his legs obscenely wide, to match Charles' growing smile. In return, Charles got up and walked over, until the fly of his jeans mashed the seam of Zac's dick, and with a grin he flourished two grapes. Zac's face fell and he begged quietly- "Please Charles. I'm starving. I haven't eaten all day - none of the guys will give me anything..." It was true, Charles had seen to that. He just grinned all the wider, replying "Like I said, I like my bitches lean. Now you gonna eat like a girl before prom. Get used to that feeling, it'll remind you who the dicksman is!" And while Charles privately boasted to me that he got plenty of protein - cockspew down his gullet 3 times a day from Charles' choker - the whitebread preppie went from titan tits to perfect pecs as his body fat dropped away. His muscles were cut from daily exercise, until his ripped, ultra defined physique made him even more of a freakish boy toy. He'd beg me at least once a week, claiming it was almost worse than the deprivation that kept his dick hard and leaking. It was easy to believe, and I'd squeeze his pulsing cock as proof, before gently patting him on the back (which often slid down to a gentle fingering of his taut arse), telling him Charles knew best, at least for now. And I'd send him away, to do his daily errands with Charles.
Charles chose a different uniform for him to wear each day - lycra boxers, or shiny briefs - never anything nearly enough to pass for normal, or even ordinary sluttishness. They'd hit the streets to sell 'newspapers' (drugs I'm guessing), Zac as Charles' runner with his whole body on display. More than he could wear inside, but far less than even the tramps on the stoop. How he wailed when he saw the suits, it was priceless. But they made enough - from his deliveries and (judging from his limping) other side trades he performed - to buy Charles a brand new stereo in just a day. If he wasn't such a gambler he might've left my house by now.
Well I won't lie, I was really enjoying watching Zac get ground down by Charles, and somehow the sex, abuse and constant humiliation just kept me guessing about what would happen next. Charles was a volatile chemical, but so was Zac - I mean this guy was built, broad and buff, and could put up a hell of a fight if he hadn't had the fight fucked out of him on the streets. I always wondered what might happen if he ever recovered, or was given the chance. Something in him still burned like a candle, some whisper of hope, or resilience, it was almost arrogant how he always stood up, that made you want to punch him down harder.
Anyway, one day, that flicker of hope came true. I received a letter in the mail, from Todd. Unfortunately, there had been something of a paperwork clusterfuck when they'd first brought Zach in from the streets. It seemed that the law had been kind to Zach, and despite his parents thieving connivery, his trust fund, all twenty million of it, was deemed to be a legitimate gift - untouchable by their creditors. This had all happened months after they skipped town (the law being a slow moving beast), and I guess he was too busy being double dicked in some back alley to find out. So in the ordinary course of events, when they brought the broken boy into welfare, the computer should've picked it up, and he could be sitting pretty in his own Victorian mansion (one that wasn't cold and crabby even), being treated like a king.
The mishap, Todd explained, happened when they typed his name in as Zac, instead of Zach, or Zachary. All he needed to do was go into their office, or any police station, and register his proper name, and presto, fuckboy would be rich again. Only he had to do it within 7 years, or he'd be declared dead, and the money would go to internal revenue. Child welfare, to be precise, since they had carriage of it. I filed the letter carefully in my locked drawer, knowing Todd would do nothing without my input, now he had officially discharged his duty to notify. Zach (or Zac) had til he was 26 - another 4 or 5 years at least - to figure it out. If he didn't, well, I could get my cut of the action like all the other hapless foster homes that needed the cash. If he did, I just had to make sure he only did it through me. There was plenty of time to think it through, no need to bother him with the truth just yet. I mean, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?
|
|
|