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

   

 

  

   

   

  

From the compact bush of black hair in each of Daniel’s armpits ran a rivulet of sweat. The two streams meandered over his pecs before joining just above his belly button, amidst the tight expanse of his six pack.

The boy was in discomfort. I choose my words carefully. This wasn’t agony for Daniel, he was too strong for that; too fit in both the traditional and modern uses of that word. But after three hours with over 1kg suspended from his testes, he just wanted the intensifying ache to end, and he wanted that quite badly. I think, also, he wanted the boredom to end, and he wanted to be out of that cell. Therefore, my presence was not entirely unwelcome.

“Not as bad as you thought, maybe?”

Those were my first words to him since our brief meeting in my study four days ago.

“Can I take them off now or something…?”

I reflected on his question.

“First, a positive. Well done on following instructions and completing that task successfully. Second, a negative, and please bear in mind my job is to coach you and to help you. If you are serious about saving yourself, you should focus on answering questions asked of you, quickly and enthusiastically. Really, I don’t want to hear requests for tasks to end.”

Still holding the position, he caught my eyes.

“My balls are aching, really badly.”

I reached out, getting very close to my boy, and alternately pushed the two tower weights, which swung freely on the ring attaching them to Daniel’s scrotum shackle. He gave a series of little gasps.

“Daniel, you may have noticed, these weights have screw threads inside the base. Why do you think that is?”

He looked down, but I wasn’t prepared to take the silent treatment again.

“Daniel, I asked you a question.”

He slowly lifted his head.

“To screw in more weights?”

“Good boy, yes. So, you see, the 1.1 kilograms you have on your balls now isn’t really ‘aching really badly’.”

“What is?”

Suddenly, he wanted to know. It caught me a little off guard.

“Well, it’s about the weight, but it’s also about what you can do with it. It’s about impressing us with your balls. I’m going to be training you in standing, as you have done, with heavier weights, but also in moving weight with your balls, either by running with a suspended weight, or dragging a weight along the ground by your balls, with a metal cord attached.”

Immediately, I could see the tears welling in the 22 year old hunk.

“And heavier than this?” He sniffled.

“Yes Daniel, heavier than this.”

******

I have lowered the sleeping platform, and Daniel and I are sat upon it, side by side. This is almost certainly the closest, physically, he has knowingly been to a gay man. And he is naked, but for his ankle and wrist cuffs, and now his scrotum shackle.

Daniel was disturbed by the weight revelation, and I sensed an opportunity to take advantage of his distress through the laying of hands. So my right hand is resting, unresisted, on his left thigh. I fondle the meaty muscle gently, and the straight boy does not protest. He hasn’t really understood that it’s happening. This is the mental barrier of male/male skin contact broken down for Daniel. It will now be easier for me when I need more aggressive interaction - perhaps an open-handed slap to the butt mounds, or a rough tweak of a titty.  

I encourage him to unfurl a clenched, tear-sodden fist for me, and clasp his strong little hand in mine.

“You were chosen because you could succeed in this, Daniel. We know you have the strength; we know you can be trained; we know you have will power.”

“It’s gonna be bad, isn’t it?” He said.

“Yes, it will be almost impossible Daniel. Almost…”

“Most people call me Danny, actually……”

He looked at me through teary red eyes. I ran my hand up his powerful, lightly-haired forearm.

“Okay Danny, I was wondering, as you know. Most boys in training call me Sir, actually. Anyway, perhaps we could try something else before we both eat this evening?”

“Now?” He said.

“You only have two and a half weeks, Danny.”

“Yes Sir.”

*******

I think Danny assumed that the succession of enemas he experienced that afternoon, under my guidance, was part of his test rather than a simple exercise in hygiene. But, of course, for straight boys the concept of a clean colon, available on demand, is an alien one, so who could blame him?

Re-programming a youth to think of their anus as a whole in which to accommodate things – digits; dicks; fists; foreign objects – rather than a shit chute is, naturally, one of the BDSM fundamentals, and it seemed at good place to start with young Danny Care. At least even the most naïve of young men can conceive of the male anus as a fuck hole, which is more than can be said of the ‘third hole’ we would be exploring a little later.

Frankly, after four days in the cell spent sweating nervously, Danny could have benefitted from a shower. But showers and baths eat into training time, so cleansing was restricted to a series of high capacity douche bags, the water temperature reducing each time from warm, through tepid, to ice cold.

Whilst I had planned to run through this process swiftly, when the time came I could not resist testing Danny’s sphincter during the evacuation phases. He squatted over a pristine metal pail, the dirty enema water clattering loudly into it in a single, urgent torrent. Mid-flow, I would make him stop - absolutely immediately. Sometimes I would order him to continue squatting until I gave the proceed instruction. On other occasions, barely into his evacuation, I made him circumnavigate the room at a trot, visibly full and distended, his tight tummy a little humped, his meaty cheeks clenched desperately together most amusingly. I told the kid I did not expect to see a single drop of water running down his legs. I told him that should I see water, I would be punishing him. Perhaps not immediately, but a note would be made.

Danny made a reasonable job of the task. Of course, he wasn’t leak proof. There were rivulets of enema water on his inner thighs – dirty initially, ultimately crystal-clear. I think, perhaps, he assumed that because he had avoided a spectacular Vesuvius of an eruption, with the floor un-puddled, that might be ok. If so he had failed to understand BDSM training done my way. That was okay. Punishment is part of the learning process.

The ice cold water of the final enema must have given Danny the most phenomenal cramps. As I repeatedly stopped and re-started him over the, by now, full pail, he voiced his feelings.

“Oh…..oh fuck……oh sooooo cold…..shit sooooo cold.”

All of that I was fine with. I encourage boys to tell me how the experience is going for them. Then:

“Please….!”

I placed a finger over his mouth, and shook my head. No begging here, just bravery.

*******

Danny lies on a simple medical trolley. His knees are bent up, to rest upon his chest. He has one of his own fingers up his ass. On the trolley, below his buttocks, rests a tub of Boy Butter lubricant.

My role here is simply to help Danny explore a part of his body he has, hitherto, considered very much off-limits. Certainly off-limits to others, and why would he have wished to poke around himself?

So, I facilitate the exploration. Ultimately though, I am aware of the need for pace and progress. This is a training camp, not a pleasure camp. So I strike a balance between praise and purpose, on the one hand, telling the 22 year-old how well he is doing for an anal novice, on the other encouraging him to try one more finger, or to try pushing in that bit deeper.

As Daniel gets a third finger in, he writhes on the trolley, and it shifts a little on its wheels.

“That’s it, Danny. Just close your eyes, relax that hole, and really piston those fingers in and out. See, it’s not so bad, is it?”

And of course, it’s not really that bad, even for a straight hunk of an anal virgin. It’s not that bad because you’re using your own well-lubed fingers, controlling the pace, taking time to discover your own body, being gentle and forgiving with yourself. It’s not even that humiliating, surprisingly, because it’s just the two of us, and I’m being very ‘technical’ about it, and not telling him he’s morphing his ass into a cunt, or that he’s shedding his masculinity, or that he’s a slut. So no, it’s not that bad. However, neither is it realistic, and I think he knows that.

Slightly more realistic, albeit still at the foothills of the BDSM experience Danny would need, is the bench of squat plugs I revealed underneath a black sheet.

I should say, at this stage, that all my equipment is immaculately maintained. Looking back, I remembered the last boy to use these plugs was Chris. Chris of ‘the drop’. Very much on death row by then, I had insisted the kid leave the used plugs spotless, uncontaminated by his rectal gunk and Boy Butter. So after he had squatted, and ‘ahhd’ and ‘ohhhhd’ for a bit on the anal invaders, he got to work cleaning, polishing, and shining my toys until they gleamed like new. That’s all part of a lad’s work here.

“This exercise is very easy to understand, Danny. It’s about you beginning to stretch your sphincter. It’s about you starting to appreciate the feel of different shapes and sizes in your ass, from short, fat ball shapes up to long cones. So far, so predictable, yes?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Good boy. However, you will also begin, right now, to understand that there are two paces at which a boy works. The first is the pace the boy feels comfortable with. We’ll call that the ‘outside world’ pace. The second is a much faster pace. Sometimes cruelly fast. That’s the pace set by a sadist or a BDSM Master training his boy. We’ll call that the ‘BDSM pace’. Which pace do you think we’ll be working at, Danny?”

His eyes showed contempt, and they showed fear, but he needed to understand this before we went any further.

“The BDSM pace Sir. All the time, though?”

“Thank you for the question, Danny.

All the time until you hit the targets I’ve set you? Yes.

All the time until you not only smash your targets, but take your performance on to another level altogether? Yes.

Beyond that, it isn’t so simple. Beyond that, maybe we have to talk.”

He dropped his head and looked at his feet again. 

“Ages away.”

It was a rhetorical question, and I ignored it.

“Now tell me, Danny. What do you think the BDSM pace is like? I really am interested to hear your thoughts on how you’ll tackle this.”

That was the truth. I wanted to see where he would admit to being, mentally.

“Come on, just throw some words at me.” I encouraged.

“Fast, and uncomfortable.”

He spoke quickly, throwing back the two suggestions I had already given him.

“Yes. Anything else, Danny?

He thought for a bit.

“A bit kind of, manic.”

I nodded.

“Yes, frenetic is probably the word you’re looking for. Anything else?”

“Hard work?” He volunteered.

“Good boy. Maybe I’m still looking for something else, though?”

He looked vacant, so I prompted.

“If we’re saying that the pace will be set by a sadist, what does that imply about the pace and the exercise itself, Danny?”

He wasn’t stupid. He’d got it, but was a little shy to come out with it.

“Come on Danny, it’s just the two of us here. If you think you have it, say it.”

“It will be painful, Sir.”

Unnecessarily, the boy blushed. He would rapidly grow out of that. 

“Excellent, and there you have it. Sadists expect to see a fast, frenetic pace. Sadists expect to see a boy working hard, even though it’s uncomfortable, and even though it’s painful. That’s the BDSM pace you have just described, Daniel, and that’s the way we work here.”

*******

Ten squat plugs, fifteen minutes. That was the aim of this exercise for my young straight captive.

None of the plugs was a gut-buster for an experienced hole. Most were eight inches in length, in a variety of straight (variously angled), conical and ball shapes. Two were much shorter, but also much fatter, in ball and compressed cone shapes. Of course, Danny was not an experienced hole, but he had three aids. First, the tub of Boy Butter to use as he felt necessary. Second, my encouragement throughout. Third, a clock counting down fifteen precious minutes towards a deadline that he now knew, through his process of discovery, was important.

So, when I started the countdown, he began frenetically as suggested, battering his hole and rectum in a thick coat of Boy Butter lube, and doing the same with his first chosen plug. Naturally, he started with the easiest – a thin, cock-shaped affair, and appeared to listen to my spoken advice.

“Squat over the head, now push out like you’re going to take a dump, and sit down on it. Don’t forget, I need to see the whole thing disappear inside you before we move on.”

He reached behind his back, and with his manly hands, pulled apart his crack to leave his hole open, vulnerable to the abuse it must now take.

“Come on, Danny, drop down the shaft. Push out, drop down.”

Of course, he managed to accommodate the lube-slick little weapon, and I rang a bell to signal his first success. As he moved on, however, he noticed the one squat plug had taken almost two minutes. I mentioned cruelty earlier, and it’s true the kinder thing would have been to place the clock out of his vision, or simply use a stopwatch, and let him do as much as he could in fifteen minutes. But let’s not forget, this is a boy who will be fighting to avoid the noose in two and a half weeks. I needed him galvanised and determined if he was to stand a chance. I needed him to accept he had to hurt himself.

Now, spurred into action, I started to see Danny push himself. Lube was smeared roughly, occasionally replenished up his rectum with a blunt shove of the fingers. The initial squat over the plug was more accurately placed for a quick drop. The ‘push out’ was more determined, and the drop down much slicker. The transfer between plugs was undertaken more swiftly. He started to claw back seconds here and there. Viewing this in isolation, this was a pleasing performance from a boy who had only fingered himself for the first time within the last hour.

“Come on Danny, really make that hole work for you. I want to see a hungry hole!”

I exhorted, and he scuttled, squatted, pushed, perspired. He was learning, already. Granted this was not much of a challenge compared to what was to come, but his effort showed he understood this – what mattered was not the pain in his tight sphincter, but the disappearing time on the clock. 

I was interested to note that the two plugs Danny had left until last were not the longest, but the fattest around the base. One was conical, the other a large ball, less than 5 inches in height, but with a circumference over double that. Can you see, now, how useful these initial exercises are in identifying vulnerabilities and mental blocks? Blocks I can help to overcome by way of training, but equally, vulnerabilities I may exploit during the decathlon. I think that’s a fair trade-off, don’t you?

Danny lubed the cone, but froze for a bit, just looking at the latex plug. Maybe assessing how he would tackle it, perhaps simply too scared to do so.

Tick, tick. The countdown continued.

“Problem?” I asked, simply.

“So wide…..could I do another one again…..so still ten total?”

He asked. Quite pathetic, really.

“No, this one, and now. Squat for me now, Danny.”

I pointed at the butter-coated cone, gleaming in the harsh spotlights.

He squatted, and at this stage I believe he was simply doing it because I was telling him to do so. He wasn’t doing it for himself yet – to help save himself.

He slid down two-thirds of the cone without difficulty. Then it really started to stretch his rectum. And when a straight boy feels pain in his ass, bad pain, he wants to stop.

I moved behind him. I have certain thoughts on how a young man should be displayed. I like to see inelastic, tight holes forced wide – not gaping, over-used slutty holes. I like to see well-stuffed cracks. I like to see firm, muscular mounds well-penetrated with tail-like anal protrusions, whether human or toy. I like to see a pool of sweat in the small of the back as evidence of the struggle. As I watched Danny’s strong thighs hold his position, his brain not yet telling them to allow a full descent onto the plug, I understood the mountain he still had to climb. I wonder if he did, yet?  

“Down.” I ordered, simply.

“Deep breaths, push out, work through the pain, Daniel. Remember what we said?”

He noticed I had used his true forename again - more formal. I was on the verge of disappointment with him, and he could sense that. So he ‘ahhhd’ and grunted his way down the cone, millimetre by millimetre, all the while looking at me, perhaps thinking I would say ‘that’s enough, good kid, let’s have tea’.

As he strained, I noticed his pectoral cleft bottomed out into the most delightful inverted-funnel shape. Sweat ran down the cleft in a constant flow, and then spread like an estuary down towards his washboard stomach.

Open-mouthed and open-holed, Danny’s butt cheeks touched the base board to which the squat plug was affixed. I rang the bell. Nine out of ten done.

The youth lifted-up gingerly. Far too gingerly. The exit from a plug should be quick-as-a-flash. The hole should pop as the invader rapidly retreats. I added to my training notes.

Inevitably, therefore, as Danny squatted over the final ball plug, his allocated fifteen minutes ran out. The ticking countdown stopped, and a silence took hold in the training room.

He looked at me.

“Stand up.” I instructed.

Perhaps he thought he had got off lightly.

“Come and stand here.” I pointed to a spot on the ground barely two feet in front of me. I wanted to speak to my boy, eyeball to eyeball.

“How do you feel that went, Daniel?”

He desperately wanted to be further away from me, not face to face. It was almost too much for him, I could tell.

“I don’t know……I just couldn’t do it that quickly…..I’ve never taken anything up there before.”

He paused briefly, for reflection.

“Sorry, I guess I’m just making it worse.” He concluded.

I made him wait a bit.

“Daniel, this is what concerns me. Olaf and Reza, who are organising your decathlon as we speak, don’t like ‘can’t’ and ‘couldn’t’. If you ‘can’t’ and ‘couldn’t’ your way through your decathlon, you will end up swinging from that rope in just over two weeks.”

As I spoke, he raised a stout forearm and wiped away the tears welling in both eyes.

“Daniel, do you know what CP stands for?”

My question came from left-field. Momentarily, he looked dazed.

“Corporal punishment, Sir.”

“Good boy. I suspect you know, then, that CP is used to help a boy get back on track when he has been wayward, or ill disciplined. You probably appreciate what’s coming. We will eat, and then commence a session in the CP room at 8pm.”

The tears were now flowing, silently, down both cheeks.

“Sir, I really was trying. You have to believe me! I’ll do this plug now, I promise.”

I reached out and ran a palm over his wet pectorals.

“Not now, Daniel. After the CP has been administered, then you will do it. I need to teach you the difference between trying and succeeding.”

*******

The early evening sun cast long shadows over the quadrangle. My boy and I sat at the wooden picnic bench with our evening meal. I ate lightly. Danny, naked but for his cuffs and shackle, was provided with a large bowl of chicken and rice, and a spoon.

I sat next to Danny, and close. I think he would have preferred me opposite. I could feel his body heat as he wolfed his protein-rich dish.

“I see you trim your pubic bush, Danny?” I observed.

He nodded, mouth full, glancing down at his well manicured lawn.

“Of course, girls are more willing to suck if they only have to take the meat, rather than a mouthful of pubes, hey?”

No response.

“Is that why you trim? Do you like receiving oral sex, Danny?”

He gulped a spoonful.

“Yes Sir. I like getting blow jobs, from girls.”

“I understand, Danny. I have another question for you, though. Would you mind if you had no bush at all, down there?  Would you mind if we took your pubic hair, Danny?”

He turned his head and looked at me.

“Are you going to do that?”

I leaned towards him and placed what he might have perceived as a supportive, ‘don’t worry about it’ hand on his naked thigh.    

“Not tonight, Danny, but in the future? Well, men have pubic hair, boys don’t. I have all the equipment here for electrolysis, and we could do it at any time, but maybe it doesn’t have to be that way. Maybe you can demonstrate you’re more than a boy.”

“Sir….I want you to know that I hate you. I hate the way you’re using me like this and hurting me. But if you’re the only one who’s able to get me out of here alive, I kind of accept that I need to work hard for you.”

He spoke, unexpectedly, from head and heart. 

“Danny, I want YOU to know that it’s okay to hate me. In fact, I want you hating me every moment you are training. Only then will we know you are pushing yourself hard enough.”

I paused, and glanced at his clean plate, before delivering a light open-handed smack to his thigh.

“Let’s get you showered, and into a good frame of mind for your CP, Danny.”

*******

Many of you have written, following part one, suggesting Danny should succeed in his endeavour. That was the overwhelming opinion.

I have to tell you, as his jailer and trainer, that in my view the rope and The Drop still loom.

To be continued.

bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk