 |
|||
|
|
Dominic – the test
Part Two
The training room is wired for vision (colour) and sound (stereo). I cannot attend to 790 permanently.
Actually, that’s not really true. I have largely cleared my commitments to handle the development of this youth. However, 790 must understand the value of quiet contemplation. It is integral to his training.
790 stands dead-centre in the training room. Boys always stand whilst they wait for me.
The youth is struggling a bit. I can’t hear it yet, but I can see it. I can see it in his narrowing eyes, and the occasional and purposeless shakes of his head.
790 has help to keep him upright. He stands on a triangular metal frame. To the front of the frame are mounted 12-hole leather boots, in size nine, two and half feet apart. The boy normally wears size ten. 790 laced the boots nice and tightly with his own hand. They are a bit of a crush. Still, he won’t be in them forever.
790 laced the boots before squatting carefully on the 9” long, 3” thick dildo mounted on a jack, attached to a pole at the third corner of the triangle.
790 has little experience of anal work. He volunteered this information but, really, I could have guessed. His career and sense of self-worth precluded a shag-around lifestyle. That simply wasn’t the way for 790.
I understand the view that boys should be broken into anal gently. Plenty of foreplay. Lots of lube. Inch by inch. Maybe for some boys, but not for 790.
I wasn’t going to tear my boy apart inside through recklessness, but neither did I intend to wait forever whilst he ‘ohhh-ed’ and ‘ahhh-ed’ his sphincter down the shaft. Anal is a core skill, to be learnt quickly.
So, I stood over 790. He understood my patience was limited, and I had even gone so far as to lube the heavy rubber dildo for him, if not liberally.
“790, push your anus out as though shitting, and lower your hole onto that shaft!”
Legs spread, hands pulling his buns apart to aid the process, the 22-year old impaled himself on the chunky black model cock, his thighs doing most of the impaling work whilst his calves supported his 13st 5llb rugby torso. Legs that had already run ten miles today, now asked to take on a new task.
And I knew how 790 must be feeling inside. There was nothing erotic or sensual about this, it was merely a grotesque intrusion into a hitherto fairly private man passage, undertaken under pressure of time, to please me. Passages and walls painfully distended as never before, to make room for the too-big invader.
790 looked between his legs. Surely, he was almost there?
“Just another two inches, 790. Keep pushing. Let’s get this done.”
His hair was so ‘pretty’ when he arrived yesterday evening. Now it was a jumbled, but not unattractive mess, with the fringe matted to his sweaty forehead. He exhaled, cheeks puffed out, and I could hear sphincter on rubber as he dropped the last two inches. Now his knees formed an angle between vertical lower legs and arched uppers, as he squatted on the big fake cock.
“Ok, 790, listen carefully. We’re going to jack you up into a standing position. It’s better that way. I’m going to raise the jack, and your upper body will move with it, understood?”
“Yes Sir!”
I raised 790 progressively, the hydraulic jack having a smooth motion. He had to travel with it. He was impaled. There was no alternative. And actually, as he neared a conventional standing position, it became a little more comfortable, his muscles supporting him in natural ways.
I stopped, and levelled with 790. Man to boy.
“790, look at me.”
I immediately had his attention. The doe brown eyes told the story. He knew this was going to be bad.
“790, I need to jack you just a little higher. I really want to display you at your best, and I guess you want that too?”
Rugby boy half-nodded. He bit his lower lip. I had lost eye contact again.
“790, keep looking at me.”
He pulled his chin up.
“As we jack you higher, you need to try and stand on tiptoe for me, to accommodate the height. You need to work those big, strong, feet. Can you do that for me 790?”
Another little nod, through rapidly-glazing eyes. I retreated to the jack.
“Just a few centimetres, baby, that’s all.”
The cock-on-a-jack resumed it’s travels, as I pushed 790 through the vertical and then some. Now 790 was being lifted off the ground by the gross impaler. Or would have been, had his feet not been firmly laced into his too-small boots. So his legs and upper body stretched and took the pressure, whilst his feet crushed against the sturdy leather in as desperate attempt to escape the boots and release the pressure.
I let the jack rest, and returned to face my boy.
“790, I think the finishing touch, the perfect poise, is hands clasped behind the head.”
He didn’t need further instruction. Biceps and triceps bulged as he brought his arms up from his sides.
“790, although I can’t always be with you in person, you can rest assured you are always being watched, and cared for, because the training here never stops. Understood?”
He nodded.
“Now, with your hands behind your head, I get such a great view of those neatly trimmed lawns of black hair under your arms.
You know, 95% of sadists would have taken that hair from you upon arrival. 50% would have punished you for not shaving it before you presented yourself to me. But I really, really, want you to show me, 790, that you deserve these symbols of your masculinity.
If that motivational tool works, you can emerge from this place as you arrived. If it doesn’t work – well, I’d be disappointed in you, but it’s so little effort on my part to get the razors out and take you back to your boyhood.”
The youth suddenly found a voice.
“I’d like to keep the hair…….to earn the right to keep it I mean, Sir.”
“I know you do, 790. You’re going to show me how much it means to you by keeping those arms behind your head without fail, throughout this exercise, such that through my CCTV cameras, I can see your underarm hair, and see how much you care.
I really do have to go 790. Whilst I’m gone, think about what you’re learning, but enjoy the dildo – you must be feeling quite full in the anus already.”
***********
Dominic - 790 – was introduced to me by another rugby professional, several years his senior. As his profile is somewhat higher, I shall simply refer to him as J.
J has taken the test, twice. On the first occasion, he was with me for ten days, and on the second, fourteen. Nobody forced him to come back for more. In fact, he chased to pin me down on dates for the second test.
J and I are quite close, now. We often dine in London or the south of France, where business takes us both, but have not played together for a couple of years. The paucity of intense action gnaws away at J, but I have to be careful.
J is a substantial masochist. Dips in form, on the pitch, lead him to seek danger, to the point of destructiveness, in ‘the bedroom’. The inverted commas are deliberate, play at this end of the spectrum generally unfolding in dark basements or isolated out-houses, often in eastern Europe. My libido tells me to participate in this darkness with J, but I have resisted it to date. That might not always be the case.
So, every few months, I meet the little pain sponge, and we chew the cud on rugby, the media (who are always ‘unfair’ to J – much as they are always ‘unfair’ to politicians of my acquaintance) and, towards the end of our meal, his masochism.
We last met in January. Over tea (he does not drink alcohol or coffee), J told me about Dominic.
There had been some kind of furtive sexual liaison between the two men. Although there had been an emotional connection, the sex had disappointed. It had disappointed because opposites attract, and kindred spirits don’t. They had sufficient confidence in each other to talk it through, both being emotionally intelligent guys, and the result was me being thrust, that evening, a mobile phone image of the (then) 21 year old Dominic, for my consideration.
************
I watch 790 on my screen.
I know where he is hurting – in his feet, calves and thighs as he struggles to maintain an upright position. In his anus, where the heavy rubber phallus is causing so much pressure on his innards. In the muscles of his arms, clasped tightly behind his head when, really, he’d like to be using his hands to massage and soothe his taut legs.
790 knew I was demanding. 790 knew I was cruel. No masochist commences a scene with me without understanding these fundamentals. Yet, until the scene starts, ‘demanding’ and ‘cruel’ are just words. It needs to be experienced to be believed. That experience, 790 now, surely, appreciates, can be a lonely one, with none of the esprit de corps of the rugby pitch. Just a great deal of solitary suffering.
My screen shows matted wet hair, and thighs glistening with sweat. It’s time to re-connect with 790.
As I turned the key in the lock, I’m sure I heard a deep sigh from 790. As this is day one of the test, it’s probably relief that I’m back. Back to ease his suffering. Back to end the torment.
Sighs of relief are transitory. By day three, boys are normally ‘with the programme’ to the extent that my approach is greeted with nothing but wide, pleading eyes, and confusion as to whether they are better off with the current pain than the next, unspecified horror.
“790, how did that go?”
“Sir….it hurts so bad now…..”
I reach out to him, and place a finger over his full, cock-sucking lips.
“Ssshhh, baby. I know it does, really I do. Would you like to hear what I think?”
He nods.
“Okay. This was a better exercise than the first, 790. I could see you on my screen. I could see those arms never dropped from the back of your head. So you see, I don’t ask the impossible, 790. I just want your total pain.”
“Sir please……the jack.”
“790, please, don’t spoil it.”
His head drops. The silent, crying heaving begins, much as it did on the first exercise. This could get tedious. But it’s true, he has done ok – for day one, morning one. He deserves a little reward, the smallest of physical contact.
I place the flat of a palm on his wet left thigh, and run it up and down the muscular plain. Who knows, maybe it eases his pain a little. I can feel the tautness of the muscle, the thinness of the stretched skin.
As I rub, I lean in towards my boy, my mouth so nearly touching his ear. He can feel the warmth of my breath, but he will not feel my lips.
“Good boy, 790.”
It was little more than a whisper, but he has heard. He brings his head up, and I allow him to look at me.
“Good lad.”
Then I withdraw, and I watch the tears well, as 790’s redundant cock arcs up to half mast, the jack-related pain temporarily forgotten.
There is always a role for ‘carrot’, alongside ‘stick’. Not much of one, if a sadist is doing his job properly, but there has to be hope for the boy. He has to be desperate for literally one or two warm words, or the briefest of physical contact. He has to be willing to give himself totally, in the hope he might receive, whilst knowing that 90% of the time, he won’t.
I activate the hydraulics which lower the jack, and 790 sinks on his haunches. I untie his boots.
“790, raise yourself off the dildo now.”
He pushes himself up, easing his sphincter off the cruel rubber truncheon. Anus and dildo separate with a very audible ‘pop’. It would be humiliating, but is that possible here, with just 790 and I present in sado-masochistic endeavour? I’m not sure.
Then his strained legs give way under him, and he slumps to the floor.
That’s not an uncommon consequence of this exercise. It was the same with J.
“790, I don’t have my cattle prod with me. Do I really need to go and collect it?”
I left him a generous thirty seconds to consider. 790 writhed on the floor, trying to flex the jelly out of his calves and thighs.
I made to leave the training room.
“No, please………..”
I could hear the fear.
790 levered himself up with him arms, initially to a sitting position, then like a new born calf, gingerly to his feet, where he stumbled unsteadily. I waited for him to compose his poise.
“790, we’re wasting time. We need to go.”
“Yes Sir!”
That was better.
“790, when we requested measurements for your ankles, and wrists, and thighs, we had a genuine need for those numbers. It’s time to put you in your uniform, 790. Are you ready for that, 790?”
“Yes Sir!”
Excellent. It was almost shouted out.
“Okay 790. Now march for me – not walk, march – to the medical room. Show me just how much you need this.”
Arms swinging, back straight, 790 - Dominic - moves efficiently down the corridor.
|
|
|