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Zac – The Unlucky One
Part Six
“Ahhh.....”
“Ahhh.....”
“Fuck.”
The unmistakable sound of a boy taking a big one, up an ass that remains too tight.
Yet, there is more to hear - the sound of a well-adjusted machine, powered by a quiet, efficient motor.
The motor drives a piston. Attached to that piston is a dildo. Attached to the dildo, is the rectum of Zachary Efron. The young marine has been taking fake dick for three hours.
Master visits the room just after mid-day, and switches off the fuck machine. The mechanical components take a few seconds to slow and stop, before falling silent, leaving just the ragged exhalations of the young soldier.
Master produces a kid’s plastic beaker, with an angled straw protruding from the cap. He offers the straw to Zac, who leans greedily into it and begins sucking up the contents, dry throat twitching away, parched.
The contents, incidentally, are not quite water. Zachary does not realise it, yet, but he has been drinking his own piss cocktail. Master started a few days ago, with a 90/10 water/piss ratio. Today, we are at 80/20.
Soon, despite his desperation for liquid – almost any liquid – Zac will begin to question the taste of what he is being fed. Initially, he will conclude his fuzzy, fluid-denied mind is playing tricks, and the water is simply a little stale. As the water/piss ratio approaches 50/50, however, he will understand, for the marine is not stupid. Perhaps realisation will give rise to resistance, but then again, maybe not. At present, what is unknown cannot humiliate the boy, yet Master will enjoy this re-cycling regime.
The small, barred window floods the room with light. It is bad down here in the early afternoon. There is rarely a cloud in the sky, and the heat is dry and unrelieved. A few large flies take a break from the nearby river that has dwindled to a trickle, and feed, intrigued, off the salty sweat of a naked, white American youth.
Zac remains in bondage for his feeding. Master does not believe in breaks or rest. The kid remains strapped to the simple gym bench, his legs lifted and spread at a point just below his knees by hoists positioned above him. His A-hole is exposed, vulnerable.
The marine has four days growth of fuzz on his face. Where he once felt baby-smooth, his facial texture is now that of sandpaper.
Master has been working Zachary hard. Very hard. The marine has made a little video. He has been tested, physically and sexually. Where possible, he has grabbed moments of light, troubled sleep. There has been no time allocated to shaving, or washing.
Zac’s legs are flecked with sand and dusty mud particles, from long, timed, forced desert runs. The kid’s boots look impeccable, still, because he has been made to keep them so. Master wished to send a signal to Zachary. Which had higher status – boots, or torso? The signal has not been lost on the marine.
Within those boots – which remain firmly on, as the butt machine works away – grains of sand play between Zac’s toes. His ankles are red raw. Zachary would love, almost more than anything, to get those boots off and soak his tired, tight-muscled feet in warm water enhanced with sensual oils. The boots have not come off in four days and nights. They have been polished by the kid as he wore them. The leather feels as though it is shrinking around his soles and digits.
Master feeds Zachary a banana. He will need a little more energy, for the afternoon.
“This afternoon, you’re going to work with something a little bigger, Zachary.”
The marine gives the slightest of sighs as he mashes the banana in his mouth. Master does not appreciate the reluctance.
“And, I thought we might try programme seven on the machine. This, in practical terms, means more deep-fucking; faster deep-fucking, and shorter respites of shallow-fucking breaking up those episodes.”
“Master......”
The kid stops without getting any further.
Master offers the straw again, and Zac takes the remaining pissy-water to wash down the banana.
“You will, in honesty, notice quite a change from programme four to programme seven. The change, Zachary, is the difference between fucking and drilling. We are moving from the realms of a setting a man could replicate, to a genuine, really stretching, machine fuck.”
Master moves to the machine, and unscrews the seven inch attachment Zac has been experiencing over the long morning.
“It’s a real shame you didn’t experiment around anal with Vanessa in all the time you had together. For the sake of buying a few toys, you could have made this so much easier for yourself.”
“Master......”
“Just let me get the attachment sorted out, Zachary, and then I will allow a question.”
The way in which Master brandishes the new intruder gives Zac a quite deliberate early warning of what is to come.
“Fuck!”
That is all he can say. There is no point in saying more. In fact, there was no value in even saying that, for the dick is being screwed to the piston whatever the marine thinks or feels.
“As you can see, Zachary, somewhat longer; somewhat wider, and much denser. Boys naturally worry about the length, but my tip of the day is to deal with the density first. This one is going to leave you feeling very, very, full. We’ve done the boy stuff - you are onto the man toys now, Zachary.”
This nine-and-a-half incher is black and bulbous. In shape, it bears only a passing phallic resemblance, with a half-hearted attempt at a carved head. It is a big lump, the impact of which will barely be lessened by Master’s application of a light coating of Boy Butter lubricant. It is crude, it is brutal, and it will shortly be raping the tired, used anus of Marine Zachary.
“Your question, Zachary?”
“Master, have you heard anything yet.......back from the States, I mean?”
Zac’s eyes betray his 24/7 exhaustion now, yet the striking blue pupils follow Master carefully, looking for signs in his body language.
“No, but that’s to be expected, Zachary. Your video will only just have reached them. They need time – what little time we have given them to respond – to decide whether they want you back, or whether we examine other avenues for you.”
The flicker of hope in Zac’s eyes dissipates as rapidly as it emerged.
Master is back at the control panel as he re-programmes the fuck machine.
“Master.....can I ask another question.....please?”
The captor fails to look up from his programming as he responds, adroitly.
“You know the rules, Zachary. One question only. On this occasion, I shall flex the rules if you give me something back.”
“Yes Master......what........what do I need to give?”
“I am one digit away from the programme choice. Seven, or eight. On reflection, I would really love to go for something just a little more vigorous with you, Zachary. I would like to see this piston working a little harder, and for your respite between deep-fucks to be curtailed somewhat. If I press eight, I think you deserve question two.”
“Please, Master. Just one more question.”
The marine finds the choice unpalatable.
“I have offered you one more question, Zachary. You must realise, by now, that rewards are not given away here. You have to work for everything.”
“Master......will you stay with me, this time, whilst the machine is going, in case it’s too much. Please.”
Programme eight is selected with a black leather-gloved finger.
“This will, certainly, become too much for you, Zachary. This is designed to be too much for a boy. I am intrigued to understand how your body, your mind, and your perception of self cope with ‘too much’. This will be a long afternoon for you, Zachary, and you will experience ‘too much’ on your own, with just your resilience for company. I will be back in three hours with some more water for you.”
Master depresses a plunger, and the motor clicks into life, followed by a gathering of momentum in the inter-connectors and piston.
Zac gasps as his sphincter is pushed open in the most unforgiving way. He hears the key turn in the lock, and reconciles himself to further sweaty solitude. Master has left a machine in charge of his boy.
*******
United States Marine Corps, Garrison Headquarters
Arlington, Virginia
Lieutenant General James Cole taps his pen on the casing of the laptop computer, open in front of him.
Media Player has gone silent, and so have the two men in the room.
“So, that was ‘Zac, the movie’? Some fucking movie!”
LtGen Cole, blond until his thirties, now sports a close crop of silver hair atop his lean, 6’2” frame.
“I can’t say I’d buy it on DVD.” He observes, dryly.
The memory stick, freshly received via courier from Yemen, via Europe, contained the four minute film.
Private First Class Zachary Efron, dog tag around his neck lest his identity be confused, is strung spread-eagled from a simple frame, throughout. His torso is lit by a bright, floor-standing interrogation lamp. The Private looks exhausted – fucked, in fact.
From the soldiers gonads hang his Marine-issue boots. Both of them. Gleaming and weighted, judging by the testicular stretching going on. His dick is caged in ribbed steel, with an attached tube, also of steel, slotted up his urethra.
“What the fuck is that, around his dick?” Cole asks the room in general.
“Some kind of chastity, I believe.”
The respondent is Cole’s aide, Major Tim McGiven. Happily married, but from a more sexually enlightened generation.
“So, our marine is still alive. Contrary to textbook Al-Qaeda operations, there is no great point of principle being staked, and no demand for a prisoner swap. Instead, the request is for thirty million dollars, and the heart-strings are being pulled by the humiliation of unlucky Zac.”
Cole’s mind is already racing as he speaks. Thinking and planning two or three steps head – the strategic Marine way.
“But this is some sick shit. For instance, are we going to let the family see this?”
Cole makes fists on the table.
“Or, indeed, the nation.”
McGiven follows up with the more profound observation.
“So, Al-Qaeda have changed their modus operandi. Or we have freelance hostage takers operating in bandit country. Or, the Iranian government are up to tricks. Pretty dangerous play, if it’s the latter.”
McGiven nods at his boss.
“Unsurprisingly, the ‘what do we do next’ bit is well above our pay grade, gentlemen. Tim, get a call through to the Pentagon right away. Once you’ve done that, start tracing back the mail consignment details, and get the memory stick packaged up and locked away. The four-eyed tech-heads will be crawling all over that for clues.”
*******
“Owwwwwww.........fuuuuuuucccck!”
The curses come thick and fast, each word vibrating in sympathy with the anal drilling Zac is taking.
Master listens outside the door. Zac’s moaning varies in tempo and volume with the demands being made upon his innards. Yet, that moaning is now continuous.
Consider, also, that the kid is alone. The voicing of his pain is spontaneous and part of a coping mechanism. It is not that he expects mercy via this running audio commentary of his butt rape.
Master knows the boy will be desperate. The slow-fucking respite moments – they could almost be loving, in another context – are too infrequent, and too short. More often, the motor can be heard working at high speed as it pile-drives Marine rectum. The piston shoots back and forth in a blur, like the coupling rods on a steam locomotive at full tilt.
In six hours, Zac has taken more stretching than a whore boy gets in a career lifetime. Inevitably, this is an experience that changes a boy, irreversibly.
Master turns the key.
“Please............!”
The begging starts as Master crosses the threshold.
Yet fucking hell, if you wish to see a boy broken, this is it.
Streams of sweat flow not just from the usual places – pits, forehead, pec cleft - but everywhere. As they do so, the salty corrosiveness cuts through days of grime on unwashed torso meat, leaving curious clean channels.
The kid stinks, of course, but of what?
High intensity raunch. Fear. Effort.
Good smells, then. A boy required to demonstrate the extent of his masculinity in adversity, whilst that very same masculinity is stripped away via a rape machine.
Master depresses the single button necessary to switch the machine off.
The marine’s eyes are glazed and unfocussed, his breathing ragged. Those slick pecs, with their impressive valley between, are rising and falling too rapidly. It is a bit ugly; a bit edgy.
“Please.....”
Zac’s pleading is hoarse, his vocal cords raw from moaning, and from screaming into emptiness.
“When this is over, you will rest for a while. Then, we will take advantage of the cool night to work right through. I wish to squeeze a dusk ‘til dawn session from you, Zachary. First, a tit and ball gymnasia, and then some electricity. Sparks by moonlight, you see?”
Of all the horror contained in that paragraph, the marine only hears four words. ‘When this is over.’
The compassionate would have cleaned up Zac a little, before feeding him. They would have wiped the snot away from his nostrils, and cleared the drool hanging limply from his chin. Yet for Master, such niceties are distractions and time-wastes. Arguably, he is not a Master at all, merely a limitless, driven sadist. The straw is inserted roughly between parched, cracked lips.
*******
“Raise your head, Zachary.”
The marine gasps at the unexpected pain of this minor muscle movement.
Master places a high-sided wooden brace under the kid’s neck, containing and constricting his head.
“And rest, again.”
The youth drops back into his new bondage. Bondage, as always, with a purpose.
Master moves to the corner of the room, where a tall, hat-stand shaped object, concealed with a black sheet, can finally be revealed.
“Noooo.........too much!”
Machine number two is wheeled over to a spot parallel with Zac’s head, three feet distant.
“I want more from you, Zachary. You have much more to give, I believe. I want your throat to start giving, and to be as well-trained as your anus.”
As he speaks, Master moves the business end of the new device into position. The long, angled arm is topped off by a simple piston, to which a further flesh-coloured dildo is attached. Master fine-tunes the angle of attack, and of penetration.
“Open up, Zachary.”
“Master, please.....I’ll do anything.”
Captor looks down at weeping, filthy, captive. Even his military crop looks a bedraggled mess after a few days growth.
“You will, Zachary.”
Master wishes to hear no more. The long, almost cylindrical phallus is crammed unceremoniously into reluctant twink mouth. Lips stretch thin around the rubberized surface.
“Mawaham.....”
The kid tries to speak around the dildo. Yet, even before the machine is switched on, he is effectively gagged.
“You will do two hours, fucked at both ends, Zachary. Programme eight, again, on the butt machine. On the throat machine, I have chosen a vigorous – really quite aggressive – deep-throat experience for you.”
Face speared, the marine can hardly move his head, yet his eyes continue to follow Master as he hovers over the gym bench, assessing the young man about to move to stage three of his ‘no holes barred’ session.
“Important not to panic now, Zachary. Breath through your nose, and control that breathing pattern carefully. Grip the gym bench hard when you’re being drilled at both ends. Enjoy the brief moments of respite both machines will allow you – although probably not at the same time.”
Master makes to press the button, but holds back for a moment.
“More than that, Zachary. Try not to enjoy ONLY the respite. See if you can feel something, other than pain and fear, during the double-ended pile driving. I will talk with you, later, about those feelings, Zachary. Is that fully understood, Marine?”
A blink of the eyelids signals a reluctant ‘yes’.
“When you complete this, you will have been opened up and stretched wide for eight hours, today. I am interested in your earlier question, Zachary. Do I get you right, that facing this alone, locked away, with no-one on hand to hit the ‘off’ switch, is actually the worst aspect of the exercise, for you?”
The youth gives the tiniest of nods around his phallic impalement.
“This is the stark truth, Zachary. There are dangers in leaving the machines unattended. The danger is doubled with two machines in play. You sense that danger, and you are scared. I sense that danger, and want to push you even harder towards it. This is life on the edge, Zachary, and unless your bosses come up with the ransom money soon, your journey to the precipice will continue.”
Buttons are pressed on the butt machine, and on the throat machine. Twin motors spool up to operating speed.
The marine squeals as rubber rapes his throat, whilst his ass lips pout red and thin, once more, around grotesque mock-phallus.
“Take it like a man, Zachary.”
Master closes and locks the door behind him. There are plans to progress for receipt of the ransom, and alternative plans, for Zachary, in the event it does not materialise
*******
To be continued
Blog: www.gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com
E: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk
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