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There is nothing to be heard but the spinning of electric motors, and the movement of twin pistons with quiet, Germanic efficiency. Little clicks mark the limit of travel for each piston, and the commencement of a new penetrative journey. It is only the frequency of those clicks which serves to frighten.
The boy cannot be heard. No wailing; no grunting, no cursing.
Master wonders, for a moment, whether the torso has shut down. Perhaps the nose blocked with snot at the wrong time, during a particularly intense cycle on the throat machine? Maybe internal organs have struggled to deal with eight hours – yes, really – of deep drilling at jackhammer pace? Programme ten on the butt machine would, undoubtedly, have delivered that outcome, yet Master knows programme eight is the special one.
Number eight feels damaging and relentless to the young recipient, ass hole presented naked for the plunder.
Number eight demonstrates Master’s limitlessness, lest Zachary be in any doubt. It is Master’s statement of intent.
Number eight is to drift in and out of a semi-conscious trance - a loss of control that leaves the boy utterly discombobulated.
Number eight is to feel close to the End, locked away alone, with nobody to monitor or provide care. Nobody, even, to enjoy the suffering-wracked torso.
Number eight is to show a boy the Edge, and ascertain whether he emerges beaten, fighting, or the third way – ready for more, even if he denies that readiness.
*******
Master unlocks the room, and is struck by the three sources of heat within – sun, machines and boy. This is now a real sweat shop.
The kid’s eyes are closed tight, and he is too far ‘away’ to notice the return of Master. That remains the case when the machines are switched off. The Marine torso refuses, for a while, to acknowledge the deep-fucking is over, and vibrates away on the gym bench with its own momentum.
Master is attracted to the young forehead, onto which clings a dense, clammy sweat made up of tiny beads. His leather-gloved palm brushes over the wetness. Zac stirs a little, and he peers through the slits allowed by heavy eyelids.
The area around the lips and chin is saturated with spittle. Master scoops up the drool with his index finger, and massages it into Zac’s cheeks with a gentle, swirling motion.
He returns to the full, fucked lips, which by way of contrast are dry and chafed. Master traces those lips with the same index finger, and Zac gives the tiniest of sighs at the receipt of a little moisture.
“Are you able to speak, Zachary?”
The kid has yet to try. When he does so, there is nothing – not even a whisper. The vocal chords are trying to work, but the throat is too traumatised, for the time being. Master has seen this before.
With swift movements perfected by familiarity, Master unclasps and removes the straps holding the boy in bondage.
“Up, Zachary.”
A generous allowance of six seconds is given for movement to commence. Zac remains static. Has he even heard the request through his mental fog?
The palm that caressed becomes the palm that slaps the Marine’s cheek, twice, in rapid-fire succession. The sound of young flesh being struck ricochets around the bare room.
“Up.” Master repeats, simply.
Disorientated, the kid leverages himself up onto the buttocks that have done such a poor job of protecting his hole. He sits on the black cushions of the gym bench, soaked, slippery and compressed following their participation in the events of the day.
“Up.” Master insists, any trace of patience in his voice now gone.
Zac uses his knuckles to raise himself off the bench, but is not expecting the jelly-like feeling in his legs, as he attempts to stand. He stumbles like a new-born foal, almost toppling to the floor, before throwing out a hand to steady himself on the steel frame of the bench, into which he leans heavily for support.
Perhaps, at this point, some may have acknowledged the ordeal just endured by the kid, and cut some slack. Master, however, is cut from different cloth.
“You know how to present yourself here, Zachary. You stand unsupported, legs nice and wide, hands clasped behind the neck, eyes ahead. Do it, Zachary, and do it now!”
The boy shakes his head, and makes to say something to Master, but of course nothing comes out.
“No more fuss, Zachary. Just perform for me.”
Master guesses the mute objection.
The boy wobbles, legs still almost useless and vibrating with the aftershocks of the butt machine. He releases his grip from the bench, and manages a tentative, unsupported vertical.
“Move away from the bench now, Zachary.”
The comfort is being removed. Private First Class Efron shuffles a few punch-drunk paces to the centre of the room.
Master encircles captive, observing, evaluating. The kid knows what will happen next. He knows how to avoid it, yet his torso is frozen in this confused paralysis. He braces himself.
“Completely unacceptable, Zachary.”
Masters words are drowned by the familiar crack of electricity, as a flash of blue light sparks between the Marine’s legs, at the base of his testes.
“Wider!”
The kid throws back his head in a silent scream that cuts no ice with Master. He wills his brain to make his legs move apart.
The second shock is delivered right up in the pelvic region, between low-hangers and inner thigh.
“Give me three feet, Zachary.”
The soldier finds a reserve of strength to lift the pristine boot on his left leg, and place it back down on the concrete, heavily, a further eighteen inches distant.
“You know how a boy should pose, Zachary. Legs spread wide, always. Nuts hanging low, free, and ready for use. The pose of a boy should represent an invitation, and never a defence. Understood, Zachary?”
The Marine’s nodding is urgent, panicked.
The prod traces Zac’s butt crack, flirting with the dark interior. The boy is utterly resigned to the button being pressed again.
The shock epicentres on his distended ass lips.
“Buttocks high, firm and proud, Zachary. No drooping.”
Now the kid’s head has fallen, and his chin rests upon his chest as he dry-heaves tears. Nevertheless, he hauls his butt mounds up an inch or so, and tenses the impressive globes.
“There are good reasons for insisting upon perfection in your pose, Zachary. First, it marks respect to me, given the sacrifices I have made to look after you. Second, if there is no fruitful contact from the Americans, over the next few days, you will have some visitors.”
Master allows the prod to play in the kid’s damp arm pits.
“Those visitors – those men – await my ‘phone call. They are your alternative exit route from the desert, Zachary. They are your opportunity to start again, in Azerbaijan, Thailand or Gabon, perhaps. The men will be flying out with money, and extraordinarily high expectations of their potential Marine meat.”
“F..uck nooooooo!”
Zac has re-discovered his voice, albeit a deep growl that stutters staccato-like between syllables.
“Yes, Zachary. So why don’t you puff out your breast plate a little, and display those tits as you’ve been shown on countless occasions?”
The Marine’s pectorals duly rise, capped by those perfectly round nubs, so sensitive to pain or – irrelevantly – pleasure.
Master runs the prod up and down the Marine’s right flank, sensing the tension in his torso.
“I thought, as a finishing touch, I would ask for your tongue, Zachary.”
The kid gives a little snort, and a modest yet undoubtedly defiant shake of the head. He knows where this is heading.
“How is the chastity, Zachary? I mean, I guess the tightness makes it uncomfortable, but I would like to know how badly it frustrates you.”
Master’s question arrives from leftfield. The prod slides carefree over slick pectoral meat.
“Zachary, do you need release?” Master persists.
“You’ll make me pay......” The Marine croaks, evading a direct response.
“I know, when a boy is worked so hard, basic needs do not go away. In fact, they can become more profound. Is that how it is for you, Zachary?”
The head shakes again.
“I’ll wait until I’m free.”
“I admire your certainty, and your patience, Marine Efron. Just remember, those who will be viewing you, shortly, will have their own plans. They may ask me to prep you, before you are packaged up for your journey. If they require me to weld shut that lock that on your cage, I will do so.”
“Fuck them!”
“I worry for you, Zachary, because you think this is tough, yet this is boot camp. One of the men you will meet likes to alter boy’s bodies, quite drastically, over time. Another group of men run a very niche pornography studio – invitation only, you know?”
“They’ll get me out of here!” Zac almost spits his riposte.
“We’ll see Zachary. But please think about what I have said. If your needs, and the frustration they cause, become too much, we can talk about allowing you some respite from that cage.”
“You’ll make me pay?” The Marine repeats his earlier rhetoric, this time as a question.
“Yes, Zachary. If you allow me to take control of your breathing, I will allow, just once, your reward of cream.”
The kid falls silent.
“Now, I want your tongue, Zachary.”
*******
“Please......no.”
The 21 year-old Marine whispers as the prod caresses his stubbled cheeks. His tongue is extended fully, dog-like.
Boys who are broken – defeated – cease to plead. Master is not quite there yet, with Marine Efron, but he is some way on that journey with the Californian kid.
“When you receive the electricity, Zachary, you must hold your pose. Hold it carefully and respectfully. I do not expect to see muscles twitching, or those legs inching closer together. All I expect to see is a spark, and all I expect to hear is the click of the trigger. Yes?”
The kid nods, mouth wide open, blue eyes darting around following the tip of the prod, which pushes Zac under the chin.
“Head up a little, Zachary. Keep that proud look.”
The only evidence of the first shock is, indeed, the little bolt of blue lightning, and the loud click of the ignition button on the prod. Zac’s zapped tongue is suddenly dry and crusty. It takes thirty seconds for the veins in his temple to engorge, and for the beady sweat to return. The Marine inhales noisily, fists clenched, yet he has remained rooted to the spot.
“Another.” Master informs, rather than consults.
This little exercise should really be throwing the Marine around the room. Master has the prod set high, as always, leaving one or two settings in reserve, but never more. Yet, the kid is learning self-discipline and resilience in the face of sadistic use. He is learning about pride in limitlessness. He is starting to accept ‘status zero’. He is opening up so many possibilities for that tight torso.
Master encircles the boy between shots. The butt melons trickle with sweat, yet they remain raised, tight, and so very masculine and strong. At the front, the dirty pec cleft forms an impressive valley between two alert and erect boy nubs.
And down below, there is every sign that flesh is straining, desperately, against the tight confines of the steel chastity.
The prod is applied fifteen times to Zac’s tongue. Five more than Master had planned. His boots remain anchored to the concrete floor, and his gaze is focused, lucid, upon the mid-distance. Not only is there no moaning, there is also no sniffling, no sighing. There are tears, yet they remain unfallen droplets in the corner of Private First Class Efron’s young eyes.
Master lays down the prod on the gym bench.
“Better”
*******
Master gulps a mouthful of fluid from the plastic beaker. The cocktail of water and youth piss is quite distinctive. Zac has good piss – strong and pungent. Surely the kid must be questioning the flavour, albeit not openly thus far?
Lips meet, as Master makes a secure channel for mouth-to-mouth. Effortlessly, he transfers the pissy fluid into Zac’s mouth, and lets the Marine drink. The kid knows this is the only way his thirst will be quenched.
Fluid exchange. The very essence of man-to-man.
Master returns to the beaker for another mouthful. As their lips meet again, Master’s hands reach around and grab chunks of alabaster ass meat, many shades lighter than Zac’s west coast tan. Master raises the kid onto tiptoe by his buttocks, forcing a closer embrace.
As the tepid fluid is passed over, Zac’s top lip stubble is crushed against Master’s own fuzz. Albeit only one tongue is doing any work, it is exploring deep into chafed, sore throat. Master twists and turns his head, and Zac is forced to follow through, his own movements a mirror-like reflection in this compulsory, sweaty, homo-embrace.
Master crushes the butt meat on which he has retained a grip throughout, twisting and pulling. He moves his face, in one swift movement, to Zachary’s sturdy, bronzed neck, and digs in.
This is part kiss, yet mostly bite.
As sharp incisors pierce the side of Zac’s neck, he is shit-scared, once more. It is as though the man wants lumps, not just the thrill of the bite. This is not how it is in those fucking Robert Pattinson films.
The unfallen tears fall, as Master releases his vice-like ass grip, only to transfer his right palm to Marine gonad.
The fist crush of his balls, and the teeth sunk deep into his neck, are too much – combined – for the Marine to bear. He gives a blood-curdling scream.
Master responds by pulling the kid tighter into his sadistic embrace, loving the pain; the fear, the dance with danger and darkness.
When, eventually, the taller man releases his twin grips, he gobs a bloody, fleshy mouthful of spittle into Zac’s face. Red streaks of drool run down his cheek, before dispersing amidst his sandpaper stubble.
“By the door, upstairs, is your Marine rucksack with the usual fifteen kilograms of ballast. As the light fades, you will undertake a timed run for me. Usual Marine standard – nine miles in ninety minutes.”
“Master, please.......I need a break!”
The plea is more desperate-sounding than Master has heard, to date. He wanders the room, no longer looking at the Marine.
“No break, Zachary. Not now. Show me, once again, how you can perform when I require the impossible from you. As we follow in the Land Cruiser, I shall be making some calls. I need to establish whether our guests wish to inspect your torso filthy, or pristine.”
“Master......please!”
“Get going, Zachary. Just you in your boots, with your nudity, against the desert. A boy with an unmovable target to hit, and a Master who will shape your future in a rather drastic way, the moment you give up or fail.”
The kid makes for the door, his jiggling butt still marked with Master’s claw marks.
“Just try and enjoy working hard for me, Zachary. If you can find that place, mentally, you will be at peace.”
*******
E: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk
W: www.gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com
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