Dominic - the test

Dominic – the test.

Part One

His given name is Dominic, or Dom to friends and pretty much everyone else. The irony still amuses me.

Whilst Dominic is in my ‘care’, however, he is known as 790 – the first three digits of his slave registration number, which he has been required to memorise in full.

It’s easier all round to know a boy by a number. I find it raises the threshold at which a sadist is at risk of succumbing to feelings of empathy, or – whisper it – mercy. For the boy, the number is part of the mind wipe and re-programming necessary to make a go of things here.

790 – Dominic – turned 22 just a few weeks ago.

Too young for this?

Physically, no. I will explain why later. Mentally – probably. I had asked him a few searching questions before he committed. What did he consider it meant to be broken? Did he understand the difference between discipline and punishment?

His answers were pretty woolly. I would have expected little more from anyone younger than 25. So, perhaps I should have terminated our contact. Yet I painted a realistic – to a point – picture of life here for him, and gave him opportunities to walk away. He continued to text and message me, and I couldn’t put him down.

790 is also an intelligent youth. Three A grades at A-level, and he had contemplated Oxbridge before professional rugby exerted the stronger pull. Maybe he would revisit university one day, although he appeared to be learning about life, and about himself, ‘on the job’ so to speak.

For the moment, however, 790 is working ‘the blocks’. A delightfully simple task, this involves moving 50 green painted concrete blocks, from my yard to an open store eighty metres up the track. At the store, there are 50 red painted blocks to be moved in the opposite direction.

790 is equipped with everything necessary to complete the task satisfactorily, namely heavy black work boots and thick construction gloves. At exactly 08.00 I had sent him on his way, with the simplest of instructions. “Please me.”

From the recliner on my veranda, I can see the full length of 790’s monotonous circuit. I can watch his wonderfully low-hanging balls jiggle as he approaches me with a green block in a kind-of-trot, and then ogle his steely-firm butt mounds as he pushes on up the incline towards the store.

I can see both the yard and the store repositories with a mere turn of the neck. I can see how long a youth takes to place his ‘green’ on the neat pile, and pick up a ‘red’. Such a little detail, but such an important one.

I breakfasted on muesli and fruit as the boy worked. Often, as he passed, he shot me a little glance, whilst being careful not to stare. What did the glance say? ‘How am I doing?’ I suppose. He would have gleaned nothing from my expression to answer that question.

790 is undoubtedly in receipt of regular feedback from his rugby coaches and peers. I am sure, at the level at which 790 plays, standards are exacting. He will be familiar with constructive criticism.

This first exercise, of the first day, is always a nerve-wracking experience for a boy. It is an exercise without comparatives and targets, and without an understanding of what I consider acceptable. The boy will be thinking, ‘why am I here?’ knowing it’s too late to withdraw his participation. Younger boys, such as 790, will already be finding it a total head fuck, having spent their arrival night in the close confines of the slave cell.

At 08.41, 790 finished moving the ‘greens’ to the store and the ‘reds’ to the yard. As he placed the final block, he looked back at me, sheepish and unsure. Job done, yes?

I stayed in my seat, noting ‘101 minutes’ in my log book. 790 shuffled in the yard, scratching a prickly heat on his chest and wondering whether to make the first move. I left him for a minute, to see whether he would make a decision or prevaricate the morning away. And finally, he decided that pro-activity must win. He walked smartly over, and stood below the veranda, looking up at me.

“Sir, I’ve finished.”

I took in 790’s solid thighs. Not the tree trunks of a forward – 790 plays centre -  but big enough. They would serve him well here – they would have to.  I could see in his wonderful brown eyes, he just wanted this uncertainty ended.

“Let me give you the positives first, 790. That was far from the worst opening exercise I’ve seen. Had you delivered that performance as a construction labourer, I’m sure your boss would have wanted you back the next day.”

“Thank you, Sir.” 790’s response tailed off towards the end. He wasn’t stupid, there was going to be a big ‘but’.

“This is not a building site though, is it 790?”

“No, Sir.”

“So I am disappointed 790, but not surprised. Who asked you to stop the exercise when you’d moved all 100 bricks once?”

“Sir, I thought……..”

“790, I know what you thought. You were wrong. Has that lesson been learned?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Good. Now, I don’t see any sweat on your body.”

“No Sir.”

“And that chest has stopped heaving, if it ever was.”

“Yes Sir”.

“Why, 790?”

To his credit, he continued to look at me, rather than down at his feet, and didn’t bother to cobble together an excuse.

“Actually, you don’t need to answer that. You just need to think about it 790, yes?”

“Yes Sir!”

“This will be the last time you hear me say this, but I want to give you another opportunity, 790. I want us both to forget about the first exercise, 101 minutes, and your decision to stop the task unilaterally. I want a fresh start, 790. What do you think?”

He did look genuinely relieved.

“Thank you, Sir”

790 was a nicely spoken youth. Masculine, deep, clear.  He had attended an independent day school in London. There was no ‘estuary English’ here.

“So, 101 minutes goes out of the window. Can you remember what I said when I set you on your way, last time, 790?”

“‘Please me’, Sir.”

“Ok 790. Well, let me be specific, to help you. Get this job done in less than eighty minutes, we can agree you’ve made a decent start, and I will know my boy is serious about this.”

790 rapidly did the maths. A 20% improvement in his time required.

“Yes Sir”. He half-gulped his response.

“Good boy. And you won’t be doing this on your own 790. I’m going to help you. But first, grab some water and we’ll have you ready to set off again at nine.”

08:57am

I had no desire to impede 790’s movement, so I decided the best place for the battery pack was in a cage frame, to be carried on his back, with securing straps over the shoulders and around his muscular mid-riff.  

790 knew what was happening here. I hoped he was reflecting on the nature of ‘help’, because there would be so much more ‘help’ from me in the days and weeks to come.

“Bend legs apart.” My instructional style was always to-the-point, but I rarely raised my voice.

The metal butt plug force-penetrated 790’s anus and he let out a little ‘ahh’, whether due to the sudden intrusion, or the cold of the metal, I neither knew nor cared.

The other two wires trailing from the battery pack ended in crocodile clips, which I snapped sharply onto 790’s ball sac, above his tender eggs.

“Stand, and look at me.”

At 5’11” , 790 is four inches shorter than me. I am grateful for my height.

“I’m going to be very honest with you, 790. You want to be the best. I want to help you with that. But the motivation needs to come from you. You can organise your motivation, or I can sit here jabbing the shock button, doing half of it for you. Does that make sense?”

“Yes Sir!”

“I’m not trigger happy. If that control unit sits and gathers dust on my veranda, so much the better.”

He nodded. He knew.

“Listen, it’s 9.01, we’ve got behind time. I don’t want to delay my plans for later today. Shall we say 79 minutes?”

“Yes Sir – can I start?”

“Off you go, 790.”

I settled back at the table with a strong coffee, but could tell within three seconds, just from the thud and scrabble of heavy soles on compacted ground, that this was going to be a different effort entirely. I would go further. This was going to be an intensely erotic effort, whereas exercise one was just dull and efficient.

There were no shot glances as 790 passed with each block. He was in ‘focus’ mode. Every muscle in his long legs was working overtime as he pelted along. His meaty pecs shook with effort. Head thrown back, calves propelling, this was the vintage 790 I had seen on the rugby pitch. I’m not sure whether the butt plug and crocodile clips were causing much discomfort. I suspect they were, but 790 was successfully blocking out this minor inconvenience. That was very important to me. The ability to block would allow 790 to achieve so much here.

As time went on, and the green bricks began piling up in the yard again, it became a noisier effort from 790, as well. I began to hear the depth of his breathing as he passed me on each lap. Little ‘ahhs’ became a feature of his passage when 790 encountered some unevenness or potholes in the track.

The control unit sat on the table, just out of reach, and I disinterestedly read the paper. I wanted it out of reach, because I am a man who would like to use it. A lot. Cruelty is one thing, self-control another. Ten years ago, even five, I could not have let that unit rest.

I had a hunch that this was also a smellier effort. The sun had burnt off the last of the early June dew, and was now baking the track on which 790 toiled. The boy had now completed almost 150 eighty metre runs this morning.

I wandered down to the yard, to catch 790 ‘on the turn’. The track descended a little from the store, allowing the well laden boy to build helpful momentum when travelling in this direction. He had seen me beside the pile of red blocks, and injected additional urgency into his run. Which just goes to show, there is always more to be squeezed from a fit young man.

“Stop, 790.”

He dumped his brick. The ability to stand unencumbered and straight-backed for a short while was a relief. However, I could see the tapping of his feet, as the thought, ‘will this be subtracted from my timing’ ran through his mind. Really, he must have known the answer.

“Are you ok, boy?”

“Yes Sir!”

I did an orbit of my boy, taking in every detail, counting every rivulet of sweat as it ran from his pits, down his pec cleft, along his outer thighs. I noted his boots, still pristine after his first effort, were now scuffed and dusty, a dust which also covered his calves, stuck on with perspiration.

Yes, he now stunk. Effort. Sweat. Fear. Endorphins. Testosterone. How it was supposed to be.

“Look at me 790.”

Little redness in the eyes. He was ok. 

“You are doing better, 790. But I want you to dig even deeper. You need to dig deeper, 790, to hit your target. And your target is my target. That’s why it’s important. You do understand?”

“Yes Sir!”

“I need you to know, 790. I think you might need help from now on, so I’m keeping the control unit close. Okay 790?”

“Yes Sir!”

I sent him on his way again with a slap to his right ass slab, the smoothness of his mounds contrasting with the light, but comprehensive black fuzz on his legs.  

True to my word, when I arrived back on the veranda, I pulled the electro box over to my seat.

I understand boys. They can, and will, do a great deal on their own, as 790 had just proved. But the introduction of, well, ‘external motivation’ could have dramatic results.

And I really did wish to push 790 over the line. I wanted him to succeed this morning.

The mere threat of the electricity had 790 pushing harder than ever. At each turn, a block would be dropped from some height, and a replacement lunged for, the return journey launched with a big push-off from the balls of his feet.

I switched out the crocodile clips, leaving just the anal probe circuit activated. As 790 passed me, down to the last eight bricks of each colour, I hit the button.

“AWWWWWwwww”. Followed by a thud, as the block fell from 790’s hands as the burning sensation hit his anal passage.

“Ok, 790, lucky it missed your feet. Pick it up, get moving!”

The frightened youth scrabbled for the block and stumbled on, bent almost double with the residual pain. A few seconds lost on that circuit, but hell were those seconds made up on the next two runs.

The next time I pressed the button, the cry was similar, but he kept things together, the shock merely slowing his pace for a few steps.

I experimented with the machine, turning down the intensity of the shock, but increasing the frequency of the button depressions. The constant, fiery, shooting pains left his head almost permanently thrown back in near-silent anguish. Sweat matted his mop of dark brown hair.

But the speed with which he ran was something else. It was erotic and intense and a dark experience for both I and 790.

I switched the crocodile clip circuit in as the exercise neared completion, with just four bricks to go. In truth, I was then fairly liberal on the button. The timings were looking a bit marginal.

With both circuits in play, 790 was near-paralysed on each activation, but these were interspersed with gallops. He had covered almost ten miles this morning, I reminded myself.

Despite the hoarse cries, and the sea of sweat, and the task focus, 790 became erect. After carrying a ‘semi’ for a couple of laps, it rose to full mast as the last green went up the hill, and the last red came back.

For the final 80 metres, I sat with my palm on the button. And, as 790 half-fell, half-rolled down the track he pissed himself. He pissed himself in the most volcanic fashion. A stream of strong yellow urine gushed out of his erect 9” tube, onto his chest, neck and face. And he didn’t stop.

I made a note of the time as the last concrete block dropped.

I need to tell you something else. All the green and reds were now back where they started at 07.00. But despite the distraction of pissing himself, 790 went straight back to the green pile, as though to carry on. He had listened. He wanted to please me. Day one, morning one, and this boy slave was already with the programme.

I halted him as he approached the veranda.

790, the rugby professional from London, was now a piss-drenched, raunch-reeking labour slave. But was he a successful one?

“What time target did we set, 790?”

“80 minutes, Sir.” It was almost inaudibly. The rise and fall of his chest looked a little frightening.

“Yes, 790. And your time was 82 minutes.”

And this is what ‘crushed’ looks like. His eyes, so clear during the exercise, now reddened. The sobs weren’t audible, but the extra, emotional, mini-heaves of the chest were clearly visible.

Such a big part of me wanted to ruffle his hair, or maybe place a hand on his cheek, and tell him that, hey, there would be other opportunities to impress. However, the sadist in me, my overriding instinct, knew that physical contact of that nature needed to be strictly rationed, and dispensed for success only. Not for trying hard. I want, and develop, extraordinary masochistic boys, not ‘tryers’  

“I am disappointed, and I am disappointed for you, 790. I want you in the cycle of success and reward, not failure and punishment.”

The mention of punishment started the tears running overtime.

“Can you recover from this, 790.”

He looked at me. Eye to eye.

“Yes Sir!”

“Good boy 790. I know you can.”