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Sexual Decathlon
I hope you enjoy this multi-part story. I would welcome any feedback at:
bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk
In particular – I have not ticked the ‘snuff’ box. When you read part one, you will understand why. Which way do you feel it should go?
Part One
The finest thing about this project was, undoubtedly, the way the outcome hung in the balance.
Some of you will have read ‘The Drop’ before alighting here. If you did, you will know that my little scenes traditionally have a common, and terminal, finale. Yes, there are deviations along the way, variety being the spice of life, but I start my five weeks with a new boy knowing how it will all end.
Training my boy for the sexual decathlon left me despondent for him one day, and verging on euphoric the next. Actually, sometimes I experienced both those polarised emotions in the space of an hour. Of course, he also experienced hopelessness and hopefulness, although our ups and downs did not always coincide.
Achievement in adversity is, I suppose, the core theme here. But the problem with young men is that one never knows whether they will be prepared to push themselves hard enough to reach the exalted status of limitlessness, even when the issue at stake is their own future.
*******
Annoyingly, the concept of the sexual decathlon was not mine, although as always I transformed an idea into a scene. The meat on the bones, as it were.
My initial reaction to the suggestion, made by two of my best and most trusted customers, was dismissive. I already had a business model that worked, namely my customers sourced and delivered a boy to my door; collectively we arranged a small, select paying audience; and I hosted a spectacular and terminal BDSM show. One of the reasons the model worked was that the victim was no longer around to make a complaint, and our disposal process was exemplary. I was shocked at the suggestion that a boy might ‘walk’ at the end. The risk quantum changes immeasurably.
There was no pressure from my customers to change my mind. They know better than to chase and harass me, just as I would not conceive of chasing them for a new boy, a new piece of business. Our relationship is mutually respectful. Despite that, little over a week later, I found myself in a private dining room in a small hotel in Mayfair, London, discussing the proposition. I had surprised myself.
“I have one fundamental question, to which I need a definitive answer.”
I quizzed my customers over a main of chicken and mixed green vegetables.
“Have you decided already that the boy would fail? Would I simply be planning another take on ‘the drop’?”
Reza, of Iranian origin, 50-something, immaculately dressed but struggling to contain middle-aged spread, weighed my question.
“That’s two fundamental questions, but I have definitive answers, Ben. First, there is no pre-conception of success or failure. Inevitably, to preserve the quality of the scene, the outcome will be marginal. But the way it tips will depend upon the success of your training and preparation, Ben. Second, because of the marginality, a ‘drop’ will have to be part of the planning. But, uniquely, it will be a drop a hard-working boy can avoid.”
I took another mouthful of chicken, to preserve some thinking time before continuing.
“Olaf, you agree? No pre-conceptions? No preferences as to the outcome?”
The tall, thin Norwegian co-conspirator smiled.
“None. This will be intriguing for us, and for you, and for the audience. In fact, because you will be designing the sexual decathlon, and providing the training, it will be your pre-conceptions and preferences that will win out. Reza and I will simply be witnesses to what, I am sure, will be an amazing spectacle.”
“And what if I do not have a preference as to how this ends?”
I came back quickly.
“Well” Reza hesitated for a moment. “Then it’s all up the boy, isn’t it?”
Olaf continued.
“Ben, we would like this to be up to the boy. We have never given the boy a choice before. Now he controls his destiny. If he takes the drop, there is an element of that being a conscious decision.”
I pushed my cutlery to the corner of the plate.
“If he succeeds….?”
“If he succeeds, Ben, he will be off your premises within 2 hours, and we shall take full responsibility for him.” Reza said.
“Well, I think to leave live ones is a dangerous strategy, but as you have always been true to your word before, I won’t demand answers as to what ‘taking full responsibility’ involves, as long as that boy meat is on the road damn quickly.”
“Very good.” Reza chuckled.
“So, what are the ground rules, gentlemen?”
“There are four, Ben.”
Olaf took up the dialogue.
“First. Ten extreme, targeted, challenges to be overcome. All must be passed. Second, all the challenges must be passed in one 36 hour stretch that will be the show. Third, you will have three weeks to train and prepare the boy.”
“Three weeks?” I interjected.
“Three weeks exactly until curtain-up.”
“We’ve always done five. I have the five week pace, Olaf.”
“I know, Ben. That’s why we’ve lopped two weeks off. It keeps the pressure on you, and that’s deliberate, but when the boy realises what he must achieve, and he knows the stakes, we want him to see a close deadline. We want to see panic-stricken training.”
I bridled a bit. Olaf’s comments felt like an attack on the energy I deployed during the usual five week prep phase. I was unused to having my modus operandi questioned. He saw my disquiet.
“Ben, ground rules aside, we’ll be stepping right back as usual. This is your show; you will have total responsibility for the contents, and a huge influence on the outcome. In this case, and this case only, we really want the boy to feel the urgency though. Just trust us, as we trust you. It will work.”
Reza placed an olive-skinned hand on my shirt sleeve.
“It will be spectacular Ben. Your reputation in this game will go from huge to stratospheric.”
It was my turn to chuckle. Reza’s charm was corny but endearing.
“Plus, we shall all make a large sum of money. This show will be 50k per guest.”
“Come on, Reza. You know we all have more money than we need. We won’t talk about that any further until the proceeds are split.” I said.
“You are so right, Ben. It’s about the challenge, not the money.” The Iranian conceded.
“Also, it’s about the boy.” My voice dropped. “So, where are you with that?”
“We have selected, Ben.” Said Olaf. “Just turned twenty-two. Almost certainly one hundred percent straight. Zero BDSM experience.”
“Does he stand a chance?” They saw my frown as I spoke.
Reza fiddled with his iPhone on the table, then slid it over the starched white table cloth.
“You decide, Ben. You decide.”
I reviewed the shirtless image of a nicely built upper torso and broad, eager grin.
“Oh yes, Reza, the outcome here would be very uncertain.”
“Exactly, Ben. But drink that cute smile whilst you can. You won’t be seeing much more of it.”
I changed the subject.
“Earlier, you said there were four ground rules. But you’ve only told me three. What’s the fourth.”
“The fourth, Ben, is this.” Olaf said. “No pre-conceptions of success or failure.”
All three of us grinned.
“Time for coffee, I think.” Reza said.
******
Daniel is lost. He doesn’t know whether to shout or be silent; to hurl insults or to plead; to comply or fight. For the moment, he simply tries to make sense of his situation. Undoubtedly, at this stage, he will be scanning every room and assessing every captor for escape routes and points of weakness.
I am seated at the large beech wood desk in my study, in a modern but rather plutocratic chair. Daniel Care stands opposite, facing me.
“Legs a little further apart please, Daniel, and hands nice and tight behind your neck.”
He obeys, without looking at me. There is rarely any eye contact at the start, yet if the boy is to succeed, there will need to be plenty of visual interaction. It will come.
Daniel is naked, because that is the state in which he arrived here, barely an hour ago. Naked but for triple-weight steel ankle and wrist cuffs. He wears these not for symbolic reasons, but as a practical measure. He presents a high risk of fighting back. The burdensome steel will slow him significantly. It will be impossible for him to kick with any force, or to run with any speed. They strip him of the advantages of age and peak physical condition.
“Tell me, do you prefer Daniel, or Danny, or Dan?”
No response. He continues to look past and above me.
“Okay, well, whatever. My name is Ben, and I’m happy for you to call me Ben. However, if I’m going to train you, the way you think about yourself is going to change, so it might be easier, from the start, if you call me ‘Sir’?”
He wasn’t going to be drawn by this provocation.
“You know, you’re in serious trouble Daniel. Reza and Olaf have already briefed you. In exactly three weeks, you will be dangling from a rope by your neck. I believe they have shown you the videos to prove they are serious. Pretty frightening, hey?”
Talking to a brick wall is tedious, but at least this brick wall was pretty to look at. I have to hand it to Reza and Olaf, they had chosen very well. Here was a boy who could, just possibly, learn enough in three weeks to become a successful sexual decathlete.
Daniel stood at 5’8”, but weighed in at 85 kilograms. His torso was quite astounding. He had clearly been purging fat religiously, leaving nothing but chiselled muscle from the jaw bone to the calves. His pectorals were a masterpiece of definition – they looked almost knife cut. They were topped by perhaps the finest nipples seen in this house of pain. Perfectly round, the size of a £2 coin, and finished with wonderfully erotic man teats that just begged to be milked, used and simply fucking hurt.
Down below, in the gap I had asked Daniel to make by spreading his legs a little wider, swung a mushroom-headed cock, whose girth was more impressive than its length. Beneath, his sack was tight but full-looking.
Daniel was every inch the modern, masculine young man. The light stubble on his chin matched perfectly the colour of the hair which dusted his legs and lower arms, and formed a provocative trail from his belly button to his clearly generous, but nicely trimmed (for the girls) pubic bush.
I felt compelled to expand upon the journey the boy needed to make.
“Daniel, there is an alternative to the noose. That alternative is called BDSM. It’s important I’m honest here. Sadly, for you, we’re not talking about spanking or dressing up games. We’re talking about hard, painful, multi-disciplinary BDSM that will exhaust you physically, astound and disgust you sexually, and leave you emotionally confused. In three weeks time, you will be tested repeatedly, over 36 hours, in front of an audience. You will participate in a sexual decathlon. It will be you, naked, against the clock and against the targets set for you. If you reach your targets, you will go free. Otherwise, well, you’ve seen it with your own eyes, haven’t you?”
I paused. Still, he did not wish to speak.
“My role, if you accept my help, is threefold. Preparation, training, coaching. In three weeks, we will need to take you well beyond what even a skilled, active masochist experiences. If you are mentally ready to do whatever is necessary to save yourself, Daniel, I am here to focus and push you. But ultimately, only you can save yourself.”
Finally, he looked down from the ceiling, and momentarily caught my gaze.
“I will say one more thing at this stage. I know you are straight, and I sense you are proud. Remember, however, that nothing can debase or humiliate you unless you let it. I will need to take you to some dark places, but you WILL get used to the naked, desperate struggle. You will be struggling not for me, but for you.”
Suddenly, almost cutting me off, he found his voice.
“They’ll find me in three weeks. I won’t need to go through this twisted shit.”
He spoke determinedly, but quietly.
“Anyway, why would you help me? You’re in it with them.”
Of course, ‘they’ wouldn’t find him. Did the kid really think we were total amateurs? But the second objection was harder to brush off.
“Daniel, if you’re sure you want to reject my help, you may return to your cell. But please just remember this. The clock is already ticking, and in a strange way, I may decide whether you regain your freedom.”
He listened, but nonchalantly turned on his feet to face the door.
“Is it back to the cell then, Daniel?”
He had reverted to silence.
I followed him down the long corridors, up and down the flights of stairs, guiding him on left and right turns. Despite the encumbrance of the heavy steel cuffs, he kept up a confident, marching pace. He really was a capable boy; it was such a waste he had chosen not to apply himself to activities that might save him.
I watched his delightfully tight, smooth and defensive-looking butt mounds move gracefully. He still had pride, no doubt about that. He still had ideas about the places no straight lad, just turned 22, should ever have to go.
The youth entered the open cell without prompting. Here, he had everything necessary for survival. Meals delivered through a flap, twice a day. In the corner, the metal toilet bowl with pipes leading to an unseen cistern in the ceiling. Against a wall, the sleeping platform, available from 9pm to 7am, but otherwise raised vertical to the wall – for I do not allow ‘sleep ins’ here. The tiny, useless window near the ceiling. Dark grey walls. One light bulb, recessed behind a strengthened perpsex grill, operated by a timer controlled from a box outside the cell. It was living, of a sort. It was living for a boy on death row.
I made to leave the cell, but turned at the entrance.
“If you want me, I guess you’ll let me know?”
It was a rhetorical question but, in any event, he had crossed his cuffed wrists and turned away from me again.
*******
In my study, I tweaked and refined the sexual decathlon. Daniel’s belligerence was eating into his training time, but this period of inactivity gave me an opportunity to personalise the games around the youth, who I had now been able to assess with my own eyes. For example, having seen the sturdiness of his musculature and the evident power in his limbs, I comprehensively uplifted my targets on the exercises requiring strength and endurance. If the kid hadn’t been so stubborn, we would have been busy working together and I may have run out of time to re-visit his objectives. Instead, I took some pleasure in striking through my earlier work with a red pen, and inserting more demanding numbers.
Conversely, my pen lingered for some time over Daniel’s anal targets. He was a little shorter than I had imagined. The flexibility of his insides would be finite.
Tired, I shut the book and left the matter in abeyance.
I logged into the iMac on my desk, and patched into the Cell Cam. It was a fairly old piece of kit – far from HD – but it did the job. Daniel the athlete was unaccustomed to the limiting closeness of captivity, and the emptiness of solitary confinement. He sat on the thin-rimmed toilet bowl for a few minutes, sometimes bolt upright, sometimes head in hands. Then he would pace the cell for a few minutes. Repeat ad infinitum. There was, literally, nothing else to do.
At 9am and 5pm daily, his meals would be delivered, impersonally, through a flap by unseen hands. Always, a high protein liquidised mush of chicken, eggs and vegetables, with a liquidised mush of fruit to follow, on paper plates with plastic cutlery. In one corner of the cell, an orderly pile of used paper plates started to build, the only objects in Daniel’s 7’ by 6’ prison.
At 9pm, catches would release the sleeping platform to a horizontal position and the single bulb lighting the cell switched out.
Early on day three, I wrote a little note, and glued it to the bottom of the paper plate forming Daniel’s 9am meal. It was headed ‘The disciplines of BDSM’, and read simply as follows:
Anal challenges
Cock challenges
Ball challenges
Electrical challenges
Forced labour challenges
Corporal punishment challenges
Production challenges
Toilet service challenges
Titty challenges
Endurance challenges
That was it. No explanatory notes, and no response requested. Daniel found the thin piece of paper, of course, and I watched the 22 year old read it whilst sat on the toilet, and read it whilst he paced. He clung to it. His brow furrowed more than usual beneath his head of lustrous, short cut black hair. He would not have understood some of it, of course, being a BDSM virgin, but his file showed a reasonable academic track record. He would have understood enough.
I thought I might hear back from Daniel that evening, but in the event, he slept on it, and we reached day four.
He was up early that morning, well before the sleeping platform was winched back to the wall at 7am. When I delivered his 9am meal, I could hear, through the solid outer door, the sound of the inner, open-framed metal door being rattled urgently. That, and shouting for my attention. But was it just pleading, or was there a genuine readiness to perform; to toil; to sweat; to be hurt; to impress; to save himself?
I took a leisurely breakfast myself. I wondered if, having spurned me for three days, Daniel now realised that time was running very short. I checked the Cell Cam. He was stood, slumped against the inner door, strong hands white through their tight grip on the metal bars. He looked ready.
As the morning advanced, I crafted another note.
‘Daniel.
I wonder if you are now ready to be trained?
If so, I need to test your readiness.
I am delivering with this note a toy, for use on your testicles. It’s called a scrotum shackle. You will see it comes with a key, to lock it into position. I am also sending in two metal objects, called tower weights. These come with hooks, which fit over the loops on each side of the scrotum shackle.
Daniel, I would like you to fix the scrotum shackle onto your testicles. You should pull your balls down, the slide the stretched skin above them through the shackle opening. Then, you close and lock the shackle tightly with the key. Finally, you should attach one tower weight to each loop on the shackle.
Can you do that for me, Daniel?
When that’s all done, I would like you to take the key, put it into the toilet bowl, and flush.
Then, finally, I would like you to stand, facing the cell door. I would like your legs to be a metre apart, and it is important that the distance is at least a metre, Daniel, otherwise I will ask you to try again. You should clasp your hands behind your head, nice and tightly.
I would like you to hold that position for three hours. I don’t want you to move Daniel, I want you to keep nice and still on your feet, with your legs nice and wide apart. I really want to see that shackle between your legs, and the two tower weights stretching your balls. They are 550 grams each, and you will feel better if you don’t let them swing. Just relax. Can you do that for me, Daniel?
I thought, when the three hours are up, I might come down for a little chat, to see whether we can work together.
By the way, you still haven’t told me, is it Dan or Danny or Daniel?
Ben (Sir)’
I popped the note through the cell flap in the early afternoon, along with the various metal contraptions. From past experience, I assumed it would take him twenty minutes or so to work out how to thread on the scrotum shackle, then tighten it with the hex-lock key, but perhaps I had underestimated both his desperation and physical dexterity.
By the time I returned to my study, Daniel Care was stood over the toilet, nervously fingering the key. His other hand was stroking the metal collar weighing on his balls, perhaps already conscious of the discomfort that would truly set in only after 30 minutes or so. Ruefully, he threw the key into the bowl and saw it disappear as the cistern unleashed a cyclone of fresh water.
I made myself a coffee. When I returned, Daniel was in position, legs stretched, balls stretched. And, do you know, he had found the hitherto unnoticed camera in the upper corner of the cell. He looked at me through deep brown eyes that I could read perfectly.
Because, and only because, his life depended on it, he was surrendering to the painful, intimate journey of straight boy BDSM training.
******
To be continued. I would like you to tell me – should Daniel succeed or fail?
bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk
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