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Zac – The Unlucky One
Part Four
The 21 year old remained on his knees, freshly anally raped. Semen drained from his boy hole, and multiple viscous threads of cum fell, string-like, towards the sandy earth.
The exhausted kid felt light in the head, after being screwed in the heat of the yard for so long. Never underestimate the physical challenge of a boy fuck for a first time bottom – even one as fit as Marine Zac.
“Master, may I have a drink?” The kid asked, hoarsely.
“Zachary, now we have fucked, you may look up at me.” Master deflected.
The marine gingerly raised his head, not entirely convinced this was a good idea. He looked into a set of piercing blue eyes, on an angular, clean-cut face. Not just piercing eyes, but something else. Cruel eyes.
This was Master, his musculature more substantial, even, than Zac had anticipated from the reflections on the Land Cruiser. In addition to his generous blond pubic bush, the man had a covering of similarly-coloured down on his chest and legs, and a good clump in each arm pit.
Master handled his gob-slick dick, freshly cleaned by the kid, and waved it centimetres from Zac’s face.
“Zachary, before you drink from a glass, you must drink from the tap.”
The Arabs laughed.
The kid wasn’t stupid. He understood the suggestion. Kind of.
“What do you think is going to happen, Zachary?”
“You’re going to piss over me, Master?”
“No, marine, that’s not quite right. I’m going to piss INTO you. You’re going to open your mouth, and I will empty my bladder into it. So long as you don’t spill a drop, then I will make sure there’s a nice glass of water to wash it down with.”
Now the kid really did understand. Every muscle in his body suddenly became tense. It was a furious, indignant tension.
“It’s called fluid exchange, Zachary. First you’re bred with my cum, then you drink straight from my hose. It helps a Master to bond with his boy.”
“Please don’t make me do this shit, Master.” Zac pleaded.
Perhaps the kid wouldn’t have resisted yesterday, or tomorrow, but today he was literally fucked out. Too many layers of dignity had been stripped away in too short a period. He still didn’t know what the fuck they intended doing with him. Hope was receding rapidly.
“Is that a no, Zachary?”
“I don’t want to do it. I won’t do it!” The kid said, re-discovering his bravado.
“I think you need time to reflect.” Master replied.
*******
They have left Zac in the yard, bound, in an X-shape, to an open metal frame.
Before they left, they retrieved his marine issue desert combat boots, and tied them together, as a pair, with the laces. Then, the heavy bundle secure, they wrapped the package with a short rawhide cord, and affixed it to the base of Zac’s chastity-constricted boy organs.
The two boots hang obscenely between Zac’s thighs. Obscenely bulky, yes, but also obscenely weighty. The cord dries and shrivels in the sun, losing any elasticity it may have possessed. These men like dead weights on boy balls, Zac realises, far too late.
The kid shakes the cuffs which secure each limb to a corner of the frame. An entirely futile pursuit. The cuffs are boy-proof, with no slack. His jerking movements send the ball weight swinging back and forth, pendulum style. Ball pain nausea engulfs the boy. He coughs up a little sick.
Burning, de-hydrating, Zac accepts he has no control over his own destiny. He closes his eyes. He becomes still, almost rigid, in his bondage, and as five minutes become ten, become twenty, he drifts in and out of consciousness.
*******
“What made you resist, Zachary? Was it the expected taste, or the humiliation?”
The marine thought for a moment.
“Mostly the humiliation, Master.”
Zac is back on his knees, inevitably, in front of Master. His mouth is millimetres from Master’s dick head. Those were his instructions – bring your mouth as close as you can, but don’t touch.
“Well, they tell me the taste isn’t too bad, when you get used to it. Maybe we’ll talk, tomorrow, about the humiliation, but not now. I guess your throat is parched?”
“Yes, Master.” The kid did, indeed, sound very scratchy.
“You need fluid. You will come to accept whatever is on offer.”
“Yes, Master.”
“There won’t be time, once I start, to analyse the taste, or swill, or gag. Just keep the throat gulping. Do you understand, Zachary?”
“Yes, Master.”
And so, in the middle of the yard, with the Arabs forming a semi-circular audience in front of him, Zac rose a little on his knees to catch the torrent.
Master had clearly been holding back for some time. His flow was a healthy straw-like colour, and that flow was a powerful blast that ricocheted off the back of Zac’s throat, spun around his mouth like a whirlpool, then tried to find an exit route down his gulping passage. The whirlpool was constantly replenished. In fact, it filled from the tap quicker than it could empty from the plug. The young marine struggled to deal with, literally, a mouthful of piss. He tipped his head back a little, desperate to avoid any spillage, only to feel a sudden need to gag, to choke.
Master abruptly squeezed his prostrate to stop the flow. Not for long. Just three or four seconds. Long enough for Zac to drain his mouth, and make brief eye contact with Master.
“Please…”
“Again, Zachary.”
The dick hose blasted once more. The pressurised urine foamed in the mouth of the young marine. Leakage slipped over his lips and down his chin, but he couldn’t pull it back with his tongue whilst also dealing with the ongoing piss cannon. Still, as long as it didn’t drop to the floor, he was ok.
The flow subsided. Zac rose further from his haunches to move nearer to the weakening stream. He had been so anxious to swallow the full load, only now did he have time to think of the taste – salty, bitter, strong. His insides began to groan, both at the quantity of fluid they had been forced to accept, and it’s unfamiliar acidity. The skin over his bloated tummy perspired a pissy sweat.
“Last few drops, Zachary.” Master said, squeezing his long tube and shaking a few drips into the kid’s wide-open mouth.
“Not so bad, Marine?”
“Master, I think I’m going to be sick.”
The pissy taste, the serious heat and the fear had all got to the young soldier. As he finished his sentence, he gave first a dry heave, then a much deeper one from the pit of his stomach. Crouching, he sicked dramatically over his pristine black boots.
*******
06.45 am
Master issued a simple instruction to the Arabs. He wished to be woken, as the sun rose, by the sound of Zachary’s physical exertion.
Is there a sweeter melody to be roused to than the ‘ahhs’ and ‘ohhs’ of a young man, himself shaken from sleep in total darkness, exercising for you under duress?
The Arabs had done a good job of creating a makeshift assault course from the detrius in and around the yard. Oil drums, on their sides, formed little fences to be jumped. Lengths of concrete tube formed tunnels to be crawled through. There was a rope to be climbed, hung out from the house wall by way of a hook on a strong arm. They had even crafted a simple wooden horse to be vaulted.
The young marine ran naked, but for his boots and his too-tight chastity.
“Go!” They had simply commanded him.
How fast, and for how long? Zac wondered.
In truth, the Arabs had little idea either. Master decides when a boy stops.
The Arabs were not totally redundant, however. They could supply motivation. The kid had been going for almost thirty minutes – leaping, crawling, climbing, vaulting – before his little gasps and sighs became noticeably more laboured, and his lean, defined pectorals turned dewy with sweat.
Master stirred as the ‘ahhs’ and ‘ohhs’ changed pitch, becoming more guttural.
The boy threw glances at the Arabs. Maybe they would let him slow down, or rest for a bit? This kind of hope often rears its head, early on, whilst a boy is transitioned into a forced BDSM environment. Forgetting the lessons of the previous day, a kid hopes, desperately, that overnight his captors have discovered compassion, mercy, empathy. Yet the respite never comes. As the boy looks for signs of humanity, the lead Arab is handed, by one of his minions, a bull whip.
As Zac completes relentless circuits, he catches a glimpse of the long tail, with the three wide plaits at the very end. He sees the Arab slip his hand through the loop at the base, the weapon being readied for use.
The marine puts on a little spurt, running through his serious discomfort like a good soldier. This is a positive reaction. The whip stays furled.
Master walks onto his first floor balcony, in a dressing gown made of fine white Egyptian cotton. Zac catches his eye, nervously, on his next circuit. He finds, from deep within him, the reserves necessary to push on a little faster still.
Round and round the kid goes, for another twenty minutes. An exhausting, infinite exercise.
The bull whip? Well yes, it was unfurled, and yes, its high velocity whistle through the air was heard by all – over and over again. This was a textbook bull whip application, on display for Master, and why?
I have to tell you, the long plaits touched no more than the rear of Zac’s heavy black boots. The kid, literally, ran scared. The motivation worked. He moved so quickly that the whip tail which may otherwise have lashed the back; the buttocks; the thighs, fell into the fresh imprints of Zac’s boots in the sand. He was perpetually half a second ahead of the rubber motivator.
“Stop!” Master called from the balcony.
The kid made to bend at the waist, panting loudly – horrifically loudly, really. Shattered.
“Come to formal attention, and face me!”
Standing up again, arrow straight, was perhaps the most difficult thing yet.
“Your full name, and rank. Shout it now. Shout it so it echoes twice around the yard.”
“MARINE ZACHARY DAVID ALEXANDER EFRON, MASTER!”
Master let the echo die. He always insisted upon a morning roll call. Initially names, but with some boys, as a process of objectification took hold, a name and number and, finally, a number only. Somewhere in the system, Marine Zac already had an allocated number.
“You enjoyed the run, Zachary?” Master continued.
“Yes, Master!” Giving the expected response, rather than the honest one, was already becoming second nature for the kid.
“Okay. Abdul is going to take you to my office now, Zachary, where you will wait for me at formal attention. It’s time for us to talk about your future.”
“Yes, Master!” Finally, perhaps, some questions would be answered.
*******
Zac is in tears.
The kid thought he had done well on the exercise circuit. He thought – after his initial resistance – he had done well to take Master’s piss load yesterday afternoon. He was pleased to be called to the makeshift office. If only he could start a dialogue with the man, surely that would be the key to an easier relationship between them, and – eventually – release?
He had waited ninety minutes, at attention. On his side of the desk there was nothing but an X, marked on the bare concrete with masking tape, and upon which he stood. On the other side of the desk was Master’s vacant, high-backed leather chair. There was nothing on the desk – no PC, papers or stationery. Master travelled light.
As he stood, Zac realised his boots were chafing his bare heels. They seemed too heavy and cumbersome to wear, 24/7, around the house. He would not have worn boots around the barracks. Zac did not understand BDSM yet, therefore he could not comprehend that the boots were part of the torment, and a deliberate contrast – heavy, manly, straight boy footwear, immaculately polished, juxtaposed against straining, punished, sweating, naked fuck boy torso.
Master entered from the door behind Zachary and stood, as he always did, silently behind the boy.
“How long have you been seeing Vanessa, Zachary?”
“Four years, Master.”
Only two people in the world called him Zachary. One was his mother – especially if he was in trouble, growing up. The other was Master. Master cannot become over-familiar with his boys. You cannot be a sadist, and take boys to dark, extreme places, against their will, and at the same time be their friends. So at present it is Zachary, and eventually it will be a number, as identity is stripped away in layers over time.
“You must miss her, badly?”
“Yes, Master, I’d love to see her again soon.”
“As we talk, keep your legs spread nice and wide, Zachary. No movement.”
What was he planning?
“Yes, Master.”
“Is she a kind, caring girl, Zachary?”
“Yes, Mast…AWWwwwwwwww fuck!”
As Zac answered, Master silently drew a cattle prod, took careful aim at the kid’s chastity-bound genital package and zapped.
“Never done anything to hurt you?”
“No Mast…OHHhhhhhhh shit!”
Zap. The little blue spark leapt, highly charged, from the prod to Zac’s metal chastity cage. The shock travelled through his balls and, even more painfully, along the penis plug wedged deep in his urethra.
“Do you love her, Zachary?”
“Yes Mast……Awwwww why the fuck are you doing this?!”
“Have you thought about marrying her?”
“Yes Mast…..Awwwwww fuck!”
“You prefer simple sex with Vanessa, to sex with me and my chains, and my tit clamps, and my bull whip, and my electric toys, Zachary?”
The kid went silent. How to answer.
Zap. Master loved the way the prod functioned, with a single, high intensity ‘click’ and a vivid flash of blue electricity.
“Awwwww fuck!”
“I want to know, Zachary Efron.”
“Yes Master, I prefer Vanessa.” What the hell, the young marine thought.
Master drew closer. He reached around the kid’s upper torso from the rear, as he had done so many times before, but this time with prod in hand. Zac dared not look down, but he knew where the prod was directed.
“We found her picture in your kit, Zachary. The Arabs wanted to keep it for themselves, as a souvenir, or perhaps to taunt the American media. But I thought, maybe, if you were a good boy, you might like it with you, in your cell.”
“Yes, thank you Master.”
“Keep absolutely still then, Zachary. I want to zap your titties.”
Master depressed the button firmly. The blue shock travelled immediately to Zac’s right tit clamp, then along the chain over his pec meat to the left tit.
“Awwwww……hurts so much!”
Zac is back to the verbalisation of his pain, which excites his sadist – as Zac would say – ‘so much’. He still hasn’t learned.
“The sex here must seem very strange?”
“Yes, Master. Awwwwww…”
“And yet, I see how the electricity has made your tit nubs perfectly erect. Strange isn’t it, Zachary?”
“Y…awwwwwww!!”
Master has moved the prod down, and is now shocking the marine’s flat abs.
“You see, Zachary, whilst you may think of this as torture, for me this is pure sex. It is how sex with a young man should be. Like a good coffee – very dark, very intense.”
Zap. It is the turn of the kid’s meaty thighs to feel the prod.
“Nobody told you to move your legs, Zachary. Please don’t make me punish.”
Master goes silent, but not inactive. His prod tours the young torso, creating new centres of pain, zapping calves, inner thighs, outer thighs, buttocks. Every so often he returns to Zac’s genital cage and works it over. The only sounds are the click of the prod, and the relentless sobbing of a young man, head down, salty tears falling to the concrete floor.
The man stops for a moment.
“Do you find this humiliating, Zachary?”
“No Master, it just hurts.”
“You will learn, Zachary, that pain is inevitable, and that pain and sex are indivisible. But I am pleased you don’t find this humiliating. This darkness will worry you less when you cease to care what other people think, and when you cease to care that others are witnessing your pain.”
Zap. The prod has found the marine’s armpits.
“You have two vibrant bushes of pit hair, Zachary. I suppose some girls love that.”
Zap. The other armpit is shocked. The pit hair is suddenly wet with highly-charged nervous sweat.
“But when I look at your pubic bush, your boy hole hair, your pits, Zachary, I just feel it’s time to start stripping away some of this redundant masculinity, so we can really start to harness the submissiveness of your boyhood. What do you think, Zachary?”
The prod probes the butt mounds of the young marine, and finds his hole.
“Awwwwww……yessss Master!”
*******
To be continued.
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Blog: http://gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com/
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