The Drop

Part Two

Who was there?

There was certainly someone out there. The kid could hear whispers, and shuffling. He could see nothing.

He had made things easy for me. No big fight. No final showdown. He hadn’t needed to be dragged here. So, we were running early. Curtain-up is at 20.00. Chris has been ready, staked, for twenty minutes. Only two more to go.

I am behind my boy, reviewing the reasons for my initial attraction. Those firm, high mounds, alabaster against the tan hue of the rest of his frame. The deep crack, unexplored when he arrived here – a total waste. The strong, but lean, soccer limbs. The thin waist. The flat tummy. The defined pecs with their so-sensitive tit nubs. The elegant Romanesque nose. His age, too, of course. I have done younger, and a little older, but 21 is nice. They’re not stupid at 21. They know there are bad people out there

I grab his right mound, and the impression of my fingers glow strawberry on the pale skin. I whisper into his left ear.

“You’ve been good, baby. Now just move onto a new place, mentally. Let your mind go, let your body go. Just focus on that, honey, and know that I’ll be with you on the journey”

I retreat a few steps. His head has dropped. The waiting is too hard.

The black curtain rises on quiet motors. Now my boy can see a little more. Tall armchairs facing the stage, largely filled with human figures of indeterminate sex. The room remains unlit but for two sets of candles on the back wall.

The spotlights, four of them, switch on simultaneously. All trained on the star of the show. Chris has become accustomed to the cold of the cell for five weeks. Now it feels very hot, and he flushes. He tests the two or three centimetres of movement the ankle cuffs allow. He is going nowhere.

The kid can’t see the tall figure approaching him from behind, but the audience can, and a peel of hearty applause rings out. They have been spoilt, again, with the choice of boy made by the correctional facility on their behalf, and Derek, the tall man, is a firm favourite for ‘the end’.   

None of the guests have met Derek. I am the middle man in this, and I don’t get my hands properly dirty. All they know of Derek is what they can see, namely a muscular giant of 6’5”, with a deep brown skin tone perhaps from Nigeria or Ghana. Big hands, big cock. They cannot see his face, sheathed as it is in a leather hood, but they notice the glint in his dark eyes as the spare beam from a spotlight hits them.

Chris knows Derek is there only after he delivers a crushing leather-gloved spank to the kids left butt mound. He leaps as high as his chains allow, steel grazing his ankles before the rebound. I believe, from the sound, he felt he had been shot. It must have felt like it, anyhow.

Derek and I work well together. He would be no good for the prep work which I delight in, whilst I, frankly, need to hand over at this stage. Our partnership shows how broad the term ‘sadist’ runs. Yes I hurt, but I am sensitive to a boy’s emotions and feelings even if, often, I simply play with them. Derek is cruder, harder and overwhelmingly shocking in every sense. He is simply dangerous. You cannot prepare a boy, mentally, for working with Derek.

Chris’s chastity device crashes to the floor in a metallic thud, and Derek throws both it and the key to the back of the stage.

The youth has been in chastity since day one, five weeks ago, barring his final tip-to-toe wash. He did not ask for it to come off at any time, and very few boys do. It is the least of their worries. But I know boys. I know there are times, alone at night on that narrow sleeping platform with the hard, thin, plastic-coated mattress, when he would have relished some relief, and would have loved to take it in hand and cum to the thought, perhaps, of love making with his beloved girlfriend.

But there is no room for ‘love’ of any kind here, and there can be no fantasies for our boys – only grim reality. He will have come to understand that.

Chris’s cock droops placid. It’s not unimpressive, but more in the girth than the 7” length.

Seeing it again now, I am pleased I left him a well-trimmed pubic bush. He looks as he should. A masculine young man in deep, forced submission.

The kid is in pain again. Derek has grabbed, and squeezed his ball sac in one hand whilst tracing the veins in his neck with the other. The kid can feel Derek’s breath on his cheek, just centimetres away.

“Oh yeah baby, oh yeah.”

Derek likes a nice neck, understandably. He breaks off and addresses the dark auditorium.

“Gentlemen…..and lady…..before we go any further, I’d like to invite you on stage. Can we say two at a time? This is your chance to look, to touch, to feel, to prod some tight boyflesh. No need to ask permission, Chris is fine with it – key kid?”

I could only watch. Come on Chris, respond kid, respond.

At that point, Chris discovered Derek is not me. Just one, well aimed scissor kick up into the groin, catching his tender balls full on. One guttural scream from the 21 year old.

“I said you okay with that, cunt!?”

“Yes SIR!”

He had never called me Sir, and Derek had not asked him to do so. But the survival instinct had kicked in, for what worth. He now knew Derek.

******* 

The laying of hands was always an interesting experience to watch. Perhaps contrary to expectations, the vast majority of guests are content simply to slide their palms over sweaty, straining boy skin. There is some delicate feeling of young muscle definition. Several run their hands through the residual pubic bush.

The reason for my thoroughness in the final wash is to enhance the quality of the laying of hands. There is no smell but sweat and fear.

There is some tweaking of titties, and some massaging of cock and balls. There is some circling of butt dimples with scrawny fingers and surprisingly youthful fingers. There is some spreading of cheeks and worship of so-tight straight boy butt hole. In truth, nothing rough. Thus, for the first time in five weeks, Chris has experienced delicate hands.

Bless him, one older guy even drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped Chris’s glistening brow, albeit whilst mumbling some vulgarities into his ear. I liked that.

Without exception, the guests wished to admire Chris’s smooth, strong neck. Like the rest of him, lean but with not a hint of fat. That made sense.

The solitary female pair of hands caressed the kid extra-gently. One long finger, with one long fingernail, slipped between his crack and probed his anus, exploring then penetrating the rosebud, massaging his young rectum whilst the other hand slipped over his shimmering chest, squeezing and pulling his nubs.

Jessica, our domme guest, withdrew the anal finger with an audible pop and fed it to Chris, who sucked the digit without prompting, tasting his own shit chute, which now meant tasting nothing beyond his own fear. As he did so, his cock rose to half mast, and his stimulated nipples grew erect from his chest.

It was a tender moment, but it was over before it had really begun. One large teardrop ran down Chris’s cheek. He knew it was all downhill, now.

From stage left, a double bed is wheeled onto the stage. It is a simple affair, being just a black metal frame, and a mattress covered with a white fitted sheet. Each corner of the frame has short pillars, on which eye holes suitable for cuffs are mounted.

Derek unties the youth from his ankle and wrist restraints.

“Let’s fuck, kid.”

*****

Chris is straight. Sexuality is investigated in excruciating detail in what is known as ‘the interrogation’, which takes place in the first week a boy is imprisoned here.

The interrogation is emotionally demanding, because I need to know everything. What the boy studied at school and the grades he achieved; where he now works or studies; involvement in sport; fitness regime; relationships with family and peers; whom he first fucked, when and how; all subsequent sexual encounters; whether he has strayed beyond ‘vanilla’, and if so, into what. If the boy has a girlfriend, we of course examine the relationship in great detail.

The interrogation lasts as long as I deem necessary. We continue until I consider I have full answers. I have a tall armchair, positioned in front of the boy, who will be seated on a stool, under the glare of two spotlights. I will walk around, stretch my legs occasionally. The boy will remain on the hard wooden stool until I say otherwise. Sessions can easily last five hours. Often we return for another, although the threat of that usually encourages a boy to be a little more forthcoming.

Talk of long-term girlfriends, in particular, and my relentless pumping for more information about the relationship and the sex, typically engenders an emotional response. Some boys try to hide girlfriend history from me, but they normally break if called back for a second or third session. Third sessions are less relaxed, anyway. Third time around, the boy is wired for electro, and I crank until I have answers.

Chris, of course, couldn’t hide Chantelle from me, as he had already told me she had given him the watch. So I pushed hard for every last detail of their lives together, and the kid, twice, held his head in his hands and sobbed on the rickety stool, whilst I watched him redden under the glare of the spots. And when I got bored of it, I placed a hand on his substantial thigh, and spoke to him gently.

“The sooner I know everything, the sooner you have dumped everything you’ve experienced and felt, well, the sooner we can end this for you. Shall we push on?”

*****

Chris is at the bottom corner of the bed, standing legs apart, one foot on the floor, the other up on the mattress. The position he is holding removes most of the protection his meaty butt mounds offer his anal crevice. So many straight lads have those athletic, muscular butts which are simultaneously provocative whilst seeming to shout ‘no entry’.

Here, however, there are no one way streets. Boys open up willingly, or they are taken.

I had Chris’s cherry. I gave him some pointers before we started. Push out. Chill out. Hold on tight. I even lubed, although that was more for my benefit than his. As an experience, it was little different to most straight boy fucks. That is to say, there was little reciprocation or effort on his part to turn his raw sphincter into an erotic tool. For him, it was about dealing with a largely painful new experience. The feeling of being unnaturally stretched inside, the feeling of a need to dump a large turd that was, actually, my cock. His innards gripped me vice-like, warm and unbending, desperate for it to end. As I increased the pace and depth of my penetration, his knuckles turned white as he held the bedclothes for dear life.

Emotionally, the anal rape was no easier to deal with for Chris than any other straight kid. I had him under my thumb, and he knew it. His masculinity, everything he believed about himself, was being stripped away. Part of him blamed himself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, allowing him to be taken, to be imprisoned, to be raped, and yes, ended. I encouraged this self-guilt wherever possible. His boy pussy was being plowed, and it was his own fault.

Now Derek grips Chris hard above the left hip with one hand. In the other, he has a clump of the kids short, brown hair, pulling his head back hard. He pumps away at the protesting anus. An entirely mechanical fucking of the kid by 10 inches of raw Afro dick, and a mechanical fuck which has only two speeds, fast and relentless.

The grunting is coming from the youthful fuckee, through gritted teeth, rather than the fucker. This rape is not testing Derek physically, but Chris feels split asunder by the cruel invader. He wants to throw his head back and forth, in time with the piston in his anus, but Derek has him gripped tight. His long toes are screwed up into little balls of stress, the nails on his left foot scratching away at the wooden stage.

The guests are enjoying the spectacle. Every ending here has a fuck. It’s oddly ‘vanilla’, you might think, for an audience who pay to see a boy taken to the edge then thrown over. In my view, however, there is nothing more intimate than deep penetrative sex of a young man who struggles to cope with it. The guests feel that too, and are stimulated by what they see. There are occasional cries.

“Harder!”

“Deeper!”

Derek responds.

Changing position, he has the kid on his back, legs right back over his head and ankles tied off to the bedstead cuffs. This is a great position, I find, for the full appreciation of the boy butt, reared up in the air, the highest point of the lean frame. Also a punishing, vulnerable position for the rectum of the fuckee.

Now the audience can see Chris’s face. Really, a look of panic and horror. Mouth so wide as he pants away, trying to get his breathing under control as black rod lances creamy-white mound and the pink rosebud within. He can see his audience too, of course. Maybe he should look away, look straight into the eyes of the rapist above him, but at this stage, it hardly matters. So he looks at the small, varied group of men and a woman enjoying his debasement.

The bed frame squeaks in protest with each rhythmic thrust from Derek. It is, literally, inching across the stage, such is the violence of this assault. The top struggles to grip Chris firmly. He is dripping with sweat, and hands slip off smooth, wet, skin. 

Derek will not ejaculate. He will feed the kid his dick, when he is done, and Chris will clean away the pre-cum and understand, again, the taste of his own innards. His hole will be left raw, distended. The hole of a boy slut, not a football jock. An important step on his journey towards the approaching end.

*****

Chris is being pinned up.

Pinning does not feature in every adventure here, but the guests routinely request it, and I oblige. It’s a rather subtle activity for Derek the brute, but he adds interest by rattling through the process at some speed.

Derek has a tray, the opening contents of which number:

10x small pins

25x medium pins

15x large needles

The small pins are for the nipples. The medium for the testes. The large needles for the thighs and breast meat. 

Mentally, most kids can cope with the tit pins. To an extent, they can deal with the needles. But – and this is true without exception – I have never seen a boy accept the inevitably of the ball pins without shouting, cursing, chain rattling and a futile attempt at escapology. 

Chris is staked again, and tightly. Derek works primarily from behind the kid. Dark hands reach around his glistening torso, and slide pins through his tit nubs, five each side. There isn’t much room, for the boy’s tits have not been properly worked. They have never experienced weights, and they have never experienced electricity. They have missed the kind of BDSM basic training that, ideally, a hot kid should be introduced to by 15 or 16. So Derek rolls the nubs roughly between calloused fingers, which does induce modest nipple erection. Before the titties subside, he introduces the pins quickly. Tiny rivulets of blood flow down over Chris’s shaking pec meat.

The application of the long needles is a more time-consuming process. Suitable skin has to be located on the thighs, and on the pecs. The muscle underneath has to be massaged and prepared for the insertion. What little body fat exists on the 21 year old has to be rolled up by strong fingers, and a sharp needle rapidly inserted. Then the exercise is repeated fourteen further times. Needles dropping vertically through breast meat criss-cross those inserted obliquely. The same story on his thighs, with needles pushed up from bottom to top, and down from top to bottom.

He is being quite brave, really. He has sobbed continuously throughout this exercise. Yes, it is painful, of course, but the total lack of control is what’s freaking the kid. This now, but what next?

When Derek starts interfering with the kids nut sac, he knows ‘what next.’

“Fuck…….fuck no!”

Sure enough, we have the desperate rattling of short ankle chains, and much chafing of skin around the wrist and ankle cuffs as the straight kid struggles.

Then a surprise.

“Ben….Ben….please!”

The youth knows me as Ben. It’s not my real name, just a short forename to go by over his weeks of captivity. I am usually ‘Ben’ to the teenagers and twinks who have been resident in the dark cell. Sometimes ‘Nathan’. It hardly matters.

This hasn’t happened before. I’m not supposed to have any involvement at this stage, I just wait, literally, in the wings.

Derek, pin in hand, turns and nods at me. This is not in the rules, and I am normally a stickler for the rules, but something, somehow, has made me drop my guard. Derek retreats three paces, and I take his place.

“It’s ok, baby, I’m here.”

I reach out, and cradle his right butt mound in my palm.

“He’s gonna put those in my balls, yeah?”

“Yeah Chris, he is.”

He feels frighteningly clammy, now. Not hot, just fetid moist.

“Please, can you stop him, I don’t want that, I can’t take it!”

Salty tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, and dripping in streams onto his needled pecs.

“Baby, you can take it. You can take it because, as I’ve proved, I’m here for you. But think of this. I also want you to take it for Chantelle, yeah?  She would want you to go out putting up a fight, not wimping out. At least that’s what I think, hey?”

He became incoherent with emotion for a bit, and I was patient.

“But, how…..?”

“Chris, it’s like I told you when you came in here. You have to put yourself on a different level, mentally, yeah? Switch out the pain….”

He interrupted

“It’s bad, yeah?”

“Yeah, pretty bad, but pain is just in the mind. I was saying, you have to switch out the pain. I want you to concentrate on two things whilst you’re being pinned. Can you do that?”

“What?”

“Well, first, I’d like you to look the audience in the eye, as the pins go in, and show them how brave you are. Show them that you don’t need to cry through ball torture, and you don’t need to scream. Second, I’ve let your dick stalk go free. I want you to use that opportunity to think of Chantelle, baby. I want you to think of the good times you had, and the sex you had. I want your imagination to get really dirty. If you can show the audience how excited Chantelle makes you feel, I might ask uncle Derek to leave the last five pins.”

He looked at me with those doe eyes.

“Ten….could he leave ten?”

Cheeky fucker. Pleading, and so near the end.

“Three, Chris. I need to be fair to the audience, and you need to show them how disciplined a young boy can be. Remember, I know boys. I know you can do it!”

I moved my mouth within millimeters of his left ear.

“OK kid, lots of effort, work for that reward, and good luck!”

*****

I love the study of the musculature of a boy in pain. Of course, Chris can barely move his limbs. His long legs are spread and cuffed, his wrists hoisted and tied off way above his head. But his calf muscles are flexing. His thighs are bulging in and out. His biceps are so tense and domed. His back is trying to arch.

Despite all of this, the kid is looking through misty unfocused eyes at my audience, as suggested. Probably he’s not really seeing, but they appreciate his effort. These aren’t really a youth’s eyes any more, merely sunken, tired, scared, wet prisoners eyes.

Chris’s scrotal sac has been pierced and punctured by eighteen pins. Derek is holding his balls tight, at the base, and pulling them away from him body obscenely to aid application of the small instruments of torture.

Chris has screamed - and shouted - but mostly just screamed. He is hoarse and dribbling, his juice-maker being rapidly pricked into uselessness by Derek’s quick, uncaring hands.

And yet, despite everything, I and my guests can clearly see a little excitement in his dick tube. Oh, it’s not a full hard-on, by any stretch of the imagination, but it has grown maybe an inch in length, and is now saluting at quarter-mast, the raspberry red helmet bobbing away. I feel vindicated. I have denied the boy for five weeks, and the desperation for release has overcome the centres of pain in his tits, thighs and balls. I have given him a pep talk, because now I am his only hope, and he has listened and understood. Try and imagine how it feels, taking a boy to the edge in a NC scene, and feeling his total dependency.   

 

Now we have twenty pins.

“Please……”

Chris has been counting. I look at his wretched body, a thing of great beauty punished so mercilessly, just for being hot and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Little trails of blood cross his torso, some actively dripping, others losing impetus and emulsifying.

There is value in carrying over his sexual arousal to the end. Derek knows, and retreats for a moment.

When my big black sadist returns, he is carrying a stool. The stool. The rest of the stage has been cleared.

I feel an urge to return to my staked boy.

“Baby, I think you know, it’s time to finish this.”

*****

Third & final instalment to follow soon.

Comments appreciated at: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk