Literary slave

Darren could not believe his luck – the 29 year old successful novelist had been looking for a place to hole up in and complete his fifth novel, sure to be yet another best seller in his string of literary offerings.  While surfing through real estate listings for acreage properties high on privacy and as far off the beaten track as possible he came across what seemed to be the perfect opportunity.  It was a small acreage, a hobby farm really that had long since given up any semblance of producing a significant crop, becoming instead a rental property for people like himself – looking to get away from it all.  It was located 75 miles outside of Louisville, in rural Kentucky.  The listing simply asked for interested parties to make contact my email for further details.  It was relatively cheap, appeared to have all of the modern amenities including wifi, and was comprised if a main house – 3 bedrooms – and a series of outbuildings of various sizes and functions.  His agent had suggested the website with the property listings, and once again, Kent had not steered Darren wrong when it came to advice.  His agent was a former writer, never really made it big in terms of book sales and turned instead to assisting younger and perhaps more talented individuals in forging multi-million dollar careers with sales of tens of millions of copies.  Interested in the property, Darren asked Kent to source out more details and get back to him as soon as possible.  His publisher’s deadline was approaching and he wanted to knock off this next manuscript in time for a pre-Christmas book release.

Kent Davis hung up the phone, swamped with requests from his various clients, all of which needed their particular issues attended to “as soon as possible”.  He had always had a soft spot for Darren Somer though – easy going and exuding effortless writing ability – he was easily Kent’s favorite client and routinely received the lion’s share of the aging agent’s attention.  With the detailed information on the Kentucky hobby farm obtained, he fired off an emailed reply to Darren, which ended with a query as to whether or not the author wished him to go ahead and secure the property for his exclusive use.  The answer of course was yes, along with a reminder to ensure that the usual privacy protecting precautions were to be taken.  This of course went without saying, and Kent Davis, like he had done many times before, executed a transaction for Mr. Devon Carlisle – a fictitious person complete with social security number and credit cards.  This time it was the booking of a hobby farm in a little ways outside of the Kentucky urban sprawl, for a period of one year, paid in full up front with a healthy bonus on top of the rental fee to ensure total and complete privacy.  No interruptions whatsoever.  Devon Carlisle of course, was really Darren Somer.

Having been mailed the keys from his agent’s Manhattan office, along with a map of the state of Kentucky, Darren had set off with suitcase and laptop in tow, to buckle down to some months of solitude and productivity.  He enjoyed the peace and quiet of the open road, and having been a loner most of his life there was nobody’s company that he enjoyed more than his own.  He had long since cut off ties with his family such as it was – divorced parents who had never really had much time for each other never mind their only, and unplanned child.  Having no siblings and no extended family to speak of, he had struck out on his own at a young age, and doubted very much if his parents were even aware of the success that he had achieved.  Now a multi-millionaire, it didn’t much matter to him if he ever laid eyes on them again.  It had taken him three full days to reach his destination, but as he got closer and closer he began to enjoy the beauty of the Kentucky countryside.  The private road to the hobby farm was somewhat well marked, but had he not had explicit instructions from Kent, he very easily could have missed it altogether.  Once he left the main highway behind, the winding private road quickly gave him the feeling of being a million miles away – exactly the feeling he had craved.  Having stopped for two full weeks of provisions, he would have no need of re-entering civilization for quite some time.  He could feel the creative juices flowing already.

Little did he know that his secret identity was no longer secret at all, and that in as much as he had planned his seclusion as a means to finish his next book, another had been making plans as well – plans of a very different nature that would forever alter the life of one Darren Somer.

The farmhouse was clean and tidy, having been freshened up by the owner in preparation for its new and long-term tenant.  It was a two-story red brick structure, with little in the way of architectural detail to make it stand out in one’s memory.  Clean, neat, non-descript.  Across the yard from the main house lay a small barn, and further afield Darren could see some smaller sheds and buildings that he would investigate as time permitted.  He parked the car on the gravel driveway, and let himself into his new home.  It was perfect.  Comfortable and compact, he decided to unpack all of his gear, have a hot shower, and get his computer set up while eating a light dinner.  Everything was going to plan until later that evening, when the author’s short-lived solitude was interrupted by the distant glow of what he was sure were headlights on his previously private road.  He had JUST finished setting up his computer station when he noticed the lights, and it quickly became apparent that they were getting closer and closer, culminating with them arriving right in his driveway.  The vehicle, an older model SUV of some type, was dusty and dirty from the gravel road, and Darren peered out the window as he watched a lone man exit the vehicle.  Sure that he could see another figure in the passenger side, he contemplated his next move.  Although he was no A-list celebrity, his recent success in his field had rendered him recognizable to anyone who still enjoyed reading over a night spent in front of the television or computer screen.  He didn’t have to answer the door, but his curiosity got the better of him.

As he opened the door Darren’s gaze fell upon a thin man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties.  Wiry and standing about 5’8” tall, he was hardly an imposing figure.  “Can I help you” Darren asked?  The only response that he received was feeling a hard object shoved against his abdomen, followed by a searing electrical jolt and the sensation of blacking out and falling to the floor.  Having successfully tasered his prey, the thin man used his booted foot to shove the flail limbs of his quarry back inside the doorway before closing the door and getting down to business.  He drew a pre-prepared hypodermic needle from his jacket pocket, uncapped it, and plunged it into the semi-conscious writer’s left thigh.  The fuzziness that pervaded Darren’s head gave way to total darkness, as he slipped into a deep sleep induced by the assailant’s drug.  It would be several hours before he would awaken to an entirely new reality.

Stinging.  Sharp pain.  Heat and burning on the side of his face.  Slowly becoming more and more aware of these sensations the effect of the drug on Darren’s body slowly gave way.  As his thoughts and his vision cleared, he became aware that he was being repeatedly slapped across the face.  “Wake up!” he heard the voice shout.  “Fucking wake up you piece of shit”.  It was the thin man, the one who had knocked on his door.  But what happened after that?  Everything had gone black…but he remembered the searing jolt of the stun gun.  This asshole had tasered him!  What the fuck was going on?

Moments after thinking this question, Darren tried to ask it out loud, resulting in merely some grunting sounds that were severely muffled and unintelligible.  It was then that he became aware of the large object shoved into his mouth stretching his jaw so wide that it ached.  Had he been able to see himself as his attacker saw him, he would have been horrified.  Stripped naked, and duct taped into a wooden chair, silenced by a hard red rubber ball strapped into his mouth by a wide piece of leather buckled behind his head – thick strings of drool slowly stretching with gravity then breaking only to land on the exposed flesh of his thigh.  How long had this prick been hitting him?  What the hell was going on?

As his victim’s eyes fluttered then opened completely, he stopped slapping the young man’s face back and forth, waiting for the reality of his predicament to dawn on him.  He could always tell when this moment had arrived by the look in the eyes.  It went from inquisitive, to angry, to fearful.  This was the look he liked.  It was essential that they fear him.  The best slaves were always produced when the property had absolute fear of its owner.

“Just stop trying to talk and listen you little shit.  I am only going to say this once, and you definitely don’t want me to have to repeat myself.  I know exactly who you are – some hotshot millionaire writer without a goddamn care in the world.  Well all of that is about to change.  You now have one care and one care only – keeping me happy.  If I am happy, things will go easier for you – if I’m unhappy, your miserable existence can be made into a living hell…which come to think of it will cheer me up to no end – so maybe you should go ahead and act like a damn fool instead of accepting reality.  The reality is my boy, that you, are no longer you.”  At this point Darren started to grunt and mumble incoherently, and shook the chair as violently as he could; using any means he had available to demonstrate his protest to his current predicament.  After his captor had allowed the writer to exhaust himself, he calmly walked around behind his victim’s chair.  He then used both hands to grab handfuls of the author’s hair, yanking him backwards tipping the chair and slamming the 29 year old to the floor.  Darren’s skull impacted the hard wooden floor, and darkness once again threatened to overtake his consciousness.  The pain of his attacker’s booted foot slamming repeatedly into his chest actually revived him, only to leave him reeling from the pain of being stomped on with all of his assailant’s might.  Darren thought his ribs would surely crack and under such an assault, which lasted for what seemed to be an eternity.  After about ten vicious blows the thin man reached down and once again by the hair, yanked his bound victim upright, with the chair teetering back and forth several times before coming to rest on all four legs.  “Don’t EVER do that again” his attacker ordered – and Darren decided to take the advice to heart, wanting to do whatever he could to avoid another beating.

“As I was saying” the thin man continued, “if you do what you’re told and behave yourself, you can make this as easy on yourself as possible.  Defy me or disobey, and believe me I will have no problem in torturing you and even killing you – you mean less than nothing to me and I wouldn’t give it a moment’s hesitation.”  Darren was starting to learn the depth of the trouble he was in, and he was starting to become truly terrified.

Over the following hour as the author ached in his restrictive bonds, drooling profusely with the rubber ball gag wedged into place, his attacker explained just exactly what was going on.  His name was Clint, but he demanded to be referred to at all times as Sir or Master.  He had been retained, employed if you will, to take this independent and wealthy young writer traveling under an assumed name, and turn him into an obedient total slave to be used, controlled, and owned by a superior dominant man.  With the farmhouse and its seclusion having been secured for such a long time, there was no chance that the process of Clint achieving his task would be interrupted by nosey outsiders.  The explanation Clint gave was chilling, and Darren became aware of the fact that what he cherished the most – his solitude, his loner lifestyle – was now going to prevent anyone from coming to look for him or rescue him from the clutches of this madman.  What was worse was that basically nobody even knew he was here.  His only hope was that his agent Kent would somehow come to his aid – but with explicit instructions NOT to disturb him – the likelihood of that happening was extremely remote.

With his future now explained to him, the author was left to stew as Clint spun on his heels and left the room.  Darren could hear the sadist’s heavy boots clomp down the farmhouse stairs as reality set in.  Darren was in shock – too stunned to cry or get angry – just simply in disbelief about what he had heard.  Someone had hired that madman to attack and abuse him?  He mentioned that his job was to make a slave out of him…what the hell was he talking about???  Darren’s thoughts were interrupted by what he thought was the sound of a car’s engine starting up and driving away.  The mind-boggling events of the day had thrown off his sense of the passage of time, and left him exhausted.  Still bound and gagged, he drifted into a deep sleep as his head slumped forward onto his chest, his mouth continuing to drool uncontrollably.

“Wake up bitch!”  Darren’s head snapped back at the sound of his new Master’s voice, instantly wide awake but still strapped into the chair.  This time however, Clint was not alone.  He had been joined by a much younger, and much larger man.  “I see you’ve noticed Pete” Clint chuckled.  The giant of a man gave no sign that he was even aware of the conversation going on as Clint continued to explain.  “Pete here is my son, and he’s gonna help me make you into the obedient little boy bitch that you oughta be.  Pete was 28 years old, 6’5” tall, and weighed over 300 pounds.  He sported a heavy thickset build, not muscular, but incredibly powerful, with a large firm belly, enormous hands, and size 16 feet.  His head was shaved bald, and his eyes had a vacant look that gave the giant a sort of a boyish and simple appearance.  He was wearing a faded pair of coveralls, a white t-shirt underneath that was straining to contain the bulk of his chest and belly, and he was busy unwrapping the duct tape holding the captive in place.  Darren then felt Pete’s meaty hands undoing the buckle of the ball gag, yanking it out of the author’s stretched and aching jaws.  He was then shoved out of the chair, landing in a heap at Master Clint’s boots.  “Now bitch, you can start yer training by licking your Master’s boots clean” the wiry sadist ordered.  Darren hesitated for only a brief instant, but is was long enough to feel an incredible pressure across his back forcefully shoving his face down towards the dusty workboots of his new Master.  The force had been caused by one of Pete’s big size 16’s planted right in the author’s back, pushing so hard that Darren’s mouth was squashed against the steel toe cap of Clint’s left boot.  “Get to work” his Master ordered, and Darren had no choice but to obey.  His mouth and jaw still aching from being propped open by the ball gag for so long, he slowly began to lick and clean the boots as he had been instructed.  From behind him he heard a deep and demonic laugh – Pete – who would soon become the source of extreme terror for the captive young writer.

For 30 minutes Darren was forced to lick and clean Master Clint’s dusty biker boots.  Every time he hesitated or paused, Pete would force the slave’s mouth back down to work with no mercy whatsoever.  Clint laughed and enjoyed seeing the humiliation on the writer’s face as he swallowed the dirt and debris from the soles of his filthy boots.  He enjoyed even more watching his oversized simpleton of a son use his huge booted feet to force the slaves head painfully down to the floor, sometimes pulling his boot away so that Pete was simply squashing Darren’s face flat against the floor.  When this would happen the author would cry out in agony, giving his giant abuser a rock hard cock and the motivation simply to press down harder until the author thought his facial bones would snap.  While this was going on Clint told Darren that they had been busy while he had been slumped forward sleeping in his chair.  Pete and Clint had driven the author’s car out into a secluded part of the country, along with all of the writer’s ID, his current manuscript, and several changes of his clothes.  Along the way they had picked up food and supplies for a weekend of camping – everything a single guy would need for a couple of days of getting back to nature.  They had set up a campsite, built a fire pit, put some steak on the grill, and deliberately left garbage in such a way as to attract members of the local black bear population.  Something that a rookie camper or city-slicker like Darren might do being inexperienced in this neck of the woods.  To the authorities, it would look as though Darren had decided to relax in the great outdoors for a weekend, and had been dragged off to his death by the local wildlife.  For all intents and purposes, to the world, Darren Somer would be dead.  In truth, the writer’s identity as it had been would be dead – reborn as a submissive slave being trained and molded into a perfect plaything, object, and sextoy for its Master.  Since nobody knew where Darren had gone on his writing retreat – nobody would come to the farmhouse looking for him.

Hearing all of this made Darren’s heart sink.  He knew now that he had no recourse – no way to fight the two sadistic intruders who had invaded his tranquil country retreat.  He would have to do as they said, comply with their orders, and either find a way to escape, or hope somehow that Kent would swoop in and save the day.

“Enough of that bitch!” Clint bellowed – announcing that it was time to get started on his real training in earnest.  With that pronouncement, Pete reached down and wrapped the exhausted writer up in a bear hug, nearly squeezing the life out of him as he slung him over his broad shoulders and carried him from the room.  Down the stairs they went, Clint bringing up the rear, talking the whole time about how he and his lumbering son would enjoy turning his sorry ass into mind-fucked turned out homo sex slave cunt who’s only desire would be to serve and debase himself for his Master, or any men that he was given to for their use and enjoyment.

Pete lumbered down the stairs with Darren over his shoulder, and straight out the door.  He walked slowly, and although the writer struggled as best he could to escape, the giant’s arm around him was like an iron bar pinning him down – immoveable.  It seemed effortless for Pete to control his captive, and the entire time he was carrying Darren off to his unenviable fate, he was thinking about all of the fun he was going to have at the sex slave’s expense.  The final destination was one of the smaller buildings near the distant edge of the property.  Unbeknownst to Darren, the building had been under renovation for quite sometime.  In fact, its new purpose was something that had been a long time in the making.  Once inside, Pete dumped Darren on the floor in a heap with a thud.  As he rolled over to sit up he got his first glimpse of the interior of the building – a building he would not leave for a very long time.

The writer was shocked into reality by the sound of the slamming of the heavy steel door.  “Alright bitch – strip” Master Clint ordered.  Feeling helpless, Darren slowly stood up, and began taking off his shirt and pants.  “All of it slut”.  With a sigh of defeat, Darren slowly lowered and then stepped out of his boxer briefs – completely naked, exposed, and vulnerable.  “Welcome to your new home”, Master Clint announced with a laugh.  “Your Master wants you fully trained by the end of the month – so we have a lot of work to do slut, and there’s no time like the present for getting started.”

With that Master Clint went to a wardrobe-type cupboard that occupied one corner of the room, unlocked and opened the door, and started to rifle through objects unseen to Darren as his Master’s body was blocking his view.  It did give the captive slave time to take in the rest of his surroundings.  Darren was shocked by what he saw – the inside of the building was a solid concrete prison.  No windows, lit entirely by bright but bare overhead bulbs.  The floor seemed to be covered from wall to wall in some kind of thick black rubber matting, its smell pungent and permeating the air.  In one corner a rain shower fixture dropped from the ceiling, overtop of a tiled section of the floor that sloped into an industrial looking grated drain.  A spigot protruded from the wall as well, beside a black lockbox that was mounted next to it.  Throughout the room were chains and slings and frames of all types – some mounted to the wall, and some free standing.  All of it looked truly diabolical and if he hadn’t been so exhausted by the day’s events so far, he would have screamed.  His perusal of his surroundings was interrupted by the return of Master Clint, the object he had been searching for dangling from his grasp.  It was a gag – an iron ring wrapped in leather cord, with two broad leather straps used to secure it to the wearer’s head.  The gag was unceremoniously wrapped around the slave’s head and tightly secured.  The leather straps bit into the flesh at the side of his mouth, and the iron ring embedded itself deeply behind his lips, forcing his mouth to remain open in a wide “O”.  The gag effectively silenced the captive writer, not that there would be anyone within earshot through the thick concrete walls that would be able to hear him scream anyway.  From the outside, the sex dungeon that now housed its captive occupant looked simply like a regular farm outbuilding.

With strings of drool once again beginning to drip uncontrollably down his face, Darren heard Master Clint bark out some instructions to his sadistic son.  “Pete, it’s time we got starting preparing this little cunt to be used good and proper.  He’s probably gonna resist us some at first, so why don’t you soften him up and show him what’s gonna happen if he decides to be disobedient.”

That same demonic laugh that had sent chills down the slave’s spine a little earlier once again rang out, and the huge 6’5” monster started to advance on Darren’s position in the room.  Being locked in this concrete prison there was literally no place to go, so the slave merely began to shrink away from the ever approaching Pete until he had been backed right into one of the corners.  With surprising speed the behemoth reached out with one of his great big paws and wrapped his hand around the slave’s neck.  His hand was massive, and unbelievably powerful.  Darren truly felt as though this massive simpleton could snap his spine without breaking a sweat.  Darren had no time for any other coherent thoughts to run through his mind as he was yanked towards Pete’s hulking frame, and the giant then placed his other massive hand right over the slave’s face, gripping it like a basketball player would palm the ball.  The hand around his throat was released, but the grip around his face was excruciating.  Pete then began to squeeze…slowly…steadily…squashing the slave’s gagged mouth and face in his iron grip.  Darren tried to scream, but with the gag firmly seated in his mouth only a croaking gasp was audible.  The more his captive’s pain increased and became obvious, the more excited Pete became and the harder he began to squeeze.  Just when Darren was sure that his face would be crushed, the giant released his grip, but followed with a clubbing backhand blow that stunned the slave and knocked him to the floor.  With surprising agility the behemoth scooped his slave up, and placed him in a vicious bear hug, once again applying enormous amounts of pain through pressure.  Darren could not breath, and started to struggle and wriggle as best he could as he felt the life being crushed out of his lungs.  He was then thrown back against the concrete wall, and slumped down to the floor in agony.  Kneeling down on one knee Pete grabbed a hold of the slave’s hair, and dragged him up and over his bent leg facing up towards the ceiling.  The middle of Darren’s back rested on the giant’s thigh, and with one huge hand on the salve’s throat, and the other on his pelvis, Pete began to push down towards the floor with all of his might.  It felt like Darren’s spine would snap like a twig – the pain was intense, and with the gag in place it was a struggle even to draw a breath.  The slave was absolutely exhausted, and the son had succeeded in following his father’s instructions and softening the slave up.  Darren was now well and truly broken – physically and mentally – the next phase was to begin the preparation of his body to be violated and tortured in the most extreme ways…a process that both Clint and Pete were looking forward to with sadistic anticipation.

“Let’s start with its cunt” Darren heard Clint say to his son.  We need him stretched and cleaned in there nice and deep.  “You know what to do Son”.  The slave was thrown over one of the bondage benches in the room, and his arms and legs were securely fastened to the legs of the apparatus so that his ass was stuck right up in the air.  He saw Pete grab a jar from a shelf at the side of the room that appeared to be filled with some kind of grease – a generous portion of which was scooped out and slapped down like a dollop on the small of the slave’s back.  From there Pete stuck one of his big stubby fingers into the blob of lubricant, and started to smear it around on the slave’s exposed and vulnerable asshole.  Darren had never been touched there by anyone else, and he found the sensation to be decidedly unpleasant and completely violating.  This feeling was taken to an entirely different level when he felt the giant simpleton start to work the tip of his finger into his hole, spreading the sphincter around his big digit as it buried itself deep inside the slave’s ass.  Right to the base Pete inserted his finger, before pumping it in and out roughly several times in a row.  He then yanked it out, picked up some more lube, and repeated the process with two oversized fingers…then three…then all four of the fingers of his right hand were lodged in the slave’s rectum – stretching it open to the point that Darren thought he would be ripped in half.  Strings of spit poured from the captive’s gaping open mouth into a puddle on the floor, and his whole body quivered in pain as the giant hillbilly repeatedly worked the four fingers in and out, twisting them as he did so, scouring the tender insides of Darren’s previously pristine hole.  Tears were dripping down Darren’s face as he felt the wad of fingers being once again removed, and the giant paw of his assailant smearing around in the remaining grease on his back, coating the rest of his enormous hand.  With pressure once again building and wedging open the slave’s cunthole, Pete placed the tips of all of his fingers into the slave’s warm wet insides, and the tip of his giant stubby thumb right on the centre of the now puffy asslips.  Twisting and pushing he began the process of seating his entire, enormous hand all the way inside of Darren’s abused pussy.  The gag was no longer sufficient to silence the bound captive’s screams, and a blood curdling guttural shriek exploded from Darren’s throat as the widest part of Pete’s hand challenged, and then overcame the defenses of the slave’s abused sphincter.  The massive hand was sucked deep into the slave’s pussyhole, with Pete’s thick wrist now propping open the anal muscle, causing it to blanche and stretch – slowly accommodating to the massive invader it had been forced to admit.  Pete grunted and sweated as he started to shove and twist, working his hand deeper into the depths of Darren’s now gaping rectum.  Through blurry tearful vision Darren saw Clint over at the tiled corner of the room.  He unlocked the black box mounted on the wall and removed a giant black dildo – very realistic – but much larger than any human cock could ever be.  He proceeded to attach it to the spigot sticking out from the wall, protruding now like a huge black erection.  Once it was securely fastened, Clint tried the valve on the wall that controlled the spigot.  Water shot out in a stream from the head of the giant black cock like a violent never-ending climax.  Content with the current set up, Clint stood up, walked over to where his son continued to fist and stretch the submissive bitch’s cunthole, and told Pete to remove his hand so that he could be mounted and cleaned out over in the corner.

The bondage frame that the slave was mounted on had wheels at each corner that could be flipped down so that the entire apparatus could be moved around the room.  There was also a hand crank that allowed for the entire arrangement to be raised or lowered to the desired height.  As Pete cleaned the greasy lubricant from his hand and wrist, Clint wheeled Darren’s immobilized body over to the spigot by the wall.  Carefully matching up the height of the frame with the dildo secured to the spout, Clint pushed the frame back towards the wall until Darren felt the tip of the rubber truncheon against his previously virgin hole.  Having been thoroughly lubed, and stretched out by Pete’s giant paw, the dilated sphincter of the writer’s anus gave way immediately.  Slowly but surely Master Clint pushed on back on the bondage frame, seating the huge dildo deeper and deeper inside of his captive slave.  Once fully impaled, the slave had 10 inches of thick rubber buried in his ass.  “Now for the fun part” Clint cooed in Darren’s ear as he slowly began to turn the release valve on the tap.  “I think we’ll start with a long slow cleanse, and move on to some high pressure washing in due time” the sadist stated as Darren began to feel a warmth spreading through his bowels.  Slowly the volume of water being driven into the bound and helpless slave increased, until the telltale cramps began and Darren began to moan softly through his ring gag.  Not yet satisfied, the Master and his simpleton son looked on with glee until Darren’s abdomen began to bloat and distend with the amount of fluid it now harbored.  Once filled to beyond capacity, Clint shut off the flow, but instead of letting Darren’s insides purge the invading liquid – he kept the slave positioned exactly where he was, and jumped on top of Darren’s back like he was riding a horse with no saddle.  The extra weight on his back intensified Darren’s agony, and once Clint started yelling “giddee-up” and digging the heel of his boots into Darren’s sides, the slave nearly passed out.  “Aww this just ain’t quite right” Clint complained, and with that he hopped off of Darren’s back and crossed the room towards one of the storage cabinets.  Not to be left out, Pete then took hold of Darren’s shoulders and began dragging him and the frame away from the wall by about six inches.  With a ten-inch column of rubber filling his ass, this was just enough of a distance to provide the slave with a sense of impending relief…once he was slid right off of the dildo he would be able to expel all of the water that they had deposited into him.  There was to be no final relief however, as the demonic laugh once again rang out and the behemoth shoved Darren’s helpless body full force back onto the dildo to the hilt – six inches of thick rubber taken in a fraction of a second.  Pete enjoyed fucking Darren’s body back and forth on the spigot for a couple of minutes until the attention of both men was captured by the sound of jingling coming across the room.  They turned to see Master Clint approaching with a wry smile curled across his lips.  “How do ya like my spurs slut?” he asked Darren, who then noticed the shiny source of the jingling strapped to each of his Master’s boots.

Clint mounted his would be pony once again, and this time proclaimed that now things truly felt as they should for a Master riding his bitch boy.  “Giddee-up” rang out once again, but this time was accompanied by a slashing pain in each of the slave’s flanks as Clint raked Darren’s sides with the spurs.  Repeatedly Clint threw his weight around on Darren’s back and dug into his exposed flesh with his sharp silver spurs.  By the time Clint was tired of the game, blood trickled from scratches and scrapes on Darren’s body, and he was covered in a thick sheen of sweat.  “All right Pete – empty him out and get em ready for a re-load would ya”.  Darren was slid from the wall until the rubber invader slipped from his abused hole, immediately followed by a torrent of shit-stained water that slithered down the drain in the floor.  Clint changed the dildo on the spigot to a much shorter, but significantly fatter version, and the slave was once again connected to it by virtue of his younger Master unceremoniously shoving him back against the wall.  There would be no slow agonizing filling this time however as Clint threw to valve open full bore and pressure washed the inside walls of Darren’s rectum not once, twice, or even three times.  Six times he was filled to the point of bloating, emptied, and re-mounted to be rinsed out until the water exited the same color that it entered.

“I think he’s had enough for today boy” Clint said to his son as they stood back and considered the sight in front of their eyes.  Darren was passed out – from both the pain and the exhaustion of the day’s events.  “We can carry on tomorrow – let’s get him trussed up for the night and then we can go back to the house and relax”. Pete untied Darren’s limp body from the bondage frame, and removed the iron ring gag from his face.  Slung over the giant’s shoulder he was carried to a large flat table in the corner of the room and dumped on top of it.  Clint lubed up a giant inflatable butt plug and worked it into Darren’s unresisting hole.  Once seated inside, the sadistic Master began to pump the inflation bulb until it reached its capacity.  For the last few pumps Darren’s unconscious form let out audible gasps in time with the final stages of the inflation.  The plug in the slave’s ass was now the size of a grapefruit, and would not be coming out until either Clint or Pete decided to deflate it.  “He’s definitely gonna feel that when he comes to” Clint said with an air of satisfaction.  While he had been busy filling Darren’s rear entry hole, Pete had been working on the other end.  A thick rubber hood had been zipped over Darren’s head, making his true identity a total mystery.  Before them now on the table lay an abused, cleaned out, ass-filled rubber slave.  The hood had a gag attachment much like the one used down below – and Pete pumped it up until Darren’s oral cavity was just as packed and stretched as his rectal cavity.  The hood was secured with a locking collar that was tightly fastened around the neck, complete with a shiny brass padlock to which Clint had the only key.  Darren’s hands were drawn behind him, and both arms were fed into a heavy rubber arm binder.  Buckles and straps immobilized the slave’s arms behind his body so tightly that the muscles across his chest were stretched tight.  Pete then scooped the captive, silenced, plugged and hobbled slave up in his massive arms, and carried him to where he would be secured until his next training session.  The giant simpleton deposited Darren’s body into a steel container that had a one-inch square hole on each of its four sides.  Once he had put Darren’s limp body inside of the container, he grunted and groaned as he lifted the solid steel lid for the prison from the floor and dropped it with an ear splitting crash on top of the crate.  The lid also had a series of one-inch square holes in it, as well as two hasps and locks on each of its four sides.  Once secured by Clint, the slave was neatly locked away in a dark, cold, solid steel prison.  His vision was totally cut off by the rubber hood, and his hearing was muffled by it as well as the walls of steel that now prevented his escape.  The crate was not big enough for the slave to stand upright in, nor for him to fully stretch out and lie down.  It was designed to inflict maximum discomfort, which is exactly what it would do all night until his captors returned for him in the morning.

As Clint and Pete locked the dungeon door and shut off the lights from the outside of the building, Darren was just starting to stir inside of his rubber and metal prison.  For a brief instant he wondered if it had all been a dream…but then he felt the stretching searing pain coming from his rubber-invaded asshole, and he knew that it had all been too real.  What on earth would he have to endure next?