Fire, Ice & Water

Part One

The Correctional Facility, Exmoor, Somerset, England

Occasionally, ‘between boys’, I am drawn to the cell.

There is my world, two floors above – a world of iMac; home gym; stupidly over-specified kitchens in which I rarely cook, and bathrooms with huge tubs and triple showers.  My world is one of clean white and pastel shades, textured surfaces and the finest stone, timber and deep-pile flooring.

Behind a disguised door in the drawing room stands a security protected metal gate. None of my visitors - maintenance men; builders; family – know of the existence of ‘downstairs’. Not that I encourage guests. Invitations are rarely extended, as my focus is – has to be – on my boys.

The gate, however, is much more than a safeguard for me. Every boy goes through the gate. The gate is the transition from interior design, feature windows and roaring log fires, to another world. For the duration of his stay, the boy and I inhabit two very different worlds in one large house.

Behind the gate is cold and damp. Behind the gate is grey, peeling paintwork. Behind the gate are corridors lit, sometimes, by bare 60 watt bulbs strung together with exposed cabling.

The cell is reached through a further descent via a tight, spiral staircase - a basement to the basement. Almost every boy pauses and looks back at me as we reach the staircase, hoping this further passage into the bowels of the old, stone building is not for him. But, of course, it is.

Contrary to appearances, the cell is highly designed. I worked upon it with a close associate. We looked at high security prison cells in various jurisdictions, and considered what could be removed in creating a space that was practical, but absolutely nothing more. So, from the generic designs we looked at, away went the little fold down desks and stone stools bolted to the floor. Away, of course, went the tiny TV screens behind perspex in the walls. Away went any kind of shelving, because boys here have nothing to store.

We didn’t get it absolutely right from the start. We had concluded that a mattress was unnecessary- that boys could curl up on the bare metal struts of the sleeping platform. But this led to excessive sleep deprivation, ill-suited to an extended stay here. So we introduced a thin mattress with a plasticised black cover, and a small pillow trimmed in the same material. Black had to be the colour. Black is the colour down here.

There is another design aspect of the cell I would like to highlight, because I continue to marvel at it whenever I spend a few moments down there. The depth of the little concrete box, three-quarters buried in an escarpment, with the walls and door further sound-proofed, gives it an eerie sense of quiet. The boys who stay here exist, if I so choose, in total silence.

I pull down the sleeping platform, and rest a moment on the mattress. I remember past occupants of this bare box and think of what they must have felt when I left them here, alone, over a weekend or longer. I consider how they must have reflected upon their limited futures. I wonder what went through their minds, after two days of total isolation, when they heard my boots in the corridor, returning. I speculate on whether, as I turned the key in the lock, they in fact felt relief – or simply new fear.

Then I remember a poignant moment, two years ago. Returning from a long public holiday break, I looked through the spy hole in the cell door as I inserted the key. The occupant, Michael – whom I had considered a relatively stoical kid – was pissing himself involuntarily in the centre of the little incarceration box, his head a drooped, shaking picture of terror. Michael was a realist, actually. He knew my return heralded nothing but bad news, the only question remaining being whether, this time, I was back with the cattle prod, the bull whip or the baseball bat.

I check, under the sleeping platform, and ensure the only loose items in the cell are in place. One pair of size nine calf-height black boots, polished to gleaming.  It is nearly time for another boy.

******* 

The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, New York, Central Park

“Hello…err…..it’s me. I’m in reception.”

His voice was cracking a little. I’m sure it wasn’t the mobile ‘phone reception.

I stayed on the line, silent for a moment.

“Hello….are you there?”

There was urgency to his tone. Perhaps, just for a moment, he wondered if I had failed to show.

I put him out of his misery.

“Hello, are you there, what?”

“Sir. Are you there, Sir?”

“Better. Suite 907, kid. There’s an ice machine just outside the elevator lobby on the 9th. Beside it is a large beer glass. On your way to me, I want you to put 15 lumps of ice into the glass and bring it with you. Got that?”

“Yes Sir, suite 907.”

I hung up before his sentence was finished.

Luke and I are both English. I could perfectly well have arranged to meet him in London, where I am based ninety percent of the year. That would have been far too easy for the boy, though. We were gathering that day to obtain his signature on the contract, and I needed to test his yearning; his total desire, his desperate need for this. So, I made him scrape together enough cash for an economy return to NYC, where I was holed up for a few days on business.

I had taken a Parkview suite, with a little brass telescope to view the green sweep of the park, and the iconic cityscape beyond. Such broad horizons, the likes of which Luke would not be seeing again. Not once he had attended to the contract, anyway.

The document was ready, on the maple desk in the living room, printed simply on crisp white A4.

‘Total & Irrevocable Ownership Agreement’

The knock on the door was pleasingly robust.

“It’s open.” I raised my voice, but did not leave my armchair, positioned to face the doorway.

Luke had received no instruction from me as to what to wear today. I had mused, since I arrived in NYC, on how a young English man might feel it appropriate to dress for the signing.

The 23 year-old was in a light grey suit, with a modern slim-fit tailored cut. His shirt was a conventional, collared white cotton affair. Around his neck, he wore a plain, dark blue tie. The tie, I think, gave away the stress he was under, for it sagged over an undone top shirt button. I believe the shirt was the right size, but the pressure of tense, engorged blood vessels in Luke’s neck made the top button too uncomfortable.

I’m not sure whether Luke had considered this when he purchased the suit, but the tailoring of the seat of the pants dramatically emphasised his finest feature – two firm and very substantial butt mounds. His cheeks stretched the fabric thinly, his boy crack nicely defined when he leaned forward a little, let alone bent over. Actually, I think he knew how this garment would arouse a man, and how a certain type of man would treat it as an invitation. He understood sexuality well enough, as most kids do these days.

“Get naked.”

I believe in simple commands.

Luke did not question me. There was none of the crap you get from younger, less certain boys – lines such as ‘you mean everything?’ and ‘boxers as well?’ Luke understands what naked really means.  

The kid read the impatience in my eyes, and in the tapetty-tap of my fingers on the arm of the chair. He was down to bare skin acceptably swiftly – for now, at least. Last to come off were the black, formal socks – brand new, unless I’m mistaken. Luke peeled them down from his strong calves, golden and dusted pleasantly with a light blond fuzz, then over perfectly-formed alabaster feet.

“Get that mess off the floor.”

I nodded towards the pile of clothes strewn around Luke’s feet. He set to immediately, one item at a time, carefully placing the suit on the bed; folding the shirt; rolling the tie; parking his black patent leather formal shoes out of the way. The kid paused, just for a second or two, with what remained – his white briefs and black socks – before shaking them out, too, and laying them gently on the bed. As he did so I noticed something, symbolic of this process, which needed comment. 

“Hold your briefs out, the front facing me.”

The youth sheepishly retrieved his underwear, and with two fingers around the waistband, held the garment out in front of his chest.

As I thought, there was a heavy piss stain on the pocket that had covered his dick.

“Nervous, Luke?”

“Yes Sir.” He answered clearly.

“How many times did you need to piss yourself this morning, waiting for your appointment with me, Luke?”

“Three times, Sir. I used the bathroom in the lobby, before I came up to……”

“Enough.” I cut him off. I hadn’t asked for a monologue. I didn’t need his nervous babble.

“Fold your briefs into a tight little package.”

The kid parcelled up the white cotton into a dense cube of fabric, and placed a finger upon it to hold its form.

“Put it in your mouth – all of it – with the pissiest material against your tongue.”

Luke shot me a glance – I hope not defiance – before opening wide and stuffing the dark cavern with his own most intimate apparel.

“Now close your lips. Tight.”

The white fabric could no longer be seen, but the bulge in Luke’s cheeks evidenced it.

“If you are ready to listen, and obey, shake your head, kid.” I instructed, from my chair.

Face like a goldfish, Luke nodded vigorously.

“You are going to take the fifteen lumps of ice you have collected, and put them up your boy hole. All of them, that is. Fifteen lumps, ten seconds a lump, 150 seconds – two and a half minutes. Is that understood, Luke?”

Another assertive nod, but eyes now distant looking, and lacking in focus. 

I would not be complimenting Luke on his appearance, because my job is to test boys; to punish them; to process them, and more – not to massage their egos. But to be considered for my purposes, a boy needs the right physical attributes – and Luke had them in spades.

Let us get the ‘negative’ out of the way first. Luke wasn’t a tall boy. With a bit of rounding up, you could say he was 5’7”. I believe his lack of height contributed, in some small way, to the complex state of mind that saw him flying out to NYC to sign up with me. It was a relevant part of his back story – that, at least, we can say.

But Luke packed one hell of a torso into that 5’7”. His efforts in the gym had been evenly focused. Some boys neglect their legs, and as their chest and abs get bigger and more defined, look as though they are perched on cocktail sticks. With Luke, there was symmetry of lean muscular development, top and bottom. His sturdy thighs would help him through this, I knew. Luke’s tight little tummy, washboard-flat with a cute ‘inny’ belly button, lead up to an interesting set of pecs, cut rather straight beneath delightful pert nips. His pec cleft was wide, a valley wasted, surely, without a torrent of sweat pouring down it. There would be time for that.

I poured myself a coffee from the cafetiere, and listened to the repetitive chinkling of ice against glass, as Luke grabbed lumps.

The kid stood next to the tall bed, one foot on the floor, the other perched on top of the mattress at an angle, legs spread, to better access his bung hole.

I watched Luke’s face contort as the 23 year-old struggled to jam ever more deep-frozen rocks up his rectum, so cold they had none of the slipperiness of ice on the verge of melting. I watched Luke struggle to deal with the terrible chill now gripping and, surely, cramping, his innards, made worse as each new lump introduced pushed the predecessors ever deeper inside him. I watched Luke worry about the time, the countdown displayed on the screen of my ‘phone I had placed on the bed in front of him.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and just listened as the ‘ahhhhs’ and desperate, under-the-breath, ‘fucks’ and ‘shits’ became more frequent from around his makeshift gag. I heard Luke’s breathing become a little ragged on the exhale. When the grunting started I knew, apart from the cold, he was feeling very, very full inside.

The alarm claxon sounded on my stopwatch. Luke had lump fifteen in his hand. He faltered and looked at me, gingerly.

“Too late, Luke. Too late.”

I rose from the armchair, and walked over to the shivering boy.

“If you’re not going to use it, you should return it.”

He glanced alternately at me, and the rock in his hand, pretending – I think – not to understand.

“I gave you an instruction, Luke. It’s a generous way out for you, given your failure. Take the ice back so it isn’t wasted, and we will say no more about it. Or do you really want me to get serious about it, Luke? Because, believe me, I can get serious about failure.”

Silence, for a moment, his brow furrowed.

“My briefs, Sir?” The youth said, pointing at his bare crotch. I could just about make him out, around the muffle of the gag.

“They stay in your mouth, Luke. You take the ice back exactly as you are.”

His torso white and chill, the kid’s face blushed a contrasting strawberry red.

I held the door for him, and watched as the boy tried to run down the corridor, before accepting that his plugged, frozen rectum would only allow an awkward waddle, legs spread a little, buttocks clenched. Each butt cheek made a dimpled wall of flesh, firmly clamping his crack shut.

Luke threw the slippery ice, melting in the nervous sweat of his palm, into the dispenser, and started his long crab-like dance back down the corridor. His full, low-hanging ball sac slapped his thighs as he pushed on, neck angled and facial features a picture of discomfort.  

He had been lucky so far. No cleaners; no room service boys; no stag parties or shocked Japanese businessmen. Half way back to the privacy of my room, a bell heralded the arrival of an elevator on the 9th. Luke threw a panicked glance over his shoulder.  Voices could be heard behind him as the doors opened - male and female adults; the high-pitched whine of a young girl.

The boy dug his bare toes into the carpet as the fear of becoming an exhibition persuaded his calves to find some extra pace.

“Daddy, look at that man!” The little girl shrieked, as she watched the firm white mounds of the naked youth, almost tripping over himself in his hurry, round the corner back into suite 907.

“Stand. Legs a metre apart. Hands clasped behind neck. Chest pushed forward.”

As I spoke, I pointed to a spot on the floor, in front of the desk.

Panting, the kid found the right pose.

“Ready to listen, Luke?”

“Yes, Sir.” He mumbled through his pissy briefs. It was, I thought, a bit half-hearted.

My kick to the kid’s exposed scrotum, placed inch-perfect, caught him entirely off-guard, and he lurched forward. There was an ugly thud as his forehead collided with the mirror above the desk. He gave a wail, and drool seeped from his lips as he righted himself and turned to face me, dazed.

“Get back into your fucking pose. Now!”

I don’t make a habit of swearing at my boys. Overdone, it’s a sign of lost control, or a descent into leather-man clichés. There was something about Luke today, though. Ready to sign the contract, but only giving me ninety percent.

I said, are you ready to listen, Luke?”

“YES, SIR!”

This time, it was as though the gag of briefs wasn’t there.

“Let me make this clear then. Until I say so, there will be absolutely no leakage from those ice blocks. No drips onto the carpet from your hole. No trails of cold water down your thighs. Understood?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Shortly, I’m going to ask you whether you wish to sign the contract in front of you, on the desk. If the answer is no, you can leave without fear or recrimination, and we shall never meet again. If the answer is yes, your signature commits you, morally, to everything within.”

I advanced upon the boy from behind, and I knew he was watching in the mirror, stained with the grease of his forehead, as I reached out and touched his left armpit. I circled the slick, wet flash of pit hair with my forefinger.

I continued at little more than a whisper.

“It’s going to be hard for you, I think you know. The reality is a cell, loneliness and despair, relieved only by use – well, abuse I suppose. But it’s not for ever. Not for me, anyway. You know about the very special clause in there, don’t you, Luke?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Do we need to talk about that clause any further this time, Luke?”

“No, Sir.”

Much quieter now, as he spoke, Luke’s head bobbed up and down a few times, before resting upon his chest, where rivulets of salty tears meandered down his cheeks, and dripped to his pec plates.

I moved my hand, and squeezed a youthful bicep, folded behind his neck. I could smell the fear.

“Good boy, Luke.”

******* 

I told the kid I would give him an hour to re-read the contract before making his final decision. He opted, as was his prerogative, not to do so, and turned immediately to the signature block on the penultimate page. I offered Luke my fountain pen. Somehow, a biro or roller ball would not have felt appropriate. With an unnecessarily strong grip, the boy re-produced his elaborate signature. A further tear immediately smudged the wet ink, and I retrieved the document from the kid to prevent further damage.

That was it, officially. Ownership - transferred. Rights - all signed away. Limits - no more. Stop words – agreed not applicable. Plus, the special clause.

“Get back into the pose, now.” I instructed, curtly.

I had offered the kid sixty minutes to evaluate the contract. He had signed in two. I did not share his impatience, and he would wait for me, and for my permission to empty his rectum, churning with ice-cold meltwater, his belly cramped. He would wait for fifty-eight minutes, legs wide when, really, he would have wished to keep them tightly shut to ease his desperation to purge his chute. Yet, he had just signed away his right to comfort.

I sat back in my chair, and simply watched the 5’7” torso for an hour. Muscular twitches in the butt mounds; the thighs, the folded biceps. Toes curling, and digging into the luxurious pile that made staying here such a joy. Occasional strained noises when the boy exhaled.

I wonder what he thought about me?

I think - I hope - he hated me, but knew he needed me. That state of mind would make the next few weeks just a little easier for the kid.

With the hour almost up, I retrieved an empty metal ice bucket from the occasional table, and strolled back to my boy. I towered over him. On practical grounds, I like to be taller than my boys, but in this case the difference was an exceptional, and unnecessary, eight inches. This would be, truly, total domination.

“Let it out, into this bucket.”

I placed the pail in line with the kid’s a-hole, but well below. He needed no further encouragement to evacuate. Preceded by a lewd fart, the flow was, for a few brief seconds, a jet that tinkled musically against the base of the bucket. It rapidly thinned into a steady trickle, and then drips.

I spoke as the kid dripped away.

“When you leave this room you will hear nothing further from me until, back in England, at some time over the next month, you will receive a text. This will give you a maximum 24 hours notice of the requirement to present yourself to me. It will tell you where, and exactly when. It will tell you what to bring with you. You will arrive precisely on time. All understood?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Did you enjoy the ice, Luke?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Is that why you’re semi-hard, Luke?”

“No, Sir!”

“Then why, Luke?”

This time, I did not rush him for an answer. I beckoned my boy to open his mouth, and pulled out the spit-soaked white designer briefs, so he could speak more coherently. But he was eager to talk.

“This, Sir…..it excites me.”

“What excites you about it, Luke?”

“The thought of going through it all with you, Sir.”

“Even knowing where it leads, Luke?”

“Yes Sir.” There was no hesitation.

I placed a finger under his smooth chin, and lifted his head, such that our eyes met.

“You have become part of the process, Luke.”

“Yes, Sir.”

******* 

To be continued

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