Zac – The Unlucky One

The Iran/Iraq border

14 June 2009

“Awww fuck….hurts.”

The dry heat was oppressive, but Zac was accustomed to that after three tours of duty in southern Iraq.

The forced run, to which he was being subjected, was exceptionally testing, but not physically impossible for the young marine. Not quite.

Zac had run in the mid-afternoon desert sun before, both in training and in combat, but this time was different. The 21 year old was not in his desert fatigues, because ‘they’ had made him remove them, along with his body armour, helmet and – of course – his radio equipment.

So, what was left? Well, on his back remained his trusted marine-issue 100 litre Bergen rucksack. In normal circumstances, this would be filled with 14 kilograms of arms and basic survival equipment. But, of course, they had not dared leave Zac with that. So they had replaced his gear with 15 kilograms of brick and rubble, both easy to come by amid the devastated border villages.  

On his feet, Zac retained his tan combat boots, and thick beige socks. The boots scrambled for grip on the rough desert track.

What was hurting Zac, beyond the physical exertion of the run, was the leather cord tied tight around the collar of his ball sac. A leather cord attached, at the other end, to the rear towing eye of a large Toyota pick-up truck.

The ability of the cord to hurt, of course, was binary. If there was slack, everything was fine – excepting the need to avoid tripping on the wretched thing. But every so often, cruelly and entirely deliberately, the Toyota would speed up a little. Zac would see the pain coming, before it hit him, as the slack in the cord disappeared in front of him, one moment grazing the desert floor, the next a tight, virtually inelastic horizontal line between the boy and the truck.

Zac would feel the strangulation of his testes as the rawhide gripped them, vice like.

If his marine training instructors had little sympathy for discomfort, these guys, so it seemed, had none.

“A leetle faster Zac, please.” The muscled Arab would call from the flat bed of the truck.

“Awww fuck….hurts.” Zac would cry, to nobody in particular, by return.

But the young marine knew he faced three choices:

1. Have his gonads ripped off.
2. Stumble, and be pulled along on his back by the truck.
3. Keep up.

So, of course, he managed to raise his pace in short bursts, to keep up with the truck, saving himself in the short term, but alerting his captors to the possibility they could squeeze more out of the frightened but sturdy young marine.

As Zac grew tired, the bursts of speed from the truck seemed to become more frequent. This was not an illusion – taut cord, rather than slack, was becoming the norm. Slack, and recovery, began to feel like heaven, whereas in reality it was still a hell-on-earth run.

Zac did not see the greeting party, so focussed was he on the tension in the cord, and potential obstacles underfoot, but they could see him as they waited at a small oasis in a Land Cruiser. Through binoculars, they tracked his progress, and passed little updates to each other.

“The wrapped hide is contracting in the sun, around his balls, as we said it would, Atif”

“Look at the way his nuts are pulled out in front of him, Sergei. They must be a full eight inches from his body!”

They were right, of course. Sac flesh that was never intended to stretch significantly was almost translucent, so thinly was it tugged out in front of the youth, like extensively rolled pastry. Beyond was the tightest little gonad package you could imagine, now angry red/purple. Zac was so very close to a physical separation from his juice-maker, and he knew it. Only his will not to be so-separated kept him in touch with the vehicle ahead as it pushed on, as Zac suspected, away from potential rescue in Iraq, and into the interior of Iran.

*******

They gave Zac a large water bottle after they allowed him to collapse to the floor under the semi-shade of a palm. Initially, he lay foetus-like, unable even to sit with his back against the tree trunk. The youth had a series of frightening dry heaves, the torture in his balls now somehow registering consciously, where it had not done so on his run.

Eventually, the kid managed to push himself into a sitting position, and took long swigs from the water bottle – not, at first, to re-hydrate his body, but rather to ease the sandpaper feeling in his throat.

As he drank, a bearded, olive-skinned Arab – perhaps more Saudi looking than Iraqi – strolled over. He was dressed traditionally, even stereotypically, with a flowing headdress.

“Recovered a little, boy?” He spoke better English than the thugs in the pick-up who had captured him.

“Where are you taking me?” Zac asked, ignoring the question on his welfare.

“Somewhere safe.” The Arab replied, blandly.

“Your documents say Zachary, but I presume it’s generally Zac?”

The kid nodded.

“Date of birth, October 18, 1987?”

“Yeah.”

“How long in the Marines, Zac?”

“Coming up two years.”

The Arab seemed to consider this answer for a moment.

“You run well, even for one so young. But then you are lean muscle, rather than bulky muscle. A little less weight to carry on your frame.” He observed.

“Are we stopping here, tonight.” Zac asked.

“No, here is unsafe. We have moving on shortly, another eight miles or so.”

“In the trucks?” Zac made deliberate eye contact with the Arab for the first time.

“Zac, it feels a little strange you not knowing how to address me.”

“Okay…then what’s your name?” The kid asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, you can call me Sir. And these other men…..you can call them Sir also.”

He gestured towards the men scattered around the two trucks, with a broad sweeping movement. Zac looked down again.

“Why…..why did you make me run, rather than put me in the truck?”

The 40-something captor looked sternly at his prisoner.

“Sir, I meant.” Zac added. He was military, so the title formalities should fall easily into place.

“Because we wanted to see you run, Zac. Does that explain.”

The marine was unsure whether he washed to explore this further. He needed to know the reality, but was also frightened by it.

There were a few moments of quiet, but not of inactivity. Unresisted, the Arab reached out and, with a long finger, traced the sweat-wet definition in Zac’s pec meat.

“Are we all going in the truck, now?” The kid asked.

“Not all, no. But if you are anxious to push on, maybe we should.”

*******

Zac was now in a vehicular sandwich as he scurried along a shallow, dry valley. In front of him was the pick-up, and behind, the Land Cruiser.

There was no longer a leather cord strangling his young testes. That was the improvement in his conditions. But this was, if anything, an even harder run. The reason why was illustrated by the flat bed of the truck in front, on which perched – provocatively -  one of young Zac’s combat boots. And the other? Well, that was tied hard, by its own laces, to his scrotum. Inside were stuffed Zac’s socks, and they served to disguise a three inch deep layer of sand, added as an after-thought for ballast, which ran the length of the sole.

No more were Zac’s balls pulled painfully in front of him. Now they were tugged cruelly down by the weight of his boot. The weight they, the bastards, had thought insufficient a challenge on its own, as they scooped desert sand and poured it into the stinky interior of his tan boot.

The sheer weight was only one dimension of the challenge, however. Another was trying to get into any sort of run with the boot grazing his thighs, and causing horrible nausea as it caught his body and jarred his testes. Zac was forced into a ludicrous spread-kneed run. They, his captors, found his gait hilarious.

Part three of the challenge was the heat of the desert floor, which forced the youth to be fleet-footed or face severe burning to his soles. So, much as he would have liked to slow down or stop a while, to rest his gonads that were pulled halfway to his knees, he couldn’t.

Part four of the challenge was one of the muscled goons responsible for his capture, who was also travelling on foot on this occasion, in front of the youth and to his left. And armed with a 20 plait signal whip.

The goon would monitor Zac’s spacing between the truck and the Land Cruiser, which both travelled at identical speed, and the ‘rules of the game’ were very simple. If Zac started lagging, and the vehicle to the rear threatened to catch him up, the burly guy would, slowly and deliberately, unfurl the whip. Zac would get a shouted warning.

“Head back!”

Whereupon, to protect his eyes, he would desperately crane his neck back as far as it would go, whilst somehow continuing to manage a crab-like run of sorts.

The whistle in the air marked the imminent laying of the whip in an expert diagonal across the kid’s wet chest and tight six pack, and down as far as his thighs. 

Then his familiar and pointless refrain as an angry red stripe grew along his torso.

“Awww fuck….hurts so bad!”

Finally, the goon’s equally familiar refrain by return.

“A leetle faster, Zac.”

And sure enough, the sturdy little 5’8” Californian, with his unkempt mop of dark brown hair – a military cut that hadn’t seen a barber for three weeks – would push on, closing the gap with the truck in front again. Proof, if it were needed for the Arabs, that motivational corporal punishment really works.

Naturally, a few minutes later, he would tire again and his pace would drop, and the whip would be unfurled. Constantly, over eight miles, this same cycle.

The goon was an accurate whip handler, it could not be denied. Maybe that was good news for Zac, whose face and neck entirely avoided the ministration of CP. Or, perhaps, it was bad news, for the guy seemed to uncover new and painful areas to strike each time.

Diagonal stripes right to left, and left to right. Horizontal stripes along his tender breast meat, and stinging his boy titties so badly it made Zac cry. He never imagined nips could be so sensitive. Of course, there were blows that deliberately struck Zac’s flaccid boy cock – a tender tube of flesh, so cruelly punished. Incredibly, there were blows which seemed to reach under his dick to lift it, then sting it’s most sensitive areas. Finally, there was a blow which struck the crown of his cock, sending Zac reeling backwards upon his weighted rucksack, onto the ground.

As the kid lay spread-eagled on the floor, the goon pulled what the young marine thought was a truncheon from his belt. Probably, the boy lost consciousness for a second or two – feet burning; torso stinging; legs aching; balls distended and hurt. He was ‘brought to’ was an immense, jolting bolt of electricity from the ‘truncheon’, that did a good job of seemingly throwing him back upon his feet.

“No rest, just run.”  The goon jabbered away, and raised his ‘truncheon’ once more, but Zac was on his way, tears rolling off both cheeks, his goal of the pick-up truck just visible through blurry, unfocussed eyes.

*******

The convoy is at the ‘safe’ house. They have relieved Zac of his rubble-laden rucksack, but his boot still swings gently between his legs, the laces gnawing and torturing his testes.

Zac stands before his captors, who have arranged themselves in a group. He is young and physically fit, but they all seem to tower over him. He hates being 5’8”.

The man who spoke to him at the oasis appears to be in charge.

“You must know, Zac, that this is not a simple prisoner of war scenario. I guess you understand that from the whip, the boot, the cord?” The Arab said, his tone neutral.

Actually, such was the shock he was in, Zac had not really considered his ‘scenario’ since his capture -  whilst foolishly separated from his unit during border reconnaissance. Abruptly, however, he marshalled his thoughts, and had to concede, he was in very deep shit. The Arab allowed him this time to reflect, and respond.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like, maybe, to see your girlfriend and family again one day?” The bearded guy continued.

“Yes Sir!” Zac responded sharply.

“I understand, Zac. Perhaps a little unfair, but I have a question for you. If pain was the price of freedom, is that a price you would be prepared to pay?”

Kinky shit, Zac thought. Predictable given his recent experience.

“Yes Sir.”

“Okay Zac, good boy, very good boy. Welcome to Iran, kid.”

To be continued.

Comments/suggestions please to: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk

 

Zac – The Unlucky One

Part Two

15 June 2009

4.45am

Marine Zachary thought he knew how to stand to attention, and hold a formal pose, but the Arab insisted on a different kind of perfection. As he circled the boy, he instructed countless micro-adjustments.

“Tuck the abs in a little further, and push the chest out to the same extent.”

“Spread the legs another inch, boy.”

“Raise and tighten your buttock mounds, please.”

“Push your elbows back a little, to tauten your bicep lock, Marine.”

As he issued orders, the Arab guided Zac in implementing them by prodding the relevant part of his torso with a cane, or running the cane over a stretched limb. Finally, he appeared satisfied.

“Zac, there is a point to all of this. Shortly, you will be meeting a man who will become very significant in your life. He is the reason you are here. I want you to get along with him, Zac, and I want to help you by telling you a few things about him. So are you listening?”

“Yes, Sir” The youth replied crisply, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, three days of stubble now adorning his fresh-featured 21 year old face.

“Ok. Well, whilst the rest of us will remain ‘Sir’ to you, the man you are about to meet will wish to be addressed differently. You will call him ‘Master’, without fail.”

The kid continued to listen, with no visible emotion.

“Now, Master is what’s known as a sadist. You might understand already what that term means, but if you don’t it doesn’t matter – you soon will. Master will extract pain from you, be sure of that, but also understand that if you perform with perfection, you may occasionally see leniency. That state of perfection includes the ability to hold a pose, and on that note – I see your chest has deflated a little – push it back out, Zachary.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s better. One further point. Master will only expect you to speak when spoken to - ever. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy. Did you get much sleep last night?”

“Some Sir.”

“I can still see the imprint of the bed springs on your back, it must have ached when you got up?”

“A bit, Sir.”

“Well, I guess a Marine is accustomed to uncomfortable sleeping quarters. You may not see a mattress again for a while.”

“No, Sir.”

“The early start is a necessity. We needed to pose you perfectly for your Master. He is due here by 8am.”

“Sir, what time is it now?” Zac asked, disorientated.

“It’s nearly 5am, Zac.”

The kid was silent, as was the Arab for a few moments, but something was missing.

“Oh, I almost forgot the finishing touch. The boot!”

Zac took a few seconds to absorb the news.

“Why????!!!!” He cried, shaking abruptly.

The Arab tugged at the kid’s raw testes, making a little pommel above which the boot laces were, once again, tied.

“Why you, or why the boot?” He asked, as he worked.

The kid understood this was a pointless debate. He tautened up, back to the ‘perfect’ pose, and grimaced as the sand-filled boot was released as a dead weight, dramatically pulling his reluctantly-elastic balls halfway to his knees.

As the Arab left the room, he spoke into Zac’s ear.

“Do not move a muscle. Do not make a sound. We will be watching. Be ready to greet your sadist, your Master.”

*******

As promised by the Arab, the wait was three hours.

As suggested, the kid stayed rooted to the spot, in the middle of the basement room. Bare concrete floor. Bare rendered walls. No furniture whatsoever. Light provided by a single 100 watt bulb directly overhead. Just a naked boy, legs spread, hands clasped behind head, gaze fixed straight ahead, a combat boot hanging, very still, between his legs.

Total quiet was not achieved. Zac’s tears were silent at first, but, as one hour rolled into two, and he let his mind wander into what little he understood of sado-masochism, his sobs became audible, and his puffed-out posed chest gave deep heaves.

*******

Zac did not hear the approaching footsteps in the corridor outside, but he heard the metallic jangling of the key searching for the lock, and he heard the barrel turning, slowly.

Instantly, the young marine was covered in a sheet of sweat. Head to toe. And though he thought he could tauten his muscles no further, he somehow found an ability to tighten-up here and there; tuck in the tummy a little more; raise and narrow his butt mounds.

Squeak. The door opened. The kid kept looking at an indeterminate point on the wall in front of him, as heavy boots entered the room. One step at a time, very deliberate. Now the boots were somewhere behind him, and there they stopped.

An eternity of silence – actually three minutes. He was still there, watching; assessing his captive, his project. 

A further movement of the boots.

Zac felt hot breath on the back of his neck. He longed, now, for an ‘ice breaker’, for this torture of silence to end.

The man in the boots has placed a palm upon Zac’s right butt cheek. A fucking huge palm, but not a clammy one – this man is cool and collected. His long digits reach almost to the kid’s crack.

The man squeezes, very, very hard, as though grabbing a hunk of bread to tear it off a loaf. But this is butt flesh, not bread. He squeezes and lifts, and the boy is abruptly thrust onto tiptoe. Somehow, Zac remains composed enough to hold the pose.

The booted man holds Zac by his butt mound, on tiptoe, for three minutes, in silence, before lowering him.

Now there are forearms encircling Zac from both sides of his torso. White, muscular forearms with a dusting of blond hair that stand in contrast to Zac’s dark pit hair and pubic trail.

Two fingers on each hand grab Zac’s tit nubs  - the nipples modest in diameter, the juicers compact but plump. The nubs are compressed, first between flesh, then between fingernails. Then they are twisted a full 360 degrees. Finally, they are pulled – up and out.

Again, the grimacing boy is forced onto his toes, but now his whole centre of gravity is forced forward. He wants to place his arms by his side, to help steady himself, but knows he must keep them clasped behind his head.

The man mashes and twists and pulls and scratches Zac’s nipples for a further three minutes, then lowers him once more, silently.

The boots retreat.

How far?

Maybe a few paces.

“Do not move a muscle, boy. I warn you.”

Some ice-breaker. The voice is deep -  this is going to be a big guy. But what is the accent? Zac is unsure. The kid is now visibly trembling, losing it a bit.

The scissor kick, when it comes, is delivered with such force that the kicker himself gives an audible ‘ahhhhhh’. His boot strikes target with perfect accuracy – the tan combat boot hanging between Zac’s legs.

Zac’s boot bolts on it’s pendulum of laces, and swings up violently, crashing into the kid’s abs with a rubbery thud.

The boy lets out an anguished, guttural cry. His testes have been torn clean from his body – or so it feels.

The arc of the swinging boot gradually diminishes, its own motion carrying it backwards and forwards for some time.

Zac is crying freely, chest heaving, tears dropping from his face and mingling with nervous sweat in rivulets over his pec meat. His hands remain locked behind his head.

“Hello, Zachary.” The deep voice says.

“Frightened?”

The kid sniffs and tries to regain his composure.

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay kid, I understand. We can do something about that. We can get to know each other. Get down on your knees, facing the same direction, then get your hands back behind your head.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t you fucking dare look up, kid!”

*******

Zac’s knees graze the concrete floor. His view of the far wall has gone, replaced by a very substantial set of male genitalia. The dick must be nearly eight inches, flaccid - a long pale tube with a contrasting raspberry head. The leathery balls hang low.

“Your girlfriend, Vanessa, has sucked you off I guess?” Said the deep voice.

They had been through his rucksack contents thoroughly, Zac realised, and found the letters he carried around from her, back in California, full of sweet nothings and lovey-dovey stuff.

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay kid, well here the tables are turned. You’re the one who’ll be doing the milking with your mouth. I have four rules. No teeth; no gagging; no hands; make it deep. Now repeat them, marine.”

“No teeth; no gagging; no hands; make it deep, Master.”

“Ok, so reach for it and get started.”

*******

Had Zac ever sucked before? He would probably deny having done so, as all military men would. Put it this way – he had enough experience of receiving, or giving, to know roughly what to do. He wet the head carefully with his lips, and took it in his mouth. Within about thirty seconds, Master was impatient – no different to most men – and Zac knew what to do. He took the rest of the shaft.

Oral sounds so ‘vanilla’, doesn’t it? Sex for wimps who are scared of anal. It doesn’t feel that way, however, when you’re a straight young man, on your knees; impaled with 10 inches down your gullet; thinly-spread lips mashed against a mat of blond pubic hair; unable to release because he is forcing you onto his dick through the application of hands to the back of your neck; frightened to gag because he has warned you not to; knowing you must continue to massage his weapon with your tongue; feeling your own face go red – or is it blue – as your nose struggles to do all the breathing.

Infrequently, he lets you surface for air and you desperately fill your lungs, before he pulls you back onto him for another five minute deep throat session.

He grows ever-bigger inside your mouth. Your lips struggle to make a circumference wide enough to accept him. Your throat chafes as it pushes reluctantly open. Drool runs uncontrollably down your chin like you’re some kind of dementia-ridden fruitcake, not a 21 year-old in your physical prime. Your mop of hair is wet with sweat.

Twenty-five minutes in, he starts to throb, like a road digger inside your mouth.

“You’re here to be bred, Zachary. Take every single drop of my cum, kid, or we go straight to punishment without passing ‘go’.”

This is a torrent. Has he been saving himself for weeks, or is it always like this? His bitter-sweet cum soon clogs your throat, and the vicious way he is mouth-raping you leaves you unable to swallow and clear the sticky goo. So, instead it fills any vacuum between his dick and the wall of your mouth, and it feels as though his eruption is like wallpaper paste, attaching his dick to your throat permanently. Cum starts threatening to leak from your lips, but somehow you pull it back in, expertly, with your tongue. This is hard, physical work. Your chest heaves, your breath is short.

“Clean my dick, kid.” He says.

Somehow, you muster up the energy to wipe down each surface of his weapon with long, artful, tongue strokes. You curl your tongue to give proper attention to the crevices of his head.

He withdraws, clean and satisfied. You bow your head, anxious not to look at him. You still have a mouthful of cum.

“Swallow now, Zachary.” He says.

You have been waiting for this opportunity to clear your throat, and greedily digest his man juice. You are straight, and unsure what to make of the taste and texture. It doesn’t matter, because familiarity will – literally – breed understanding.

“I very, very rarely give praise Zachary. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“But, I feel, even though we have just met, that you may understand the meaning of the word ‘submission’. I feel you may also understand what submission means for you. Am I right, boy?”

Suddenly, I’m not sure from where, Zac’s eyes are full of tears.

“YES, MASTER!” He shouts, his voice simultaneously clear and full of raw emotion.

******

Zac is standing in the corner, facing two walls. He has yet to see anything of his Master bar his genitals and forearms, and Master wishes to keep it that way, for the time being.

“When did you last wash, kid?”

Zac had to think for a moment.

“Four days ago, Master.”

Master’s boots were still. Zac knew he was being observed, carefully. He held the pose.

“You stink of sweat, cum, piss, and fear boy. What we know as raunch. A boy in your position will smell raunchy much of the time, but for now, one of my friends will take you to the river to wash. Then you will be issued with your kit. Then you will see me again. Understand, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.” 

The ten minutes Zac spent with a bar of soap, in the gurgling stream behind the safe house, were his best ten minutes since capture. He felt the tension in his aching muscles ease somewhat. The guards allowed him to sit on the river bed whilst he lathered his upper body, taking the weight from his feet. The young marine submerged his head in the free-flowing water, and scrubbed his scalp vigorously, removing copious quantities of desert sand. The finest sensation, however, was felt before he entered the water, as the guards undid the boot laces around his scrotum, and the sand-packed dead weight combat boot was allowed to fall to the floor. Just for a moment, Zac felt free again – so long as he avoided looking at the gun-toting Arabs surrounding him.

*******

The yard of the safe house has been brought into use as an improvised drill square.

Zac dries rapidly in the morning sun, proudly wearing his new ‘kit’ - one pair of black patent leather combat boots. Also just issued:

One tin of boot polish, and one boot brush.

One pair of bottle green boot socks – not to be worn unless authorised. 

One tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

One tube of ‘personal lubricant’ – use as yet unexplained.

That’s it. That’s kit here. It barely warranted the setting up of the makeshift table upon which the items were displayed. 

Zac is being drilled by the guards. 

Quick marches around the yard. Slow, rigid marches – legs flung theatrically high with each goose step. Standing to attention, then ‘at ease’, and back again every few seconds.

With every call to attention, the captive is required to call his full name:

“Marine Zachary David Alexander Efron, SIR!”

“Not loud enough, marine. Again!”

“MARINE ZACHARY DAVID ALEXANDER EFRON, SIR!”

Then off again, new boots pounding the hard surface of the yard. One or two guards alert, guns at the ready; the others relaxing a little, enjoying the spectacle, taking drags on illicit Western cigarettes, asking Zac to goose step his legs a little higher.

At 11am, Master is ready to see Zac again. From the house, he gives a signal to the lead Arab. The captive is marshalled between two guards, quick-marched back to the basement room, and through the open door.

The light is off.

Zac assumes the pose in the centre spot, and the door slams behind him.

Two minutes silence. Then the boy is startled by the deep voice, behind him. He was in the room from the outset, in the dark corner behind the door.

“Hello again, Zachary. I hope you like your new boots?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will be in them during work, rest and play. But especially play. I think you understand, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Your uniform is not quite complete, however. In fact, the most important component is missing.”

Zac had no idea what the deep voice was talking about.

“Zachary, it is time to fit your chastity.”

*******

To be continued.  

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Zac – The Unlucky One

Part Three

“Awww…feels so tight.”

This was becoming a Zac habit – emoting his discomfort with these little asides addressed to nobody in particular. Not complaining, you understand, for marines don’t complain, but merely verbalising his pain.

If you were working, involuntarily, with a sadist, would you give them the pleasure of a little running commentary on the centres of pain gripping your torso? Well, I wouldn’t, but Zac had much to learn.

Marine Zac’s penis is now a vision in stainless steel. He is wearing The Enforcer.

The Enforcer is a truly bespoke instrument of chastity. Five rings of medical grade steel form the cage, into which the kid’s long, slender, uncut dick is stuffed. Then the handcuff-style ring is secured ever so tightly – as Zac attests -  around the base of his balls.

However, The Enforcer is so much more than that. Each ring of the cage has three internal spikes. That’s one big incentive not to get hard. Finally, at the end of the cage is a through-hole penis plug, to provide an element of urethral stretching whilst still allowing the kid to piss without adjusting the device.

Zac stands in the formal pose. Master worked behind him whilst attaching the chastity, so his face, his body, is still a mystery. His big, meaty hands are now quite familiar, however. These are hands which are expert in hurting a boy; working a boy; applying devices as though it were second nature. This is a confident man, with a scared young marine.

“Tell me what your chastity does, Zachary.”

The kid knew, of course. He hated being asked to spell it out.

“It stops me from getting hard and cumming, Master.”

There is a pause.

“It leaves that power with the holder of the padlock key, Zachary.”

“Yes, Master.” The kid blushed, fearful always of getting a ‘wrong’ answer to a question.

“The device came with three keys, marine. Two are now at the bottom of the river, probably floating down towards the Persian Gulf. I hold the third. Much like I hold a key for my car. Maybe you’d like to think about that parallel for a moment, Zachary?”

Master’s boots paced at the back of the room.

“Of course, I have changed my car on a number of occasions. It’s a relatively easy process. Sell it to someone who is content with a used model, well broken in. Someone who knows they are taking on something unreliable, and who will treat it with little sympathy. Have I said all I need to on ownership, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

Unsure where the bravado came from, Zac carried on.

“Master, they said never to speak unless asked a question, but I don’t really understand what’s going on and I really want to know.”

From behind, a long finger reached around and pushed Zac’s lips shut.

“Ssshhh. You need to trust your Master to tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it.” The deep voice said.

“Meanwhile, you asked what’s going on. Well, what’s going on straight away is a little toy for your tit nubs, called the Wall Climber.”

As he spoke, Master commenced rubbing the marine’s nubs, one in each hand between two fingers, in pursuit of the perfect tittie erection. Perhaps because the kid was frightened, or more likely because Master’s skill at pulling, twisting, squashing and squeezing young male tit nubs was unrivalled, Zac rapidly sported two pronounced, erect little gems, each rising 75 millimetres from their compact, perfectly circular bases.   

“This is a good quality tit toy, Zachary, because I wish for nothing but the best for you. Good quality means a strong spring, and sharp teeth. You understand, marine?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Take a nice deep breath, Zachary, and hold it for me. I want to see those pec plates rise.”

The kid inhaled audibly, and as he did so, the hand reached around him again from the rear, and gave his left nub a further squeeze. As the fingers released, they were immediately replaced with the biting teeth of the clamp, the Wall Climber.

“Another deep breath, Zachary.”

Zac was still adjusting to, and reeling from, the pain in his left nub.

“Now, Zachary, or I will punish.”

The young marine puffed up again, and a matching clamp, joined to the first with a length of steel chain, was applied to his right nub.

“Ahhh…feels so sharp!”

The tiny, pointed metallic teeth of the clamp bit into tender boy nub flesh, and equally tiny rivulets of crimson blood began to run lazily over Zac’s defined pec meat.

Master’s hands were back again, searching, inevitably, for the chain joining the clamps. The short length gave only a modest amount of slack as it drooped towards the top of Zac’s abdomen.

The kid stole an illicit glance down, only to see one hand gripping the chain tightly, veins prominent. He felt the slack disappear, and suddenly the clamps themselves were at right angles to his body.

“What did I tell you these were called, Marine Zachary?”

“Wall Climber, Master.”

“Because, Zachary, the natural physical response of a young man, when this chain is pulled, is to do exactly that. I, however, would prefer you to stay rooted to the spot. And I would like you to stay at attention, legs nicely apart as you have them now, biceps locked behind your neck as you have them now. Eyes to remain fixed firmly ahead, at that nice blank wall that you won’t be climbing today. Is that understood, Zachary?”

“Yes Mast………AWWWwwwww NO, please!”

The strong hand pulled the unforgiving metal chain, which in turn yanked the clamps that wrenched Zac’s youthful boy tits brutally forward, away from his body.    

The soles of Zac’s heavy black boots crunched on the floor as his body shifted and rose, before the kid remembered his instructions and he endeavoured to return to a flat footed pose. Master, still behind Zac, assisted his return to a formal ‘attention’ position by grabbing a handful of butt flesh and pulling down.

A brief respite, as Master let go of the chain. He whispered, millimetres from the kids left ear.

“And again, Zachary. But this time, how about obeying orders?”

“Yes Mast…Awwwww huuuuurtssssss!”

Perhaps you wouldn’t have guessed how elastic, in extremis, boy titties can be. As Master pulled at the chain, Zac’s nubs extended a full six centimetres from his chest.

Zac’s tear ducts again became wet. Do you think that worries a sadist?

The kid shook his head in despair, but this time he internalised his wall climbing. His feet remained firmly on the floor, although the strain to hold this position was clearly evident from the prominent veins in his calves. Likewise, his sweaty palms remained locked behind his head, almost glued to it in fear.

This tit pull went on for ninety seconds, accompanied by lots of little ‘ahs’ and ‘oh fucks’ from the marine. That was all fine for Master. Emoting pain is not a cause for punishment. He let go of the chain.

The kid sobbed.

“Cry if you must, but keep your chin up whilst you do so, Zachary. I haven’t told you to stand at ease.”

“Yes, Master.” Zac mumbled, through tears.

Boots paced the back of the room, behind Zac, again.

“Marines have a reputation for adventure, of course, and low inhibitions. I’m just wondering, have you and Vanessa ever made out in public, perhaps, or at any kind of group session?”

“No, Master!” Zac was emphatic.

“Okay, I understand. Maybe not that adventurous. But have you ever wondered what it might be like to have a group of people watch, seeing it all? Watching pink holes open up and take dick; seeing the sweat and the effort of the man; hearing the panting and moans of whoever is underneath?”

“Not really, Master.”

He was quiet again for a moment, but continued to pace.

“Just a conservative, small town upbringing was it, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay. Well, some curiosity might have helped, but it doesn’t matter. You’re going to march outside in a moment, marine, back into the sunshine of the yard. Then, I will have anal sex with you.”

*******

Marine Zachary is at the Land Cruiser, which has been parked centrally in the yard. One leg is on the ground. The other is raised, spread a little and is resting on the ledge that is the high fender of the 4x4. That’s where Master wanted him. The Arabs arranged it. 

They gave him his tube of personal lubricant, issued as part of his kit.

“This is the only lubricant you will receive here, Zachary. When it runs out, there is no more. Use as much as you wish, whenever you wish, but a careful marine will use it sparingly.”  The lead Arab observed with a sickly grin. 

“I’ve never…….I mean, this is my first time.” Zac said, weakly.

The Arab smiled.

“You will enjoy more with a slick hole, then. There isn’t much time Zachary, Master is impatient. Use your fingers.”

The marine grabbed the toothpaste-like tube and squeezed some of the contents onto one finger. And there, spread over the hood of the Land Cruiser, he deflowered his anus for the first time, by his own hand.

“Push it deep in, marine. Master will go deep, so you must lube deep!”

I am sorry if this upsets you, or you are eating, but I must tell you – because it is the reality – that the 21 year-olds tanned digits emerged from his oiled-up sphincter a streaky brown. That is the reality of boy sex without a full preparatory enema. It’s not something that straight boys generally know. Why would they even think about it? Zac looked disgusted with himself, but there was nowhere to wash, and no permission to do so in any event. He looked at the tube – already perhaps 15% used.

“Finished?” The Arab asked, as he retrieved the tube.

*******

Since his capture, Marine Zachary had adopted a mature, realistic approach to his predicament. There was one of him, now unarmed, and up to a dozen gun-toting Arabs guarding him. Plus this freaky sadist who insisted on being called Master. This was not a routine POW scenario, and he knew enough about the politics and lawlessness of the region to exercise care. He would look for any opportunity to escape, or overpower a guard, but until then, there was little point kicking up a fuss, trying to cite the Geneva Convention or attempting a lecture on his rights. Even the Americans had Guantanamo. Captivity was always a hellish experience.

There is always a point, however, when a boy cracks; rebels; fights back. Often, that tipping point occurs when the boy is told he is to be fucked. Anally raped. And so it was to be.

“What the FUCK is happening here…….what the FUCK do you want from me?”

Zac shouted from the hood of the Land Cruiser. He had reacted to the sound of boots moving, at the double, over the yard. He could not see, but he knew it was Master. The boots stopped behind him.

“Are we going to do this the easy way, Zachary, or the punishment way?” Whispered the deep voice in his ear. The diction was clear, deliberate. This man could be frightening and demanding, without appearing aggressive.

“Please….tell me what’s going on and when I might get out. Even if you won’t do that, please don’t fuck me. I’ve got my girl back home, I’m not into all of this stuff!”

“You fail to understand, Zachary. The only chance you have of seeing your girl again is to adopt that big ‘s’ word. Submission. That involves another ‘s’ word. Surrender. Surrendering your torso, your holes, your pain, over to us. I need to tell you that – again – because that is the reality, marine.”

Tears fell onto the hood of the Land Cruiser and steamed in the heat of the Arabian afternoon sun.

“If you instead adopt the ‘r’ words – revolt and rebellion – that will bring you to the big ‘p’ word, punishment.”

Master clicked his fingers.

“Abdul – the cane.”

“I’m not going to make a big thing of this, if we can both agree to put it behind us, wipe our tears and move on. But it is right that you experience a little taster of the ‘p’ word, Zachary.”

*******

“Six Master, please may I have another?!”

“Louder, Zachary, I wish to hear your cry echo around the yard.”

It was the same on almost every application of the long, rattan cane. Once, twice, even three times, Master made Zac repeat his riposte. The real echo, however, was of the cane itself, expertly targeted by Master, lashing the almost alabaster white firmness of the kid’s impressive butt mounds. Perfectly horizontal, angry red welts formed on his cheeks.

This was a punishment, not some lame CP play. The thwacks were delivered efficiently, swiftly, brutally.

“Seven Master, please may I have another?!”

The cane was whistling through the air again almost as soon as the marine had finished his instructed sentence of thanks.

Just ten strikes were delivered. Ten red tram lines on Zac’s mounds. Ten little statements of intent. Ten little reminders of what it means for an attractive young man to spend time in the company of a sadist.

“You are lubed, Zachary?” Of course, he knew the answer.

“Yes, Master.”

“Are you now ready, mentally, to open your trap door for me?”

“Yes, Master.” And Zac did, in fact, now sound resigned to it.

“Enjoy the ride then, Zachary.”

*******  

“Mmmm….Mmmmmm….Mmmmmm.”

The sounds of a boy taking hard anal sex can be quite delicious. Initially, Zac had been reluctant – physically – to open up. Master had whispered to him to push out, as though about to shit, and that was enough to let four or five inches in – the young sphincter suddenly greedy to be fed.

Master was not ‘verbal’ whilst he fucked. That was a waste of energy that could be better spent pumping, nailing, skewering the young man on the end of his dick. But Zac knew his cherry had been well and truly taken.

“Mmmm…..Mmmmmm….tight……hurts….Mmmmmm.”

Master grabbed the kid’s hips, and used the additional leverage to throw another three inches into the marine.

“Awwww…..hurts!”

It was not just the length and girth of the invading dick, but also the speed of the pistoning, and the meagre quantities of lubricant applied to Zac’s anal walls.

The kid’s booted leg, on the ground, scrabbles for grip as he is pumped. The veins in his neck, on his biceps and calves are prominent as he struggles to maintain composure in his skewered position, one leg on the fender.

Zac looks, for a moment, onto the hood. There is a reflection. It is a blond man, and tall with it  - perhaps 6’5”. His hair is buzz cut. His age? Difficult to tell in the reflection, but perhaps early to mid 30s. His frame is large and athletically well built.

Who is it? For some reason, Zac does not immediately make the connection. He is too busy worrying about his punished sphincter.

It is Master.

He looks again. Why does he feel so brutalised, yet Master’s face shows little sign of exertion?

Yet again, a hand reaches round.

“No….pleeeeeeeasssee!”

Master pushes his last inch in, and simultaneously gives a vigorous tug on Zac’s tit chain.

“Awwwww…..nooooooo!”

As he rams in and out, Master is sufficiently composed to make an observation.

“Zachary, I can feel hair around your hole, against the root of my dick.”

Pump, pump.

“I don’t want to see or feel hair around boy cunt. It will come off tomorrow, is that understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I didn’t hear that, Zachary.” He said, giving a sharp tug on the reins that were Zac’s tit ornament. 

“YES, MASTER!”

Pump, pump, pump.

Then, the unexpected for Zac, although perhaps it shouldn’t have been, as boys in distress have all sorts of strange biological reactions.

“Awww…..my fucking dick….mmmm…mmmmm….spikes are hurting!”

Sure enough, Zac’s elegant penis, with the prominent vein running full distance along it, was swelling in it’s tight little cage, and slowly being pinched and pierced by the internal spikes. 

“Pleeeease Master……cage key……awwwwww..hurts.”

At that, the watching Arabs laughed amidst their own hard-ons. The idea that Master was going to unlock Zac’s chastity now, just when it was serving its purpose, was ludicrous. But they knew him, and Zac did not – or certainly insufficiently.

With regard to ejaculation, Master generally bred boys. Cum was deposited in mouths and anuses. Zac felt, first, the rumbling and tremors deep inside him, and then – the weirdest feeling for a straight boy – a gushing torrent of sticky goo that seemed to fill internal cavities Zac never knew existed. He made balls of his fists on the hood of the Toyota as the exploding weapon left him flooded.

Thirty seconds of recovery, then Master withdrew with a pop which gave the Arabs a second laugh in quick succession, their own loads now also generally spent.

“Kneel, and clean.”

Master pointed his semi-hard at Zac, slick with lube, brown and red from the boy’s own innards.

Master could read the kids reluctance, his disgust.

“Zachary, do we need the ‘p’ word again? Clean your Master, now. Taste your own insides, marine.”

Bravely this time, and without further tears, Zac lowered himself on his tired, fucked-out legs, and took his Master in his mouth. He struggled not to gag at the odour and taste of his passage, his standards of personal hygiene impeccable for ‘straight’ purposes, but too low for passive anal.

“To the root, Zachary. To the root.”

*******

To be continued.

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Zac – The Unlucky One

Part Four

The 21 year old remained on his knees, freshly anally raped. Semen drained from his boy hole, and multiple viscous threads of cum fell, string-like, towards the sandy earth.

The exhausted kid felt light in the head, after being screwed in the heat of the yard for so long. Never underestimate the physical challenge of a boy fuck for a first time bottom – even one as fit as Marine Zac.

“Master, may I have a drink?” The kid asked, hoarsely.

“Zachary, now we have fucked, you may look up at me.” Master deflected.

The marine gingerly raised his head, not entirely convinced this was a good idea. He looked into a set of piercing blue eyes, on an angular, clean-cut face. Not just piercing eyes, but something else. Cruel eyes.

This was Master, his musculature more substantial, even, than Zac had anticipated from the reflections on the Land Cruiser. In addition to his generous blond pubic bush, the man had a covering of similarly-coloured down on his chest and legs, and a good clump in each arm pit.

Master handled his gob-slick dick, freshly cleaned by the kid, and waved it centimetres from Zac’s face.

“Zachary, before you drink from a glass, you must drink from the tap.”

The Arabs laughed.

The kid wasn’t stupid. He understood the suggestion. Kind of.

“What do you think is going to happen, Zachary?”

“You’re going to piss over me, Master?”

“No, marine, that’s not quite right. I’m going to piss INTO you. You’re going to open your mouth, and I will empty my bladder into it. So long as you don’t spill a drop, then I will make sure there’s a nice glass of water to wash it down with.”

Now the kid really did understand. Every muscle in his body suddenly became tense. It was a furious, indignant tension.

“It’s called fluid exchange, Zachary. First you’re bred with my cum, then you drink straight from my hose. It helps a Master to bond with his boy.”

“Please don’t make me do this shit, Master.” Zac pleaded.

Perhaps the kid wouldn’t have resisted yesterday, or tomorrow, but today he was literally fucked out. Too many layers of dignity had been stripped away in too short a period. He still didn’t know what the fuck they intended doing with him. Hope was receding rapidly.

“Is that a no, Zachary?”

“I don’t want to do it. I won’t do it!” The kid said, re-discovering his bravado.

“I think you need time to reflect.” Master replied.

*******

They have left Zac in the yard, bound, in an X-shape, to an open metal frame.

Before they left, they retrieved his marine issue desert combat boots, and tied them together, as a pair, with the laces. Then, the heavy bundle secure, they wrapped the package with a short rawhide cord, and affixed it to the base of Zac’s chastity-constricted boy organs.

The two boots hang obscenely between Zac’s thighs. Obscenely bulky, yes, but also obscenely weighty. The cord dries and shrivels in the sun, losing any elasticity it may have possessed. These men like dead weights on boy balls, Zac realises, far too late.

The kid shakes the cuffs which secure each limb to a corner of the frame. An entirely futile pursuit. The cuffs are boy-proof, with no slack. His jerking movements send the ball weight swinging back and forth, pendulum style. Ball pain nausea engulfs the boy. He coughs up a little sick.

Burning, de-hydrating, Zac accepts he has no control over his own destiny. He closes his eyes. He becomes still, almost rigid, in his bondage, and as five minutes become ten, become twenty, he drifts in and out of consciousness.

******* 

“What made you resist, Zachary? Was it the expected taste, or the humiliation?”

The marine thought for a moment.

“Mostly the humiliation, Master.”

Zac is back on his knees, inevitably, in front of Master. His mouth is millimetres from Master’s dick head. Those were his instructions – bring your mouth as close as you can, but don’t touch.

“Well, they tell me the taste isn’t too bad, when you get used to it. Maybe we’ll talk, tomorrow, about the humiliation, but not now. I guess your throat is parched?”

“Yes, Master.” The kid did, indeed, sound very scratchy.

“You need fluid. You will come to accept whatever is on offer.”

“Yes, Master.”

“There won’t be time, once I start, to analyse the taste, or swill, or gag. Just keep the throat gulping. Do you understand, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

And so, in the middle of the yard, with the Arabs forming a semi-circular audience in front of him, Zac rose a little on his knees to catch the torrent.

Master had clearly been holding back for some time. His flow was a healthy straw-like colour, and that flow was a powerful blast that ricocheted off the back of Zac’s throat, spun around his mouth like a whirlpool, then tried to find an exit route down his gulping passage. The whirlpool was constantly replenished. In fact, it filled from the tap quicker than it could empty from the plug. The young marine struggled to deal with, literally, a mouthful of piss. He tipped his head back a little, desperate to avoid any spillage, only to feel a sudden need to gag, to choke.

Master abruptly squeezed his prostrate to stop the flow. Not for long. Just three or four seconds. Long enough for Zac to drain his mouth, and make brief eye contact with Master.

“Please…”

“Again, Zachary.”

The dick hose blasted once more. The pressurised urine foamed in the mouth of the young marine. Leakage slipped over his lips and down his chin, but he couldn’t pull it back with his tongue whilst also dealing with the ongoing piss cannon. Still, as long as it didn’t drop to the floor, he was ok.

The flow subsided. Zac rose further from his haunches to move nearer to the weakening stream. He had been so anxious to swallow the full load, only now did he have time to think of the taste – salty, bitter, strong. His insides began to groan, both at the quantity of fluid they had been forced to accept, and it’s unfamiliar acidity. The skin over his bloated tummy perspired a pissy sweat.

“Last few drops, Zachary.” Master said, squeezing his long tube and shaking a few drips into the kid’s wide-open mouth.

“Not so bad, Marine?”

“Master, I think I’m going to be sick.”

The pissy taste, the serious heat and the fear had all got to the young soldier. As he finished his sentence, he gave first a dry heave, then a much deeper one from the pit of his stomach. Crouching, he sicked dramatically over his pristine black boots.

*******  

06.45 am

Master issued a simple instruction to the Arabs. He wished to be woken, as the sun rose, by the sound of Zachary’s physical exertion.

Is there a sweeter melody to be roused to than the ‘ahhs’ and ‘ohhs’ of a young man, himself shaken from sleep in total darkness, exercising for you under duress?

The Arabs had done a good job of creating a makeshift assault course from the detrius in and around the yard. Oil drums, on their sides, formed little fences to be jumped. Lengths of concrete tube formed tunnels to be crawled through. There was a rope to be climbed, hung out from the house wall by way of a hook on a strong arm. They had even crafted a simple wooden horse to be vaulted.

The young marine ran naked, but for his boots and his too-tight chastity.

“Go!” They had simply commanded him.

How fast, and for how long? Zac wondered.

In truth, the Arabs had little idea either. Master decides when a boy stops.

The Arabs were not totally redundant, however. They could supply motivation. The kid had been going for almost thirty minutes – leaping, crawling, climbing, vaulting – before his little gasps and sighs became noticeably more laboured, and his lean, defined pectorals turned dewy with sweat.

Master stirred as the ‘ahhs’ and ‘ohhs’ changed pitch, becoming more guttural.

The boy threw glances at the Arabs. Maybe they would let him slow down, or rest for a bit? This kind of hope often rears its head, early on, whilst a boy is transitioned into a forced BDSM environment. Forgetting the lessons of the previous day, a kid hopes, desperately, that overnight his captors have discovered compassion, mercy, empathy. Yet the respite never comes. As the boy looks for signs of humanity, the lead Arab is handed, by one of his minions, a bull whip.

As Zac completes relentless circuits, he catches a glimpse of the long tail, with the three wide plaits at the very end. He sees the Arab slip his hand through the loop at the base, the weapon being readied for use.

The marine puts on a little spurt, running through his serious discomfort like a good soldier. This is a positive reaction. The whip stays furled.

Master walks onto his first floor balcony, in a dressing gown made of fine white Egyptian cotton. Zac catches his eye, nervously, on his next circuit. He finds, from deep within him, the reserves necessary to push on a little faster still.

Round and round the kid goes, for another twenty minutes. An exhausting, infinite exercise.

The bull whip? Well yes, it was unfurled, and yes, its high velocity whistle through the air was heard by all – over and over again. This was a textbook bull whip application, on display for Master, and why?

I have to tell you, the long plaits touched no more than the rear of Zac’s heavy black boots. The kid, literally, ran scared. The motivation worked. He moved so quickly that the whip tail which may otherwise have lashed the back; the buttocks; the thighs, fell into the fresh imprints of Zac’s boots in the sand. He was perpetually half a second ahead of the rubber motivator.

“Stop!” Master called from the balcony.

The kid made to bend at the waist, panting loudly – horrifically loudly, really. Shattered.

“Come to formal attention, and face me!”

Standing up again, arrow straight, was perhaps the most difficult thing yet.

“Your full name, and rank. Shout it now. Shout it so it echoes twice around the yard.”

“MARINE ZACHARY DAVID ALEXANDER EFRON, MASTER!”

Master let the echo die. He always insisted upon a morning roll call. Initially names, but with some boys, as a process of objectification took hold, a name and number and, finally, a number only. Somewhere in the system, Marine Zac already had an allocated number.

“You enjoyed the run, Zachary?” Master continued.

“Yes, Master!” Giving the expected response, rather than the honest one, was already becoming second nature for the kid.

“Okay. Abdul is going to take you to my office now, Zachary, where you will wait for me at formal attention. It’s time for us to talk about your future.”

“Yes, Master!” Finally, perhaps, some questions would be answered.

*******

Zac is in tears.

The kid thought he had done well on the exercise circuit. He thought – after his initial resistance – he had done well to take Master’s piss load yesterday afternoon. He was pleased to be called to the makeshift office. If only he could start a dialogue with the man, surely that would be the key to an easier relationship between them, and – eventually – release?

He had waited ninety minutes, at attention. On his side of the desk there was nothing but an X, marked on the bare concrete with masking tape, and upon which he stood. On the other side of the desk was Master’s vacant, high-backed leather chair. There was nothing on the desk – no PC, papers or stationery. Master travelled light.

As he stood, Zac realised his boots were chafing his bare heels. They seemed too heavy and cumbersome to wear, 24/7, around the house. He would not have worn boots around the barracks. Zac did not understand BDSM yet, therefore he could not comprehend that the boots were part of the torment, and a deliberate contrast – heavy, manly, straight boy footwear, immaculately polished, juxtaposed against straining, punished, sweating, naked fuck boy torso.  

Master entered from the door behind Zachary and stood, as he always did, silently behind the boy.

“How long have you been seeing Vanessa, Zachary?”

“Four years, Master.”

Only two people in the world called him Zachary. One was his mother – especially if he was in trouble, growing up. The other was Master. Master cannot become over-familiar with his boys. You cannot be a sadist, and take boys to dark, extreme places, against their will, and at the same time be their friends. So at present it is Zachary, and eventually it will be a number, as identity is stripped away in layers over time.

“You must miss her, badly?”

“Yes, Master, I’d love to see her again soon.”

“As we talk, keep your legs spread nice and wide, Zachary. No movement.”

What was he planning?

“Yes, Master.”

“Is she a kind, caring girl, Zachary?”

“Yes, Mast…AWWwwwwwwww fuck!”

As Zac answered, Master silently drew a cattle prod, took careful aim at the kid’s chastity-bound genital package and zapped.

“Never done anything to hurt you?”

“No Mast…OHHhhhhhhh shit!”

Zap. The little blue spark leapt, highly charged, from the prod to Zac’s metal chastity cage. The shock travelled through his balls and, even more painfully, along the penis plug wedged deep in his urethra.

“Do you love her, Zachary?”

“Yes Mast……Awwwww why the fuck are you doing this?!”

“Have you thought about marrying her?”

“Yes Mast…..Awwwwww fuck!”

“You prefer simple sex with Vanessa, to sex with me and my chains, and my tit clamps, and my bull whip, and my electric toys, Zachary?”

The kid went silent. How to answer.

Zap. Master loved the way the prod functioned, with a single, high intensity ‘click’ and a vivid flash of blue electricity.

“Awwwww fuck!”

“I want to know, Zachary Efron.”

“Yes Master, I prefer Vanessa.” What the hell, the young marine thought.

Master drew closer. He reached around the kid’s upper torso from the rear, as he had done so many times before, but this time with prod in hand. Zac dared not look down, but he knew where the prod was directed.

“We found her picture in your kit, Zachary. The Arabs wanted to keep it for themselves, as a souvenir, or perhaps to taunt the American media. But I thought, maybe, if you were a good boy, you might like it with you, in your cell.”

“Yes, thank you Master.”

“Keep absolutely still then, Zachary. I want to zap your titties.”

Master depressed the button firmly. The blue shock travelled immediately to Zac’s right tit clamp, then along the chain over his pec meat to the left tit.

“Awwwww……hurts so much!”

Zac is back to the verbalisation of his pain, which excites his sadist – as Zac would say – ‘so much’. He still hasn’t learned.

“The sex here must seem very strange?”

“Yes, Master. Awwwwww…”

“And yet, I see how the electricity has made your tit nubs perfectly erect. Strange isn’t it, Zachary?”

“Y…awwwwwww!!”

Master has moved the prod down, and is now shocking the marine’s flat abs.

“You see, Zachary, whilst you may think of this as torture, for me this is pure sex. It is how sex with a young man should be. Like a good coffee – very dark, very intense.”

Zap. It is the turn of the kid’s meaty thighs to feel the prod.

“Nobody told you to move your legs, Zachary. Please don’t make me punish.”

Master goes silent, but not inactive. His prod tours the young torso, creating new centres of pain, zapping calves, inner thighs, outer thighs, buttocks. Every so often he returns to Zac’s genital cage and works it over. The only sounds are the click of the prod, and the relentless sobbing of a young man, head down, salty tears falling to the concrete floor.

The man stops for a moment.

“Do you find this humiliating, Zachary?” 

“No Master, it just hurts.”

“You will learn, Zachary, that pain is inevitable, and that pain and sex are indivisible. But I am pleased you don’t find this humiliating. This darkness will worry you less when you cease to care what other people think, and when you cease to care that others are witnessing your pain.”

Zap. The prod has found the marine’s armpits.

“You have two vibrant bushes of pit hair, Zachary. I suppose some girls love that.”

Zap. The other armpit is shocked. The pit hair is suddenly wet with highly-charged nervous sweat.

“But when I look at your pubic bush, your boy hole hair, your pits, Zachary, I just feel it’s time to start stripping away some of this redundant masculinity, so we can really start to harness the submissiveness of your boyhood. What do you think, Zachary?”

The prod probes the butt mounds of the young marine, and finds his hole.  

“Awwwwww……yessss Master!”

*******

To be continued.

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Keep moving.

The Americans will have someone on the trail of their missing marine. The Iranian regime likewise, albeit less competently and with different motives. The hostage taker must know his territory, and stay one step ahead – physically and tactically.

In the late afternoon sun, a small group are assembled in the yard. Master, captive, and a posse of Arabs.

“Do you ride, Zachary?”

“No, Master.”

The kid has adopted the pose without prompting. Legs wide apart; arms folded tightly behind the neck; back straight; chest puffed; butt pushed back. Naked, but for the metallic gleam of his steel chastity, and polished perfection of his black boots.

The intensity of the sun, and his prolonged exposure to it, is transforming the youth from light tan to bronze. It is fortunate he is dark-haired, and advantageous he was brought up in California, rather than Alaska. The burning would have been inevitable, and unattractive.

Master turns up his nose.

“Too bad. Fortunately, you will be riding with an experienced horseman.”

As if on cue, through the gates comes a young, muscular black stallion. The kind of horse that in the west would, temperament dependent, be racing, breeding, or gelded. Out here, gelding is viewed as unnecessary and unnatural, at least so far as horses are concerned.

The feisty beast is drawn to a stand by its white-robed rider.

“Do you wish to use some of your remaining lubricant, Zachary?”

The young marine looks puzzled for a moment. Master nods towards the horse, where the rider is seated near the back of a long saddle. There is plenty of room for two, with Zac to take the forward seated position. From a point in the middle of the saddle, just in front of the be-robed rider’s groin, protrudes a shimmering stainless steel plug, all of 6 inches in height, and a cruel 2 inches in diameter.

The kid looks at his Master, shaking his head more in despair than defiance. By way of response, Master nods with dramatic emphasis, his lips curling into a grin. He retrieves the precious and depleted tube of lubricant, and throws it over to the marine, who deftly catches.

“On the assumption you have never mounted before, Omar will help you up.”

An olive-skinned forearm extends down from the beast. It is a leaner, younger-looking forearm than Zac had expected, richly covered in short, very dark down.

The marine requires all his physical agility, and most of his courage, to scale the vast beast and throw one leg astride the stallion. Guided by Omar the horseman, he perches on the front ledge of the saddle and finds his stirrups. Relieved, perhaps, he has got this far with the horse remaining placid, the kid closes his eyes for a moment and audibly exhales.

“There is something else you need to mount. Onto the plug please, Zachary.”

Master is directly below him, now with cattle prod in hand. Where the fuck does he keep getting these instruments of torture from, as though by magic? It was as though he could be in two places at the same time.

“The plug, Zachary, or we start this horse with a jolt, and forget about your gentle introduction to equestrianism.”

The boy understands. His hands are already reaching behind, squeezing lube and smearing it liberally over the solid steel plug. The metal has been in full sunlight for too long, and is almost unbearably warm to the touch. The lubricant loses its viscosity almost immediately upon application, and runs in tears down the sides of the industrial-looking impaler.

“I help you.” Omar the horseman says, without objection from Master.

Zac half lifts himself, but is assisted by two young Arab hands on his hips, pushing him up with greater strength than he had expected.

The kid gingerly edges back onto the saddle, and positions his hole over the demanding plug. He glances at Master, watching this scene with great interest.

“Down, Zachary. Ride the plug.”

Zac throws his head back and prepares to descend.

“Here. Grip my hands.” Omar offers.

Not knowing where to safely hold the animal, Zac accepts, pushing his arms back to meet Omar’s extended limbs. The two young men lock palms together – one dry and unfazed, as though this happened every day – the other slick with perspiration.

‘Push out; relax’, Zac tells himself, as he asks his sphincter to accept the girth of the metal intruder.

“Awwww……fuck…….burning!”

The lube fries in the sun as the kid pushes down over it.

Master is now diagonally behind this odd little duo, watching the extent to which the straight boy bung hole is stretched to accommodate his chosen plug. Chosen very deliberately. Chosen to be stretching physically; stretching mentally; stretching emotionally.

“Tell me how your plug feels, Zachary, whilst you push down.”

“Awww…..heavy, Master…….full.”

Master nods.

“Solid steel, Zachary, not hollow. I was intrigued to understand whether you could feel the weight.”

“Yes, Master!”

“No more talking, Zachary. Continue to push. I would like to see a little more greed in that hole, and a little more speed.”

The kid closes his eyes; grips Omar’s hands ever tighter; grunts repeatedly, and tells his rectum to accept defeat and swallow the steel phallus.

*******

The convoy pushes on through the semi-arid vastness. Master, in the front passenger seat of the lead Land Cruiser. The horse. Arabs in a further Land Cruiser to the rear.

Omar handles the frisky stallion expertly. He has shown the animal who is boss, and it affords him cautious respect.

Occasionally, Master tells his driver to hold back, and the big 4x4 pulls to one side, allowing the horse to draw level. Master wishes to drink the sight of the metallic column splitting the butt cheeks of his boy; stretching his anus far too wide; causing him to screw his facial features in anguish as the steed jolts unevenly over the rough terrain.

Master lowers the window.

“Omar, is the horse ready for a gallop?”

“Yes Sir!” The boy responds eagerly.

Zac is less keen. He looks over to the Toyota, to the cruel man in the passenger seat with his unrelenting demands, his constant tests.

“Please…….”

“I know Zachary, I know. I’m taking you to places where so few young men have been, and where none should have to go. Just live the experience, Zachary. Just enjoy the ride.”

In a cloud of dust, the Land Cruiser pulls cleanly ahead of the horse, and Master raises the window to return to his air-conditioned cocoon.

Omar tightens his grip on the reins, and with a click of the teeth and a sharp nudge to the belly of the animal with his boots, it launches forward in hot pursuit of the car.

*******

Zac is dizzy, disorientated. He no longer sees, or cares about, the direction of travel and sparse features of the flatlands. All he is required to do is sit tight, but the youth is exhausted, every muscle seemingly in spasm.

With every long stride taken by the horse, the kid is propelled an inch or two off the plug, only to slam back down upon it, as hooves make fleeting contact with parched earth. This is manic, almost mechanical, forced fucking. Zac’s knuckles are white as he clasps the reins for dear life, but his neck is red, veins engorged, and his head rolls, drool running down the sides of his mouth. 

As the animal strikes unevenness, it sends harsh virbrations through the steel plug. Master can hear the resulting guttural roar from his boy quite clearly, over the low hum of the diesel engine. He checks the rear view mirror and admires the work he has done on this young man, epitomised by the visibly muscular tightness in Zac’s abdomen, back kept ram-rod straight by the unforgiving intruder in his anus.

The Land Cruiser slows the procession to a canter, then walking pace. Master motions for the horse to draw level and, once more, lowers the electric window.

“Can he ride, Omar?” He shouts over to the young Arab jockey.

“Yeah Sir, he ride well!” The grinning kid replies, teeth beautifully white against his olive skin. He slaps the white boy, perched in front of him, firmly on the thigh. The loud panting and recovery of breath is coming from Zac, not the horse.

The caravan proceeds towards a known water hole, initially in silence. Zac has come to cherish silence. Where there is quiet, there is rest; time to think; time to deal with this, emotionally, and get his head straight. It rarely lasts long.

Zac feels the tickling sensation on his thigh and calf before he is spoken to. He looks down to see that Omar has drawn a riding crop from a sheath on the saddle. The Arab kid circles Zac’s thigh meat gently with the leather shaft, pushing his light, wispy down back and forth.

“How many years are you, Zachary?” Omar’s English is imperfect, but he speaks confidently.

“21…..I’m 21.”

“Ahh….you have two more years than me.” Omar observes. That figures. If anything, the dimple-featured Arab kid looks young for his age.

“You like boys, or you have girlfriend back home?”

“I have a girlfriend, I’m straight.” This is boring the young marine, already.

Omar laughs.

“What girlfriend say, when she see you in metal?!” He points at Zac’s chastity.

“Well, I won’t be in this long.” Zac retorts.

Omar tuts and shakes his head.

“Master want boys in metal ALL the time. Master likes boys, how you say……hot…….frustrated!?”

“Yeah, that figures.” Zac responds sarcastically to the jerk.

The circling of thigh with crop continues.

“You mind if I use?” Omar says, tapping Zac’s leg with the shaft.

“On the horse?” Zac asks, already fearing the answer.

“No! Horse is good….does what I want. On Zachary, I mean.”

The American hesitates. Can he say no to this teenage wannabe?

The horseman leans forward, his mouth just an inch from Zac’s ear.

“Master is ok…….says is good for me to do this!”

Well, that was predictable.

“Why? Why you too? What do you all get from this?” Zac wails.

“I like red marks on white boy. I like to see boy crying.” Omar speaks quickly, and with certainty. 

“Just fucking whip me then, if that’s what you’re going to do!”

“You like hard?” Omar grins.

“Just fucking whip me!” Zac repeats.

*******

The crop is raised, flicked and impacts in barely a second, stinging Zac’s thigh like a bee, and leaving a bright red calling card.

Omar is thorough, and harsh. He works his way down Zac’s leg methodically, ensuring the kid hurts from every blow. His other hand retains a grip on the reins, ensuring the stallion does not bolt when it hears the repeated whistle and crack of the crop.

When one thigh and calf set is suitably punished, Omar swaps hands and sets to work on the other side.

“Is okay, Zachary?”

“Yeah……whip me.” Zac sobs, knowing he may as well ask for what is inevitably coming his way.

“You ever try this……kink stuff……with girlfriend?” Omar asks.

“No. We just do normal stuff. I’ve only had to do this perverted shit since I’ve been here.”

Omar nods.

“You take well. Master wants to see more, I know. Master like it VERY hard!”

With a short laugh, the whistles, cracks and light welting of young American thigh meat resume. From the rear view mirror of the Land Cruiser, Master counts each strike, and watches a youthful head thrown back, features in agony at the multiple stings rippling down lean legs.

*******

The moon illuminates the desert oasis quite brilliantly.

Master’s little posse is gathered at waters edge. The Arabs have made a fire, and busy themselves brewing strong, sugary tea. Omar tends to the stallion. Zac has been permitted to sit. The marine squats butt naked on the sand, head drooped, panting. Master gathers himself close to the kid.

“Loss of control can be frightening, can’t it Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

The captor reaches out with a single finger, and feels the definition in the boy’s right calf.

“See how dusty your legs are, with the sand and grit thrown up by Omar’s horse. Was it uncomfortable travelling at that speed, Zachary, with the plug wedged tightly inside you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I thought so. I could see your pain. I could see your fright. And yet, Zachary, here you are still, ready for the next challenge.”

The kid looks up, and half-turns his head towards Master, but says nothing aside from whatever emotions are conveyed by his tired, gritty eyes.

Master moves his finger to Zac’s pectorals, and traces the ‘U’ shapes on each side, from pec cleft to underarm.

“You’re still drenched in sweat, Zachary. So tell me – the gallop; the heavy steel butt plug – was it physically challenging for you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And now tell me, was it also sexually challenging for you, Zachary?”

The kid looks out to the mid-distance, perhaps to where the moonbeams hit the oasis, thinking not just of the ‘right’ answer, but also the truthful answer. Perhaps they are, in fact, the same.

“Yes, Master.” Zac’s voice has become small. Little more than a whisper.

There is a deliberately engineered silence for a minute or more.

“Is your chastity starting to become a burden, Zachary? The spikes, the urethral plug, the sheer tightness of the cage. Does it make it more difficult to manage the sexual challenge, Zachary?”

Zac thinks for a moment.

“I know what you’re trying to do to me. I know what you’re trying to make me. I don’t accept you, or any of the stuff you’re making me do. I’ll manage with the cage until I’m free.”

Master grins. He has seen some fight in the kid. He is dealing with a feisty one, at last. His hand moves to the angry red lashes on Zac’s thigh, where he stops and massages the skin for a while.

“If you ever change your mind, Zachary, you know who holds the solitary remaining key.”

*******

The young marine is bathing, with Master’s consent, in the warmth of the oasis. His heavy boots stand neatly by the camp fire.

The kid sinks to his knees and submerges to the top of his neck. He closes his eyes and gently rubs tired muscle with long fingers. The water is heavenly therapeutic.

Occasionally, unchallenged by the party on the shoreline, Zac bobs entirely underwater for twenty seconds or so, extracting the grit from the marine buzz cut atop his head and massaging his scalp. He rises, and punctures the surface of the water with a splash.

Master beckons the boy back with a simple finger movement. Nothing is said. As he wades out of the oasis, the moon catches his steel chastity, and it glows like a jewel. The reluctant focal point of the young man.

“Bend over and hold your ankles, Zachary. Legs wide. Butt facing me.”

Master likes bending boys over. Straight boys, that is.

Boys change when they are bending occasionally, then once a day, then several times a day. The cruel and the perverted becomes the norm. Rape becomes something mechanical. Some boys break, others learn to accept.

“Reach back and get that crack wide open, Zachary!”

The marine pushes his hands towards his crevice, and pulls apart his muscular globes with masculine force. The hole that was, just a few days ago, ringed with dark hair, is now bare, in common with the rest of his crack. It went at the same time Zac’s pubic bush was reduced to a desultory brown flash. It is part of Master’s planned regression, for Zachary, from his fixed view of manhood to something more ambiguous, more servile, more pliable.

The kid’s ass lips are puckered and sore from their enforced accommodation of the butt plug. The lips pout red as though lipstick had been applied.

“Omar. The crop!”  Master shouts, and the young horseman obediently retrieves the sheathed weapon.

“Sometimes, Zachary, when we come to know something more intimately, we appreciate it a little more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You will not move a muscle, Zachary, whilst I kiss your lips with our new toy. All you need do is hold very tight.”

“YES, MASTER!” The confidence and volume of Zac’s answers is, they both know, a performance to demonstrate he will not be intimidated. It is not an act of submission – yet.

So again, the crack of leather against boy flesh can be heard over the desert floor. Heavy, methodical, evenly timed blows, struck right at the centre of Zachary’s ‘private’ crack. The kid’s hole becomes the bullseye, and the epicentre of ceaseless pain. Those lipstick-red lips quiver, then begin to cry crimson tears that run over the 21 year-olds perineum before dropping to the sand, where they are absorbed like blotting paper in rings of fading colour.

Zac complains a great deal. He grunts. He screams each time he is viciously stung. He hurls random expletives. He puts on a good show for the Arabs, and the laughing teenager Omar. But, though his knuckles whiten to a deathly pale, he hangs in there. His feet, sinking into the sand as they take the referred force of each blow, do not move.

Neither does Zac move when Master throws aside the riding crop and unfastens his pants.

As the piston that is Master’s dick punches back and forth, he speaks to his boy.

“The freedom you speak of must seem a world away, Zachary?”

The kid does not answer. He is in the zone; holding on; taking it; dealing with what feels like the wreckage of his prostrate. Teeth gritted and grinding, eyes closed.

Then, the unexpected.

Master pulls out on the threshold of climax, and spins the kid around and onto his knees. His hosepipe drenches Zac’s face with the most decadent creamy pie. Cum drips from his eyebrows and glues the eyelids. More shoots up his nostrils and back-flushes like gloopy snot. But most goes into the boy’s open mouth, gasping for air after the savagery of the last twenty minutes, but receiving only a torrent of semen. Squeezing his last few drops onto the kid’s loose tongue, Master pulls the young man to his feet.

How to explain the next bit? Surely not tenderness?

Master bends his knees a little to put his face level with that of Zachary. Grabbing the kid’s neck, tightly, he forces his tongue into Zac’s mouth. Lips mesh. Suddenly, Zac is wide-eyed, startled and oddly panicked. Master’s tongue pushes to the darkest recesses of Zac’s mouth, and into his throat. The kid’s face blushes, involuntarily, as he is forced to breath through his cum-drenched nose.

Then, Master’s tongue lashing becomes more restrained, as he cleanses the youth’s teeth and gums of his own virile load.

Finally, Master lapses to a plain vanilla kiss. One hand leaves Zac’s neck and reaches around the boy, whereupon a solitary finger finds its way up the kid’s sore rectum. The kiss and the prostrate massage proceeded in tandem.

“Ahhh……fucks……hurts!”

“Your chastity hurts, Zachary?”

“Yeahhh….Master!”

Sure enough, the proud and ample boy dick is swelling, and as it does so, the internal spikes create multiple points of pain, as they were intended to do.

“Would you like me to do anything about it Zachary? Would you like me to end your pain down there? Would you like to accept what I’m making you into?”

“No, Master!” Zac sounds as certain as ever.

“Okay, Zachary. I understand. I hope, in that case, the cage gives you some comfort that you remain the young man you always were.”

Master touches the tight little cage, and runs a finger over the steel backbone that imprisons his boy.

“As you remain so resolute, so sure that you are, actually, the unlucky one, it is time for us to discover how badly the United States Marine Corps want you back.”

To be continued.

W: www.gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com

E: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk

Zac – The Unlucky One

Part Six

“Ahhh.....”

“Ahhh.....”

“Fuck.”

The unmistakable sound of a boy taking a big one, up an ass that remains too tight.

Yet, there is more to hear - the sound of a well-adjusted machine, powered by a quiet, efficient motor.

The motor drives a piston. Attached to that piston is a dildo. Attached to the dildo, is the rectum of Zachary Efron. The young marine has been taking fake dick for three hours.

Master visits the room just after mid-day, and switches off the fuck machine. The mechanical components take a few seconds to slow and stop, before falling silent, leaving just the ragged exhalations of the young soldier.

Master produces a kid’s plastic beaker, with an angled straw protruding from the cap. He offers the straw to Zac, who leans greedily into it and begins sucking up the contents, dry throat twitching away, parched.

The contents, incidentally, are not quite water. Zachary does not realise it, yet, but he has been drinking his own piss cocktail. Master started a few days ago, with a 90/10 water/piss ratio. Today, we are at 80/20.

Soon, despite his desperation for liquid – almost any liquid – Zac will begin to question the taste of what he is being fed. Initially, he will conclude his fuzzy, fluid-denied mind is playing tricks, and the water is simply a little stale. As the water/piss ratio approaches 50/50, however, he will understand, for the marine is not stupid. Perhaps realisation will give rise to resistance, but then again, maybe not. At present, what is unknown cannot humiliate the boy, yet Master will enjoy this re-cycling regime.

The small, barred window floods the room with light. It is bad down here in the early afternoon. There is rarely a cloud in the sky, and the heat is dry and unrelieved. A few large flies take a break from the nearby river that has dwindled to a trickle, and feed, intrigued, off the salty sweat of a naked, white American youth.

Zac remains in bondage for his feeding. Master does not believe in breaks or rest. The kid remains strapped to the simple gym bench, his legs lifted and spread at a point just below his knees by hoists positioned above him. His A-hole is exposed, vulnerable.

The marine has four days growth of fuzz on his face. Where he once felt baby-smooth, his facial texture is now that of sandpaper.

Master has been working Zachary hard. Very hard. The marine has made a little video. He has been tested, physically and sexually. Where possible, he has grabbed moments of light, troubled sleep. There has been no time allocated to shaving, or washing.

Zac’s legs are flecked with sand and dusty mud particles, from long, timed, forced desert runs. The kid’s boots look impeccable, still, because he has been made to keep them so. Master wished to send a signal to Zachary. Which had higher status – boots, or torso? The signal has not been lost on the marine.

Within those boots – which remain firmly on, as the butt machine works away – grains of sand play between Zac’s toes. His ankles are red raw. Zachary would love, almost more than anything, to get those boots off and soak his tired, tight-muscled feet in warm water enhanced with sensual oils. The boots have not come off in four days and nights. They have been polished by the kid as he wore them. The leather feels as though it is shrinking around his soles and digits.

Master feeds Zachary a banana. He will need a little more energy, for the afternoon.

“This afternoon, you’re going to work with something a little bigger, Zachary.”

The marine gives the slightest of sighs as he mashes the banana in his mouth. Master does not appreciate the reluctance.

“And, I thought we might try programme seven on the machine. This, in practical terms, means more deep-fucking; faster deep-fucking, and shorter respites of shallow-fucking breaking up those episodes.”

“Master......”

The kid stops without getting any further.

Master offers the straw again, and Zac takes the remaining pissy-water to wash down the banana.

“You will, in honesty, notice quite a change from programme four to programme seven. The change, Zachary, is the difference between fucking and drilling. We are moving from the realms of a setting a man could replicate, to a genuine, really stretching, machine fuck.”

Master moves to the machine, and unscrews the seven inch attachment Zac has been experiencing over the long morning.

“It’s a real shame you didn’t experiment around anal with Vanessa in all the time you had together. For the sake of buying a few toys, you could have made this so much easier for yourself.”

“Master......”

“Just let me get the attachment sorted out, Zachary, and then I will allow a question.”

The way in which Master brandishes the new intruder gives Zac a quite deliberate early warning of what is to come.

“Fuck!”

That is all he can say. There is no point in saying more. In fact, there was no value in even saying that, for the dick is being screwed to the piston whatever the marine thinks or feels.

“As you can see, Zachary, somewhat longer; somewhat wider, and much denser. Boys naturally worry about the length, but my tip of the day is to deal with the density first. This one is going to leave you feeling very, very, full. We’ve done the boy stuff - you are onto the man toys now, Zachary.”

This nine-and-a-half incher is black and bulbous. In shape, it bears only a passing phallic resemblance, with a half-hearted attempt at a carved head. It is a big lump, the impact of which will barely be lessened by Master’s application of a light coating of Boy Butter lubricant. It is crude, it is brutal, and it will shortly be raping the tired, used anus of Marine Zachary.    

“Your question, Zachary?”

“Master, have you heard anything yet.......back from the States, I mean?”

Zac’s eyes betray his 24/7 exhaustion now, yet the striking blue pupils follow Master carefully, looking for signs in his body language.

“No, but that’s to be expected, Zachary. Your video will only just have reached them. They need time – what little time we have given them to respond – to decide whether they want you back, or whether we examine other avenues for you.”

The flicker of hope in Zac’s eyes dissipates as rapidly as it emerged. 

Master is back at the control panel as he re-programmes the fuck machine.

“Master.....can I ask another question.....please?”

The captor fails to look up from his programming as he responds, adroitly.

“You know the rules, Zachary. One question only. On this occasion, I shall flex the rules if you give me something back.”

“Yes Master......what........what do I need to give?”

“I am one digit away from the programme choice. Seven, or eight. On reflection, I would really love to go for something just a little more vigorous with you, Zachary. I would like to see this piston working a little harder, and for your respite between deep-fucks to be curtailed somewhat. If I press eight, I think you deserve question two.”

“Please, Master. Just one more question.”

The marine finds the choice unpalatable.

“I have offered you one more question, Zachary. You must realise, by now, that rewards are not given away here. You have to work for everything.”

“Master......will you stay with me, this time, whilst the machine is going, in case it’s too much. Please.”

Programme eight is selected with a black leather-gloved finger.

“This will, certainly, become too much for you, Zachary. This is designed to be too much for a boy. I am intrigued to understand how your body, your mind, and your perception of self cope with ‘too much’. This will be a long afternoon for you, Zachary, and you will experience ‘too much’ on your own, with just your resilience for company. I will be back in three hours with some more water for you.”

Master depresses a plunger, and the motor clicks into life, followed by a gathering of momentum in the inter-connectors and piston.

Zac gasps as his sphincter is pushed open in the most unforgiving way. He hears the key turn in the lock, and reconciles himself to further sweaty solitude. Master has left a machine in charge of his boy.

*******

United States Marine Corps, Garrison Headquarters

Arlington, Virginia

Lieutenant General James Cole taps his pen on the casing of the laptop computer, open in front of him.

Media Player has gone silent, and so have the two men in the room.

“So, that was ‘Zac, the movie’? Some fucking movie!”

LtGen Cole, blond until his thirties, now sports a close crop of silver hair atop his lean, 6’2” frame.

“I can’t say I’d buy it on DVD.” He observes, dryly.

The memory stick, freshly received via courier from Yemen, via Europe, contained the four minute film.

Private First Class Zachary Efron, dog tag around his neck lest his identity be confused, is strung spread-eagled from a simple frame, throughout. His torso is lit by a bright, floor-standing interrogation lamp.  The Private looks exhausted – fucked, in fact.

From the soldiers gonads hang his Marine-issue boots. Both of them. Gleaming and weighted, judging by the testicular stretching going on. His dick is caged in ribbed steel, with an attached tube, also of steel, slotted up his urethra.

“What the fuck is that, around his dick?” Cole asks the room in general.

“Some kind of chastity, I believe.”

The respondent is Cole’s aide, Major Tim McGiven. Happily married, but from a more sexually enlightened generation.

“So, our marine is still alive. Contrary to textbook Al-Qaeda operations, there is no great point of principle being staked, and no demand for a prisoner swap. Instead, the request is for thirty million dollars, and the heart-strings are being pulled by the humiliation of unlucky Zac.”

Cole’s mind is already racing as he speaks. Thinking and planning two or three steps head – the strategic Marine way.

“But this is some sick shit. For instance, are we going to let the family see this?”

Cole makes fists on the table.

“Or, indeed, the nation.”

McGiven follows up with the more profound observation.

“So, Al-Qaeda have changed their modus operandi. Or we have freelance hostage takers operating in bandit country. Or, the Iranian government are up to tricks. Pretty dangerous play, if it’s the latter.”

McGiven nods at his boss.

“Unsurprisingly, the ‘what do we do next’ bit is well above our pay grade, gentlemen. Tim, get a call through to the Pentagon right away. Once you’ve done that, start tracing back the mail consignment details, and get the memory stick packaged up and locked away. The four-eyed tech-heads will be crawling all over that for clues.”

*******

“Owwwwwww.........fuuuuuuucccck!”

The curses come thick and fast, each word vibrating in sympathy with the anal drilling Zac is taking.

Master listens outside the door. Zac’s moaning varies in tempo and volume with the demands being made upon his innards. Yet, that moaning is now continuous.

Consider, also, that the kid is alone. The voicing of his pain is spontaneous and part of a coping mechanism. It is not that he expects mercy via this running audio commentary of his butt rape.

Master knows the boy will be desperate. The slow-fucking respite moments – they could almost be loving, in another context – are too infrequent, and too short. More often, the motor can be heard working at high speed as it pile-drives Marine rectum. The piston shoots back and forth in a blur, like the coupling rods on a steam locomotive at full tilt.

In six hours, Zac has taken more stretching than a whore boy gets in a career lifetime. Inevitably, this is an experience that changes a boy, irreversibly.

Master turns the key.

“Please............!”

The begging starts as Master crosses the threshold.

Yet fucking hell, if you wish to see a boy broken, this is it.

Streams of sweat flow not just from the usual places – pits, forehead, pec cleft - but everywhere. As they do so, the salty corrosiveness cuts through days of grime on unwashed torso meat, leaving curious clean channels.

The kid stinks, of course, but of what?

High intensity raunch. Fear. Effort.

Good smells, then.  A boy required to demonstrate the extent of his masculinity in adversity, whilst that very same masculinity is stripped away via a rape machine.

Master depresses the single button necessary to switch the machine off.

The marine’s eyes are glazed and unfocussed, his breathing ragged. Those slick pecs, with their impressive valley between, are rising and falling too rapidly. It is a bit ugly; a bit edgy.

“Please.....”

Zac’s pleading is hoarse, his vocal cords raw from moaning, and from screaming into emptiness.

“When this is over, you will rest for a while. Then, we will take advantage of the cool night to work right through. I wish to squeeze a dusk ‘til dawn session from you, Zachary. First, a tit and ball gymnasia, and then some electricity. Sparks by moonlight, you see?”

Of all the horror contained in that paragraph, the marine only hears four words. ‘When this is over.’

The compassionate would have cleaned up Zac a little, before feeding him. They would have wiped the snot away from his nostrils, and cleared the drool hanging limply from his chin. Yet for Master, such niceties are distractions and time-wastes. Arguably, he is not a Master at all, merely a limitless, driven sadist. The straw is inserted roughly between parched, cracked lips.

*******

“Raise your head, Zachary.”

The marine gasps at the unexpected pain of this minor muscle movement.

Master places a high-sided wooden brace under the kid’s neck, containing and constricting his head.

“And rest, again.”

The youth drops back into his new bondage. Bondage, as always, with a purpose.

Master moves to the corner of the room, where a tall, hat-stand shaped object, concealed with a black sheet, can finally be revealed.

“Noooo.........too much!”

Machine number two is wheeled over to a spot parallel with Zac’s head, three feet distant.

“I want more from you, Zachary. You have much more to give, I believe. I want your throat to start giving, and to be as well-trained as your anus.”

As he speaks, Master moves the business end of the new device into position. The long, angled arm is topped off by a simple piston, to which a further flesh-coloured dildo is attached. Master fine-tunes the angle of attack, and of penetration.

“Open up, Zachary.”

“Master, please.....I’ll do anything.”

Captor looks down at weeping, filthy, captive. Even his military crop looks a bedraggled mess after a few days growth.

“You will, Zachary.”

Master wishes to hear no more. The long, almost cylindrical phallus is crammed unceremoniously into reluctant twink mouth. Lips stretch thin around the rubberized surface.

“Mawaham.....”

The kid tries to speak around the dildo. Yet, even before the machine is switched on, he is effectively gagged.

“You will do two hours, fucked at both ends, Zachary. Programme eight, again, on the butt machine. On the throat machine, I have chosen a vigorous – really quite aggressive – deep-throat experience for you.”

Face speared, the marine can hardly move his head, yet his eyes continue to follow Master as he hovers over the gym bench, assessing the young man about to move to stage three of his ‘no holes barred’ session.

“Important not to panic now, Zachary. Breath through your nose, and control that breathing pattern carefully. Grip the gym bench hard when you’re being drilled at both ends. Enjoy the brief moments of respite both machines will allow you – although probably not at the same time.”

Master makes to press the button, but holds back for a moment.

“More than that, Zachary. Try not to enjoy ONLY the respite. See if you can feel something, other than pain and fear, during the double-ended pile driving. I will talk with you, later, about those feelings, Zachary. Is that fully understood, Marine?”

A blink of the eyelids signals a reluctant ‘yes’.

“When you complete this, you will have been opened up and stretched wide for eight hours, today. I am interested in your earlier question, Zachary. Do I get you right, that facing this alone, locked away, with no-one on hand to hit the ‘off’ switch, is actually the worst aspect of the exercise, for you?”

The youth gives the tiniest of nods around his phallic impalement.

“This is the stark truth, Zachary. There are dangers in leaving the machines unattended. The danger is doubled with two machines in play. You sense that danger, and you are scared. I sense that danger, and want to push you even harder towards it. This is life on the edge, Zachary, and unless your bosses come up with the ransom money soon, your journey to the precipice will continue.”

Buttons are pressed on the butt machine, and on the throat machine. Twin motors spool up to operating speed.

The marine squeals as rubber rapes his throat, whilst his ass lips pout red and thin, once more, around grotesque mock-phallus.

“Take it like a man, Zachary.”

Master closes and locks the door behind him. There are plans to progress for receipt of the ransom, and alternative plans, for Zachary, in the event it does not materialise

*******

To be continued

Blog: www.gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com

E: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk

  

    

 

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.”

*******

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Eighty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds.

The Marine pounds back into the compound with just over a minute left in reserve, after his nine mile timed run.

The kid’s compact, muscular torso is a tale of two halves. His legs, from above the boot line to his lower thighs, are caked in fine granules of dusty soil thrown up from the compressed earth. Let that be your guide to Zachary’s effort; his speed of travel, and his desperation.

Above the waist, lines of sweat run black with accumulated dirt. On Zac’s solid pectorals, the streams run determinedly vertical, creating an odd ripple effect on his bronzed skin.

Just below the kid’s belly button, a ridge of dark fluff with a pronounced central spine forms a youthful treasure trail. Yet the treasure at the end of that trail is nothing but cold, hard, steel chastity. The tummy wisps simply accentuate the filth now caking Marine Efron’s machine of a body.

Was it a ‘forced’ run?

That is, perhaps, the most profound question yet in the story of Marine Efron.

Yes, he had his orders, and yes, Master was never more than twenty metres distant, in the Arab-driven Toyota jeep.

Yet this time, there were no whips. There were no scrotal chains attaching the kid to the rear fender. No electricity was transmitted.

The kid made the run himself, head thrown back majestically as he pelted along, boots scraping and buckling on the uneven surface.

There were many ‘oh fucks’ over those nine miles, but please don’t assume they were a consequence of the kid’s repeatedly twisted ankles, or a curse on the substantial weight on his back. The ‘oh fucks’ were in contemplation of ninety minutes, elapsing far too quickly, with nothing in sight but an endless track of hard earth, disappearing into a shimmering haze on the far horizon.

*******

The boy is on his knees in the centre of the compound, despite the burning heat of the sand. His boots are folded beneath him, soles facing Master who stands behind. His face is buried in the open palms of both hands, and he sobs very loudly, with periodic sharp intakes of breath, as he fills his lungs ready for the next chorus of wailing.

“Just under eighty-nine minutes, Zachary.” Master interjects, over the cacophony.

Abruptly, the sobbing ceases as though Zac were regulating it by way of a switch. The kid replays Master’s words a second and third time, punch-drunk with exhaustion and physically, so very nearly broken.

“Target achieved.”

As Master repeats his simple message, he moves within six inches of Marine Efron’s reared-up bubble butt. The boy no longer needs to see or hear Master to judge his position. His presence – the sadistic connection – can be felt as a chilling breeze amidst the otherwise insufferable heat.

“Target. Achieved.”

Once more, slowly, syllable by syllable.

As Master enunciates, Zac rises to his feet and adopts the formal pose with an absolute perfection that surprises the sadist behind him.

And as the kid adopts that pose, blood pulses through the veins in his dick; sleeping sex muscles awaken; and the pretty, uncut Marine member is cruelly speared by the internal spikes in his chastity.

And as that youthful erection is made as painful as it rightly should be, the free-flowing sobbing recommences.

Master waits several minutes for the worst to subside.

“Confusing feelings, yes Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

The Marine mumbles through a throat stuffed with snotty catarrh, but the admission is clear enough.

“So tell me, Zachary. If I were to ask you to repeat – immediately - that timed run, but on this occasion with your scrotum weighted as it should be, could you do that for me, do you think?”

“Yes, Master.” The diction is clearer, more strident already.

“Because you will be running the desert again for me, Zachary, and there is one other challenge for you.”

Master’s hands reach around the Marine, graze his pectorals and are immediately coated in a surface film of grimy filth, before latching on to his proud, erect tit nubs. With two fingers on each hand, boy nubs are crushed, twisted and pulled.

“Mmmmm.” The youth protests.

Or was it a protest?

“You see, Zachary, when you run for me in future, one minute will be shaved from your target time, on each and every occasion. The distance shall remain the same – nine miles. The only change will be in my expectations of you, Zachary. Eighty-five minutes, before too long, with your testes weighed down.”

The twin demons are back. Uncontrolled tears, and hard – very hard - caged erection, testing the constraining bars of steel. Master watches, interested, as pinprick-trails of blood criss-cross the engorged flesh.

“I sense you are ready to give me your breath, in exchange for a period of sexual freedom, Zachary.”

The snivelling youth gives a single, yet definitive nod.

*******

Office of the Secretary of the Navy

Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

The balding ginger crop of Navy Secretary Shane Collins ends well above what is, by any standards, a high-backed leather desk chair. He must be all of 6’6”.  

“The Defense Department have two inviolable principles in this scenario. Number one, an absolute commitment to find and repatriate our soldiers. Number two, we don’t pay ransoms, ever. We go in and pick ‘em up.”

“When we know where they are.” 

Under Secretary Simon Lorkins, ten years the senior of his boss, and much overlooked for that final big promotion, injects some reality as he peers over the desk in his thin-framed spectacles.

“Hmmm yeah, well, we’re closing in. Bit of a bugger they’re hiding him in Iran, but look, we’ve snatched folk out of Pakistan and Afghanistan before. Just a shame the big guy has eluded our spooks thus far.”

“OBL?”

“Yeah. But he’s in a cave some place in the mountains. The desert is easier terrain to search, and the average Iranian can be bribed to tell all far easier than the Taliban. No ideological principles to make things complicated.”

“It worries me we still haven’t told his folks in San Luis Obispo about the video. This is high stakes stuff, Shane. If we can spring the kid over the next few days, nobody will care. Should the worst happen, and it’s established we withheld news – however painful – from the family, there will be hysteria.”

Collins – a perpetual fidget – plays with a stapler on the desk

“I’m quite clear on this, and so are the Defense Secretary and Deputy President. That is not a video we wish to be distributed. It won’t help get the kid back home, in fact, the reverse might be true. All sorts of nutters will go vigilante on us. There will be reprisals against anyone who looks olive-skinned in downtown New York.”

“Give the people some credit, Shane. We could just say a hostage video exists, and we are aware of the contents.” Lorkins suggests.

“Maybe ten years ago, Simon. These days, there will be campaigns on Facebook and Twitter demanding release, and suggesting all kinds of stitch-up until we do so. It’s utterly corrosive, this ‘new media’ crap, but that’s the way it is.”

“So, what do the timescales look like?” Lorkins asks.

“We’ve narrowed his location to a fifty mile radius in Khuzestan province, but they’re mobile. There was nothing at the first hide-out but the embers of a camp fire. Still, we’re confident the area is locked down. He won’t get out by air without us knowing and tracing the chopper, likewise by sea. And we’re watching the villages for road convoys. They’re probably safest staying put, now, given we can’t do house-to-house in enemy territory. But the net will still tighten.”

Collins doodles a topographical map of southern Iran, from memory, as he speaks.

“And then what?”

“We send for the SEALs, Simon.”

*******

Southern Iran

06.00 hours

Master is going to do this early, before the heat builds.

The kid stands just behind the cell door, eyes glazed and focused on the mid-distance.

Those eyes are increasingly tired-looking, and whilst this detracts a little from his masculine beauty, it pleases Master, because here are the eyes of a boy shattered at the pace he is being pushed. A boy near collapse with finishes in the early hours of the morning, and starts coincident with the rising of the sun. A boy whose life perspectives have narrowed to relentless forced physical and sexual performance. This is boy as machine, and it both fascinates Master, and motivates him to push harder still.

Master reaches out, and with the knuckles of two fingers, tests the sandpaper-like quality of too many days facial fuzz.

“Get the boots off. Now!”

How long has it been since boy and boot were disunited? Is it over a week, already?

The kid makes to sit on his sleeping platform, all the better to gain leverage between hand and boot. As he crouches, however, he reads Master’s eyes daring him, just daring him, to sit down ‘on duty’, and in a flash he is standing again.

The Marine hobbles, hops and grunts as he tries to prise the leather from his ankles. He knows it will only be seconds before Master loses patience, and then what? The electricity, perhaps, or the cane? Or worse – the very worst – he may issue a simple verbal chastisement.

“Too slow, Zachary. Pull it together. Get working for me.”

Those, for reasons he cannot yet adequately explain, are words the Marine no longer wishes to hear.

“Fuck!”

The kid wrestles with the second boot, Master pacing and at the very edge of his tolerance of delay caused by the compact, struggling young torso.

When the boots are lined up neatly against the wall, Master selects one, turns it upside down and shakes. On the cell floor, a mound of desert – ranging from mud particles, through sand, to small stones, piles up. Master observes the kid’s feet, raw; blistered and scratched, yet fundamentally intact and not unattractive.

“Get moving to the yard, Zachary.”

As has become the norm, before Master has finished his name, the kid’s bare soles are slapping against concrete, and his creamy mounds join in the muscular effort of at-speed stair climbing.

*******

The Arabs have made the Marine into a tight little bondage cylinder.

His legs are roped together at the ankles and above the knees, and his wrists tied behind his back, elbows bent, up between his shoulder blades.

The noose is made not from rope, but chain link, and is lowered by hand from a makeshift crane arm, fashioned from whatever mechanical detritus the Arabs have been able to find, borrow or plunder in these bad lands. They have done a very good job. 

The circle is placed over Marine Efron’s skull, and the loop made smaller around his neck, veins prominent and pulsing.

“A little tighter.” Master instructs Karim.

Metal bites into neck flesh in a constricting circumference.

The sadist nods in satisfaction, and the Arabs retreat to the quad walls, mere – but very interested – spectators. Master takes their place, alongside boy.

“You know how this will work, Zachary?”

“Yeah……Yes, Master.” The kid croaks.

Master pulls out the Hex key – the sole remaining copy of that precious key – and attends to Zac’s chastity, easing the long steel urethral tube from the hole it has called home for the last fortnight. Spikes are lifted off punctured penile flesh, and the zoo cage of skeletal steel lies flat in Master’s palm.

“I guess you realised you wouldn’t be allowed to touch yourself?”

The boy is silent, yet Master can see wells of moisture at the corners of his eyes, and the answer is immediately, and surprisingly clear.

“You didn’t realise, Zachary? Fuck!”

And for a moment, Master is at Zac’s flank, gently palming his tied, packaged upper thigh meat, genuinely seeking to console.

“Boys in it this deep, this dark, operate ‘hands free’ or not at all, Zachary. Simple as. I’m surprised, given how far we’ve been together, you thought you’d be stalk-jerking this morning.”

A clump of ass meat is grabbed, and immediately the mood is grave, once again.

“Try and enjoy this brief release, even without your hands. Enjoy thoughts of Vanessa hands-free if you must, or, perhaps, your mind is erasing those memories, and you will reflect on your time here when you harden.”

*******

“Mmmmmm.”

“Mmmmmm.”

Wordless struggling sounds, as Master takes Zac from the soles of his feet, to the front, and then to his toes alone. Not just once, but in a repetitive cycle.

The highly geared pulleys allow for precise manipulation of the chain gripping Marine Efron’s neck, into which metallic imprints are burnt.

Master has been going for almost an hour, with each cycle giving the boy more breathless ‘toe time’, and less recovery ‘sole time’. He observes the kid’s pupils, glazed and bloodshot. He notes the horribly engorged blood vessels in the neck, taking far too much weight and strain. He spins the control wheel a little more, and the Marine is back to a perfect toe-balance, at the very limit of what is possible before the scene becomes much darker still.

During ‘sole time’, the kid wheezes noisily, his breath short, fast and laboured. He coughs, because he is getting bunged up. A danger in itself.

Master makes physical contact for the first time in this most intense, edgy hour. In ‘sole time’ restricted to sixty seconds, he runs a palm over pectorals dripping with sweat, and rubbery tit nubs erect and reaching out for the early morning desert breeze. The heart is thumping far too quickly.

Master leans in, and whispers.

“Good boy. Very good boy.”

His hand returns to the wheel, yet Zac’s eyes are no longer following him. The sound of chain running over pulleys warns of another lift.

*******

The pulley is stopped in ‘toe time’.

Advanced ‘toe time’, really, as the kid dances on nothing more than the largest digits on both feet, pushed arrow-straight into the burning sand.

He dances to the tune of the 20 plait signal whip, which Master is applying merciless to his rear. When Marine Efron’s upper back is comprehensively striped, including his bound forearms in the process, Master adjusts his sights to the open invitation that is the kid’s meaty ass mounds.

Cracks of rawhide on boy flesh bounce around the quad. No sooner has one echo rippled away, than another fires through the air in a volley. The Arabs watch carefully, enthralled.

When the force of a blow is too much, or the whip strikes an already-welted spot, toes leave the floor in agony, until rapid – so very frightening – strangulation forces those toes back to the sand.

The Arabs see what Master cannot, yet already knows. The perpetual rump-whipping and savage, deliberate denial of oxygen; the closeness, in every sense, of Master and boy in sweaty, filthy union, has forced the kid’s dick to a pulsating half-mast.

Drool runs in twin strings from both corners of the young mouth, onto flat tummy muscle, every sinew of that six pack strained as it tries to relieve stress elsewhere in the Marine torso.

Master breaks off.

He wrenches the kid’s head backward with an unkempt clump of dark brown hair, and a petrified gurgle from the boy. 

“I think you get it now, kid, don’t you? This is your life. Neck lifts a couple of times a week, lasting hours. Timed runs, with constant improvement and heavier scrotal weights each time. Unlubed, passive anal in thirty different positions on rotation.  My fist up your rectum, and slammed into your nuts. Recycling your own fluids.”

Master stops to catch breath, and observe the reaction.

“Do you get it, Zachary?”

“Mmmmm.”  It is just a sound, through drool, snot, and this tiptoe-ed precariousness.

“But also, Zachary, if you choose it, my sadistic love, and the knowledge I work at the very edge of sanity. Think about that very carefully, Zachary. Consider, instead, how insanity might feel.”

Master steps back, and the kid can hear the resumption of practise strokes.

“Think about everything, very carefully.”  Master re-iterates.

It is the turn of thigh flesh to be sliced.

The chain links creak in their pulleys like unoiled barn doors, as the Marine swings with, or from them.

Upper legs are lacerated with blood-letting welts.

“Good boy, Zachary. Excellent boy.”

The kid’s eyes are shut firm.

His dickhead grazes his belly as it stands perpendicular, above a ball sac drawn in to almost nothing. The raspberry crown pokes the fluff around his button, as Master allows him occasional, brief inhalations that rattle the kid’s chest.

*******

Boy feet have been untied. Master requires access to Zac’s anus. Dry, bun grabbing, to-the-hilt access.

The control wheel has been adjusted a fraction in the kid’s favour. All ten toes and the very front of the soles are touching sand, when Master allows it.

The Marine swings like a pendulum under Master’s rape-fuck attack, his torso a sweat-slick free weight. Chain and pulleys unite in squeals of metallic protest.  

“Get that fucking hose juicing, Zachary.” Master orders, as his nails bite into white hip flesh.

Yet the kid is past the point of no return, anyway. This is an ejaculation Zachary cannot comprehend. His convulsions are not merely sexual, or a consequence of the punishing denial of oxygen to his brain. The boy is shaking at what he is becoming.

Marine cum hoses the yard, and sizzles audibly on the sand. Just when he appears spent, another wave flies in a parabolic curve. 

The kid’s third and final load, perhaps his strongest, is in perfect union with Master’s own orgasm, in the darkness of his over-stretched rectum.

Master remains buried to his wiry pubes inside the boy, yet he has allowed the Marine back onto his soles. Both males pant, one long and heavy, the other short, wheezy and purple-faced.

Master ensures the front of his torso mashes against the kid’s smooth back.

“Forget about Vanessa. Forget about family, and the Marines. Just wallow in the filthy, sticky shamefulness of this for a moment, Zachary.”

The sadist pauses.

“Then, when I remove the chain from your neck, come to attention immediately, where you will stay until every last drop of my milk has back-flushed from your tight little boy snatch. Is that understood, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Work your cunt muscles around my dick as you wallow, then.” 

*******

To be continued.

E: bdsmyouthcamp@hotmail.co.uk

W: www.gaybdsmfiction.blogspot.com

‘The courtyard’ – southern Iran

“Ahhh…..shit!”

These are pain tools, not pleasure toys.

This exercise would be a significant ordeal without the addition of a sixty minute timing limitation.

The boy believes he is straining every sinew, and deploying his physical and mental reserves to the fullest to meet his immovable target.

The man’s stony features betray only impatience and disappointment.

There is, as so often, an expectation gap between Marine Zachary Efron and his sadist. The Californian kid remembers his simple briefing from Master:

“Violate yourself. Utterly.”

The boy reflects. Perhaps the agony etched on his face; the dilation of his hole and the sounds he is making has not been sufficient to convince Master this violation is total.

Such is the distance Zachary has come that part of him now believes Master is right, whilst ‘legacy Zachary’ remains indignant, and wishes to fight.

“Awwwww!”

Eyes teary with exertion, the compact piece of American soldier meat squats and sinks onto a butt plug of grossly excessive girth.

The captor moves to Zachary’s rear, and verifies the plug has been ass-swallowed in totality. Cheating the system will see the plug re-taken, and five minutes removed from the boy’s timing allowance.

Every part of Zachary knows how important it is to bring this exercise in within sixty minutes.

Across the yard a bulb powered by a car battery flashes, guiding the kid to the next challenge: a thirteen inch gut-buster.  

He sprints to his test not with enthusiasm, but because he knows Master’s intolerance of downtime – pain free time.

*******

Raw, inside-out ass lips leak greasy trails through the grime of Marine Efron’s inner thighs.

The boy cradles a diminishing tub of Boy Butter to his chest, like the teddy bear of a child scared by lightning. 

There was a tactic for lubricant use, at the outset:

‘Save it for the big challenges, Zaccy. There may not be a second helping.’

He said to himself.

Yet the math tells all. One third of the dildos and plugs taken – and one third of a pot of grease remaining.

“Ahhhhhhhh….”

“Awwwww….”

The truth is, these anguished exhalations are not a consequence of moderation, but of oily surplus.

Master watches the kid make the calculation, and then impose self-rationing. It is unlikely the store room will be opened again to aid this avoidable crisis. If necessary, soldier boy can run dry and work off natural rectal lubricant. That will prompt some raw, mellifluous, sexual grunting from this youth, at an intensity rarely heard outside 30-plus punch fisting porn.

*******

Each and every one of the twenty phalluses ranged over the yard has been assessed carefully, by Master, for the degree of anal challenge it presents.

This collection is the fruit of a ten year, worldwide purchasing tour, from the sex shops of Amsterdam to the street bazaars of north Africa. Indeed, a number of the impalement tools resemble the unfathomable ‘heritage’ tourist trinkets brought back from Kenyan safaris, more than sex accessories.

Thick rubber truncheons have cruel additional bulges, mid-shaft.

Polished wooden sticks bend at thirty degrees, two-thirds of the way home.

Thirteen inches of latex-coated schlong arcs a punishing curve.

Ribbed, hand-blown glass dildos catch the morning sun at its brightest and sit, ready-heated, awaiting Zachary’s sphincter.

Yet this is not just about size. Each pole is mounted such that the boy must consider his angle of approach: to the extent three minutes, average, per self-rape allows time to ponder anything.

Bulbous plugs force a total squat.

Jack-mounted phallic tools require the kid to tiptoe before he may drop.

Board-mounted, curved impalers see the boy bent double, reversing away viciously at what remains of his rectal tautness, and rising off his soles to accommodate the last four inches.

To all of which, there is the familiar soundtrack of forced boy sex:

“Awwwww….FUCK!”

“Ahhhhh…noooooooo man!”

Gleaming black boots shuffle on the sand, digging in as the boy takes another big one. Where they end, the wispy dark down of Zachary’s calves mats wet with exertion-induced sweat.

Master would like an X-ray of this marine, to capture the hard rods lodged deep inside him. Instead, he must satisfy himself with repeated vistas of distended ass lips stretched so very thin around rubber, wood and glass; and he must conjure images of excruciating internal rigidity as the straight boy butt-swallows his latest tests.

*******

“There was a photo amongst your personal effects, Zachary. You appear to be singing, with Vanessa. Tell me about that.”

Master patrols with the cattle prod, his very closeness encouraging extreme self-abuse.

“It was just….awwwww….some dumb musical we put on at high school.”

“So, you two go back as far as San Luis Obispo High? Childhood sweethearts, then?”

“AHhhhhhh……yeah, guess so.”

“Have you always enjoyed performing, Zachary?”

“How do you mean…….Master?”

“Oh, I think you understand, Zachary. Putting on a show; being the centre of attention; amusing and offending with your outrageousness; going one step further than the other boys, to please your audience.”

“You’re trying to link some fuckin’ school drama to this?! There is no connection. None at all, yeah, Master?”

“Keep stuffing rubber up your cunt as we talk, Zachary. Remember your timings.”

The marine fumes as he opens himself for a ribbed, conical twelve inches.

Master continues.

“You have changed physically, since high school. Once the floppy-haired soft-centred kid, and now this buzz-cut little muscle boy. But your evident desire to put on a good show – albeit one that’s constrained by your inhibitions and capacity for hard work, at present – still burns inside you, I sense. Am I right, Zachary?”

“Ahhhhh….fuck!”

“Zachary, I asked you a question.”

“Master……I……I wanna make this happen. But it’s difficult.”

“I know, Zachary. Sadists make the lives of boys difficult by design. But ‘difficult’ needs focus, so I wonder if we could get that by asking you to complete your twenty dildos in fifty-eight minutes, rather than sixty? With your consent of course, Zachary.”

As Master waits patiently for a teary response, he taps the prod over the leather chaps encasing his thighs.

“Is there any more lube, Master.” The kid snivels.

“No, Zachary. But complete within fifty-eight minutes, and you have my word there will be more available next time you take this challenge.”

“Yes, Master.” Consent is given with faltering voice.

The digital countdown timer, hung upon the tall yard walls for Zac’s benefit, is duly adjusted. 

*******

Dildo nineteen, taken at fifty-three minutes, requires the kid to put on a gymnastic display.

The veined twelve inches by three inches of fake cock is mounted on an adjustable steel arm, bolted to the compound wall. Whilst the shaft is itself dead-straight, it is locked at an angle such that it cannot be squatted or mounted in the conventional way.

The boy is near-faint at the unrelenting ass wrecking he has driven himself through, in the full desert sun. He wipes his furrowed brow with a forearm as his befuddled brain tries to work out whether, and how, this is physically possible. Beady perspiration is exchanged between forehead and limb, to no net advantage. 

The countdown ticks away.

“No, man. Fuck!”

Frustration.

Master allows a precious thirty seconds to elapse.

“This one requires you to be a ballet boy, Zachary. It’s a shame you only took musicals at high school.”

The kid makes weird, animal-like little noises as he tries to clear the mental fog. A gay boy would have understood by now, but straight lads have this anal block.

“You need to clear your right leg out of the way, Zachary. Raise it, up to horizontal, and hold the ankle in your palm. Then, you crab sideways onto the dick, arching and angling your torso as necessary. The first step for a boy, when taking a rod, is always to clear a good path to his hole.”

The marine has no time for expert analysis. He throws up the leg in a single, athletic movement and clasps it in hand. Hopping to the exaggerated, flared dick head and lining up his chute, everything becomes clear.  

Slack-jawed, gasping and cursing, Marine Efron shuffles onto the phallus. Tilting his trunk to aid the accommodation, the observer has advice.

“Time is short, Zachary. Hurt yourself. Violate yourself. Let your sadist see real pain.”

With a series of anguished grunts, legs as opened scissors, the kid makes his rectum accept the punishingly-angled intruder. Military anal muscle can be heard crackling as the heavy rubber forces it wide, and the soldier’s determination makes it gobble greedily.

*******

Dildo twenty. Fifty-six minutes.

‘The Fist’ is its name, because that’s the moulded form it takes, with complementary forearm.

The boy throws up sand in his wake, boots thudding as he launches himself across the yard. Yet as the final, desperate seconds tick away, the open-legged dash might almost be in slow motion.

This is life on the edge for Zachary, dealing with the burden of impossible expectations as any pre-existing concept of his masculinity is stripped from him, layer by layer.

Yet Master and Zachary have a shared understanding. For 0.1% of boys, these cruel targets; this ceaseless torment; this ultra-extreme service, is not impossible. They have not spoken about this directly, and it is unlikely they ever shall, but Master demands this boy to be a component of that 0.1%.

Zachary, for his part, finds himself bullied, disciplined and driven into that same, tiny segment of population. And now that dark crevice is so close, he finds his fascination with it deeply disturbing. 

Forty-eight seconds to fist fuck his ass down to a rubber elbow: that is the demand.

Reserves of Boy Butter are exhausted. There is nothing more to be scraped from the tub, long since thrown aside in disgust.

“Fuck!”

As the last twenty seconds slip away, Master has simple encouragement.

“Slam it, Zachary. Slam your ass onto that fist and please me. Open up like a good boy, Zachary.”

The marine reaches for his rump and pulls his mounds far apart, the moulded fingers tickling and teasing his hole.

The kid’s lips are dry: both sets. One is so very sore.

“Awwwww!”

He believes he hates it, yet the boy has been absorbed in his debasement, throughout. His psyche is lost somewhere, in his torture.

“Push down onto it, Zachary. Get that forearm wedged up your A-hole. It’s unacceptable for a boy to try and get comfortable.”

00:00 says the digital display, but the kid continues his descent, head thrown back and drool seeping from the corners of his thin, chafed lips. His eyes are narrow slits. Perhaps the time has passed him by? 

“Ahhhhh….”

“Ahhhhh….”

The sound of a straight boy taking a HUGE one.

A drop of perspiration hangs from the American’s left tit nub, a legacy of the meandering flows criss-crossing his violently-heaving chest.

This is very hard, forced and timed anal – absolutely core to Master’s programme.

The boy’s butt cheeks settle flat on the stool seat to which The Fist is mounted, clammy skin cold against polished wood. 

Master checks the obscene column is fully deployed up rectum. Such a wrencher of a boy’s ‘private’ space, this one: the black hole-punch in brutal contrast to Zac’s whiteness between his tan lines.

The speared buttocks are tense, drawn, as their owner awaits Master’s de-brief.

Marine Efron has seen the countdown, now. He therefore anticipates Master’s boot sending the stool flying over the yard. He anticipates the searing internal pain as The Fist fucks his prostate, mid-flight. He anticipates the face down landing in burning sand, and the sole of Master’s boot pushing then screwing his military skull into that sand.

Once crushed, Zachary receives a lecture from Master around failure, and disobedience, and discipline, and punishment. That is sufficient, momentarily, to turn his agony and despair into a vicious caged erection in his crown-of-thorns chastity.

Rising to his knees, Marine Zachary Efron wets his parched throat with Master’s fresh milk, straight from the tap. The long rod wedges as a visible bulge in his gullet, and the boy gags, yet the perfect white teeth do not bite back. Master, hand at the back of the kid’s neck, controls his suffocation expertly.

It is all so very far removed from the high school musical.

*******

The bathroom – 16.00 hours

Master uses shaving foam with an open razor, to ‘boyscape’ the Marine.

Weightless clouds of white swirl momentarily grey, and then black, as the blade forces contact with Zachary’s effort-filthy skin.

The kid has been in stirrups for two hours, limbs spread asunder permitting unfettered access for the denuding razor. Total depilation would have been swifter, of course, but would also have left Zachary with nothing further to lose. 

Master believes this soldier boy would hate a totally bare dick stalk, so has manicured a nominal pubic lawn of perfect rectangular geometry. The monotonous click-click-click of scissors being worked hard filled the bathroom for a short time, as the bush was trimmed and thinned. The razor and foam did the rest of the work, stripping extraneous pubes from everywhere but the anointed tight, almost Afro, dark brown fuzz.

The unruly treasure trail had already gone, as had the dense pit hair – every last wisp of it – creating two concave sweat wells from which copious tears of exertion will run each and every time Master forces Zachary to toil in this sweltering desert.

If the kid cannot perform like a real man, he cannot expect masculine accessories. This grooming will take Zachary back to his fourteen year old state, but with his then innocence so thoroughly trashed.

The remaining pubic patch shall be toyed with, undoubtedly. It will serve as a reminder, for Zac, of what might have been, and all that has been taken from him. Master shall make threats against it, with veiled words and explicitly, with blades that will nibble the edges. It may become an absurd totem: something for this kid to continue fighting for, until Master decides a run has been too slow; or a rimming job not delivered with requisite thoroughness; or a boot not sufficiently mirror-perfect in its polish. And then, to a soundtrack of boy tears, Master shall speak of a betrayal of trust as the razor and foam make one final sweep.

“Sore, Zachary?”

“Mmmm….yeah, Master.”

The blade plays alongside the kid’s ass lips, pouty and raw and increasingly reluctant to close, such is the frequency with which they are jammed open.

Individual, fine strands of hair are skimmed away. A smooth, unsullied ass crack can only assist in intensive boy training. The size and precise texture of anal tools are better processed without the sensual loss created by even the thinnest fur.

Sharp steel glides over Marine perineum, cold as it strips.

“This is making you a lighter, more efficient machine of a boy. Yes, Zachary?”

“Fuck yeah, Master!”

“And as we shave the grams from you, we can shave the generosity of your time allowances in the desert running trials. Yes, Zachary?”

“Fuck yeah, man!”

The tone of the response is sarcastic.

Master’s blade nicks the kid’s leathery ball sac, the threat to spill his swimmers immediate.

“It must appal you, each time we subtract another precious thirty seconds. I’m guessing you find it quite horrifying?”

Master’s intonation is measured; grave.

“Yeah….I can’t……I don’t…..understand it.”

The Marine is reflective, now.

“There’s a paradox isn’t there, Zachary? The more time we strip from your target, and the narrower the margin in which you bring the run home successfully, the harder your pierced erection rages in that chastity.”

“Yes, Master.”

He is humbled. That cutting observation is like a gut punch.

“That’s why each and every time you run, Zachary, and whether these testes are laden with one boot or three, there shall always be less time for you. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

The razor severs wisps of darkness from Zac’s scrotal sac, as Master stretches and kneads the pouch into a tight pommel. 

‘One boot or three’: a line delivered as an aside to prepare the Marine, mentally, for the day he will be asked to sprint the Arabian sands with a cluster of two boots at his groin, a third hanging below and a long, multi-plaited whip curling diagonally over his perspiring buttock mounds for motivation.

*******

Master permits no dancing under the shower head, despite the force of the icy blast.

The kid operates with one hand clasped behind his neck in the formal pose, whilst the other works over his torso with a plastic-headed brush, onto which liquid soap is drawn from a small pail.

The sadist watches finger and toe nails turn blue as Zac scrubs, spent water disappearing in a filthy vortex down the plug hole.

Marine Efron’s skin is transformed, a few shades lighter through removal of layer upon layer of grime established over a fortnight of use. That, alongside his fresh military buzz cut and lack of body hair, makes him appear an entirely new boy. 

Clean, trimmed, tidy: an opportunity for Zachary to reinvent himself as the perfect masochist, should he have the courage to make that journey.

The harsh bristles scrub the curves of Zac’s pectoral meat, and clear dried sweat from the cleft.

Perfect young skin breaks into goose bumps below the cold jet, and the kid shivers.

“Keep scrubbing and keep warm, Zachary.” Master instructs.

“Don’t knock back this opportunity to get fresh.”

The boy gulps for air but finds only a freezing torrent of water, as his work hand applies the brush vigorously – even harshly – to his ass mounds.

“Awww…..fuck….c..c..cold!”

The bristles find boy crack, and there is momentary eye contact – Zachary’s suddenly as clear and icy as the water itself. Master nods, and the brush head disappears between muscular buns, abrasive against ‘private’ boy space.

And then, there is a swap. 

Master extends both hands: one to receive Zachary’s dishwashing item, and the other to pass a longer handled tool with a head of bristles closely resembling a pastry brush.

“Hole. Now. Lose the handle inside you. Do it.”

Master fires orders with an economy of words.

Head bowed as a cold flood lashes his scalp, the Marine fumbles at his butt and locates the sore rosebud: gateway to his aching rectum.

“Ahhhhh….”

“Ahhhhh…”

The cylindrical black handle disappears up his shit chute.

“Fuck yourself. Hard, and fast. If it isn’t scratching, it isn’t cleaning.” Master insists.

“Awwww fuck!”

“Awwww hurts!”

“Awwww shit!”

With the tightest of youthful grips, the pastry brush fucks like a piston. Zac’s clenched fist impacts his hole, every two and a half seconds, with a rhythmic wet slap. Legs spread, the boy abuses himself comprehensively. Amidst his drenching, the Marine’s eyes close as he loses himself in the shafting.

One larger, stronger hand probes through the flood and latches onto an alabaster hunk of military boy butt. 

“Work that ass.”

The instruction is delivered close to Zachary’s right ear, in an insistent, barely heard whisper.

“Awww…jeeeeeezus!”

The self-plowing shifts up three gears.

Engorged dick bites chastity spikes, and droplets of blood dilute amongst the ice-cold swirls by the plug hole.

*******

US Marine Corps Contingency Operating Base Delta, Al Kut, Iraq

The squadron of three helicopters arrives under cover of darkness, flying at height over the Tigris before descending, inch perfect, to secluded spots between old Iraqi air force hangers.

Airborne activity is hardly unusual here. Perhaps the insurgents, or any aviation connoisseurs mad enough to inhabit these parts, note the unusual thrum of the engines upon approach. If so, maybe they glimpse the angular fuselage and concealed tail rotor of the three choppers and wonder, ‘what the hell is that?’

But as these are exceptionally quiet beasts the chances are they are down, lights extinguished, before ‘interested’ locals can focus their infra-red binoculars. Their mission, after all, is one of stealth. 

*******

The bathroom - 19.00 hours

Marine jaws stretch out a brief yawn Zachary cannot supress. Such a shame, as otherwise his lock-muscled, spread-legged pose is a picture of compact perfection. 

Master busies himself arranging items in the bathroom. Perhaps he failed to notice. He does not respond immediately to the discourtesy.

With a hollow clink, a pail is placed to rest on the tiled floor. 

“Why the yawn, Zachary?”

Of course, he noticed.

“Because I’m shattered, Master.”

The kid confesses without hesitation. 

“Why, Zachary?”

Master continues to bustle around.

Zac is lost. Isn’t the answer obvious? Yet, the form of words needs to be right.

“The work is too ha………..very hard. And I’m not getting enough sleep. There never seems to be enough time for rest, Master.”

The boy’s tone is matter-of-fact, not whingey.

“Uh-huh.” Master acknowledges.

“It’s kind of a vicious cycle, isn’t it? You’re far too slow in completing your exercises, so they eat into your sleeping time. Then, your fatigue slows you even further. Isn’t that right, Zachary?”

The kid is invited to agree.

“Yes, but…….”

“Go on, Zachary.”

“I’m not sure I can get much quicker, or take it any harder, even if I really try. I think this is it, for me, Master.”

“But what if I believe the contrary, Zachary? Which of us, do you feel, is best placed to judge your potential as a machine of a maso boy?”

“You, Master.”

The answer is immediate, but resigned.

“And which of us has the grave responsibility of managing your potential, Zachary?”

“You, Master.”

“And who will see you utterly – unrecognisably – transformed, to something much lesser, but also much greater?”

“You, Master.”

“Again, Zachary.”

“YOUUUUUUU……FUCKIN’ YOUUUUUUUUU MASTER!”

The hollered sentence bounces around the airless bathroom, as Master moves the kid back to task.

“We move on, tomorrow evening. In return for use of his property, I promised the owner a clean bathroom on our departure.”

Master pauses. He likes a boy to work it out for himself, before being told.

The Marine’s sunken eyes dart around, re-evaluating the old white wall tiles, black with dirt. The recently used sink will be an easier job, the filth here being quite soluble. Alongside are twin urinals, in white porcelain.

Finally, against the far wall, the door to a single cubicle hangs off its rusty hinges, almost fully closed.

“It’s more of the same sanitary ware, inside.” Master comments, voice hushed so as not to interrupt the kid’s thought processes.

The whole is lit with a single fluorescent tube, underneath which the corpses of a dozen fat flies lie prone. The cubicle inhabits a shadowy corner in this stale stillness.

The boy looks for confirmation.

“Yes, Zachary.”

On the floor are ‘mother and child’ pails. The larger is empty, but will fit under the faucet. The smaller has been pre-filled with cream cleaning fluid. Alongside is a brush on an eight inch plastic handle, the head sized between toothbrush and kitchen scrubber. On the reverse of the head is a small sponge.

Both pails, and brush, are affixed to the wall by metal chains secured at their respective handles. Slack drapes over the cold floor.

“Ready for the rules, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

He sounds unsure. Aren’t the ‘games’ inherently bad enough, without further controls and impositions?

“No solids are got rid of via the plumbing. The urinals and stall are disconnected from their flushes, in any event. The sink waste will collect in a clear plastic tank, outside, and will be reviewed – please believe me.”

The kid nods.

“We leave in twelve hours. You’ll have the job finished by then. In fact, as soon as you’re done, grab some sleep. There’s a thin mattress folded up in the stall cubicle. With me still, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Spotless. That’s the third, simple rule. Pristine and gleaming – those are also great descriptors. Our generous host must be overwhelmed with delight. I think you understand, Zachary?”

“Fuckin’ spotless, Master!” The kid parrots back.

“Good. I want you to take this task – this piece of service – very seriously, Zachary.”

The big, open-palmed hand drapes over Marine cheek bone, with a brief pinch of encouragement before the door shuts and is locked from the outside.

*******

“Fuckin’ chains are too short, man!”

“Cuntin’ chains won’t reach to the troughs!”

Seventeen minutes: that’s how long it takes Zac to establish the slack in the pail and brush chains is insufficient to complete his task. Or so he believes.

Master listens to the chinks as sturdy metal is yanked with gym-trained Marine bicep. The wall anchorages hold, and then the kid reflects, maybe, on the consequences of working lose the pails and brush so deliberately affixed to chain of a certain length. The hullabaloo ceases for a while, a silence broken with a crack as the water pail is launched from head height upon floor tile.

This is boy frustration. This is boy denial of the realities of raunch.

“Fuck! No fuckin’ way, man!”

Immaculate military boots pace the bathroom.

“Fuck!”

The kid spies the multiple cigarette butts. The Arabs have been enjoying the exotic taste of Marlboro, supplied by Master, and have discarded the filter stubs in the urinals, where they clog the drains.

“Oh, holy shit!”

Marine Efron analyses the extent of the staining on the porcelain pissers, rendering them dull grey from the drains, up to where a tall guy with a full bladder might jet.

The sound of a door creaking, very slowly, like a suspenseful ‘is there a ghost?’ scene in ‘Scooby Doo’, for that’s the kind of innocence on which this soldier meat was reared.

“Eugh…….eugh….”

Clip-clop. 

The sound of a boy gagging as he beats a hasty retreat from a decrepit stall.

This is boy denial of the necessity of working with yellow, and with extensive brown.

Dirt boy Zachary Efron.

*******

Master’s thick rubber sole rests upon the kid’s pale back, regulating the height at which his face works.

He had not intended to disturb the boy mid-scene, but CCTV monitoring, as the evening drew on, cast doubt on whether the youth would ever draw sufficient courage to face the ‘wrong’ end of the bathroom.

One long, curled tongue laps at a urinal, cutting a swathe of white through the grey. This filth does not lift easily: a dozen sweeps are needed to leave each patch as pristine as the day it rolled off a line somewhere in Staffordshire, England, empire-bound. Master pushes the skull firmly into porcelain, and enjoys the sound of wet doggy-style tongue lashing.

The cigarette butts are fished out by tongue, also, from the dammed pools of stagnant piss they have created. Each is swallowed whole, and on all, the kid chokes as the fibrous filters descend to his stomach.

Under Master’s boot, toilet cleaning is executed swiftly and thoroughly, yet ultimate performance should not require supervision.

“Stand.”

The sadist towers over the tightly-packaged Marine.

Both tit nubs are taken between thumb and forefinger, twisted, and yanked skyward.

“Awwww…”

The kid rises, calves straining. Master and boy face each other off, centimetres apart. 

“There’s a bigger challenge left for you, Zachary.”

The teats are wound a further forty-five degrees.

“AHhhhhhh….yes Master!”

“Here’s a little help. Only the bathroom need be spotless, not the cleaner. If, in five hours, there is brown grouting between those white incisors, well, that’s no cause for punishment, hey?”

“No, Master!”

“Would you like me to put you down, Zachary?”

“Ummm….up to you Master.”

“Your flapping hands tell me you dislike your titties being worked hard, but perhaps that’s another day’s training session.”

“Awww…..yeah, Master.”

“Tell me you’re going to take these next few hours seriously, Zachary.”

*******

04.30

Master has switched off the CCTV in his makeshift office. 

What will be, will be.

Whilst the Arabs pile two Land Cruisers with larger pieces of kit, the boss fills soft bags with personal effects, and assembles a further heap of the paraphernalia of sexual torture.

The bathroom is below, and on the opposite side of the building, yet the sounds coming from it cannot be mistaken. For two hours, blasphemy and profanity have been punctuated with heaving. How much of that was dry, and how much wet, is a question of which Master is intrigued to know the answer.

Then, there is the extension question. If additional mess has been created, to what extent has it, also, been dealt with?

Master believes his instructions to have been crystal clear. For now, however, he pictures his boy at the toilet bowl, kneeling in supplication, buttocks reared. He sees the clammy forehead, encircled with porcelain three times Zachary’s age, as a dark stained tongue scrapes the side walls, then attempts a cleanse in the still water deep down near the outlet.

If Marine Zachary Efron can, and does, perform satisfactory toilet service, his transformation is potentially irreversible.

Either way, Master anticipates tears, and the temporary provision of a shoulder to cry on for Marine meat, at 07.00 hours.

*******

 

To be continued

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