I have received permission to re-post The Slave Boy Game by the author that was originally posted on malespank.net which starts here Part 1A/2.  Regrettably he has, for personal reasons unknown to me, withdrawn from MMSA in early 2018.  To respect that decision I have removed his name from this posting.  He has not asked me to remove the story so I have left it for your enjoyment.

This is different from my usual stories.  It is a full-on masochistic fantasy involving quasi-consensual sexual slavery, enforced chastity, bondage and worse.  If that doesn't float your boat, don't read it.

This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission.  Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.

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The Slave Boy Game (1B/2)

By

Anonymous

"Be quiet, slave," says your master.  You obey.  He nods.  "Good.  And as a reward for your obedience…" He steps forward and takes hold of the hose.  "And boy – you'd better hold it until you're squatting over that hole.  If the least droplet touches me, I'll thrash you until there's no skin left on your ass.  Do you hear me?"

"Yes… Yes, Master." You are panting with the effort of remaining bent and obedient.

"Good."

He removes the hose more rapidly than he inserted it.  The pain of stretching is brief but intense.  You scream, and squat as quickly as you can, terrified that your bowels will let go and he will carry out his threat to flay your bottom.  You make it.  What follows is a few moments of intense release, and then the most profound shame and embarrassment.  You are squatting over a hole and going number two in public.  Worse, it stinks – and after the initial gush, there is wet fart after wet fart.  This has never been part of your fantasies.  It is the most humiliating thing you have ever experienced, and for once the pressure in your cock cage begins to lessen.

"Don't like that, do you brat?"© YLeeCoyote

"No, Master," you say through your tears.

"Better get used to it.  Nobody likes to get shit on their dick.  Now – up you get and bend over again."

You do so, knees trembling.  Your movement is severely constrained by the chain holding your collar to the shower and your muscles are protesting.  Señor Manuela does not care.  He hoses down your bottom, cleaning you off as he might clean a farm animal.  Your penis stirs again.  Perhaps the game is not so nearly over, after all.

Twice more your master empties you.  The third time the fluid runs clear.  You get to your wobbly knees and bend ready for a fourth.  Your face is still red with shame, but you are becoming used to this humiliation – and you are actively looking forward to the sensation of the nozzle penetrating your butt.

Your master slaps your bottom, then laughs at your shrill squeak of distress.  "No more of that boy.  You're clean enough for your plug now."

He unclips the chain from the shower and uses it to lead you back into the other room.  Your penis swells in its cage.  You are enormously aroused at being led like an animal, and still more at the prospect of being plugged behind.  Then you see where he is leading, and almost faint with fear and desire.

He is taking you to the stocks.

He kneels down and pushes the floor stocks wide open.  You step forward without being told.  He smiles at you approvingly, and closes the frame around your ankles.  The stocks fits smoothly around your ankle cuffs, holding you safely, even comfortably.  The idea is to restrain the merchandise, not damage it.  You whimper.  The pressure from your imprisoned penis is intolerable, but you have no choice except to tolerate it.  You watch, fascinated, as the upper half of the vertical stocks is lifted away.  This time, your master has to order you to bend.  You do so, and soon you are locked into place.  Your collar and cuffs are one with the stocks.  You lift your head to look in the mirror.  The sight of yourself so restrained, of your naked helplessness and your imprisoned genitals, drives you nearly insane with lust.  You wish you were not a virgin.  You wish your master could fuck you properly, like the little slave boy slut you are.

Señor Manuela slaps your bottom.  It is almost an affectionate gesture, but it makes you howl.  Your bottom is still so very tender from the martinet.  Señor Manuela grins at you.  He retrieves a small jar of grease from the pocket of his tunic and carefully greases the smallest plug.  You strain to watch his every move.  The plug no longer looks so small.  It is larger than the nozzle, and you remember how that felt.  You swallow nervously.

Then your master is behind you.  You cannot see the plug, but you do not need to.  You can feel it pushing between your cheeks and then touching your most private place.  Then it is pushed home, slowly but relentlessly.  The stretching is agonizing.  Your knees flex, but you can do nothing to escape.  All you are doing is fucking yourself backwards against the invading rubber.  You feel a sudden, unbelievably sharp pain as your ring gives way, and then your body seems almost to suck the plug inside you.  You gasp, astonished by the sudden sense of fullness, and a desperate need to pee.

"Please, Master.  I need to pee.  Please Master…"

Your master laughs and slaps your bottom again.  This time the pain does not matter so much.  You are too occupied with the strange, overwhelming sensations of being plugged to care about anything else.

"No you don't, boy.  It's the plug.  Don't worry.  You'll get used to it, eventually.  And then I'll give you a bigger one." He smiles at you in the mirror, enjoying his own cruelty.  You bend and flex your legs as much as the stocks allow.  The sensation of needing to pee is maddening – but your master is right.  It isn't quite the need to pee.  It is something else, and both good and terrible at the same time.  A string of pre-cum dribbles from the opening at the end of your cock cage.

"Look at yourself, slut," says your master.  "You're a born whore.  If ever a boy needed enslaving, it's you."

The words combine with the wonderful-awful sensations to drive you to a new peak of lust.  Your face is flushed, your forehead beaded with sweat.  Your heart is beating very fast.  You breath in short, frantic gasps, like a puppy panting after play.  Another long sticky string emerges from your cock cage.

"I guess you weren't lying about not jerking off for three days," says your master, dryly.  "Guess we'd better get you milked before you cum and spoil the fun…" You have no idea what he means.  Your forays onto the dark nets have not gone quite so far.  But it sounds good.  He has to mean he's going to jerk you off, doesn't he?

Your master reaches behind you and slowly pulls the butt plug from your bottom.  It hurts more going out than it did going in, and you break into fresh tears.  The sensation of need and pressure inside the tiny cock cage is greater than ever – especially when you see your master's hands reaching underneath to free your imprisoned genitals.

The feeling as your imprisoned cock is released is wonderful.  You stare at it in the mirror.  You are not circumcised, but in your excitement the cockhead pushes through your tight foreskin and pulses at you.  You giggle.  It has struck you suddenly how much like a lipstick your little cocklet is: a small, straight tube with a hot pink tip.

"Something funny, slave?"

"No Master.  I'm sorry, Master."

Your master snorts.  "Let's see how funny you find this," he says ominously.  You wait for him to reach for your throbbing penis, but he ignores it completely and goes to stand behind you.  You brace for another painful spanking…  and squeal in delight as he inserts a finger in your bottom hole.  You much prefer his warm, flexible finger to the unfeeling rubber of the plug.  And you particularly like the way he finds a special place inside you and begins to rub.  If this is slavery, why don't more boys want to be slaves?

Soon you are gasping with the need to cum.  The feelings radiating from inside your bottom are indescribable.  You need to cum and pee at the same time.  You are in a frenzy.  It like someone is rubbing your penis from the inside, and yet you cannot find that moment of glorious release.  From time to time the finger withdraws and then returns, fucking you.  Your ring is hot and incredibly sensitive.  You scream with need, and still your master does not touch your aching penis.  The intensity of orgasm perpetually near and perpetually denied becomes an agony all of its own.  You would give anything – anything – to be allowed to cum.

"Please, Master.  Please, Master.  Please.  Touch my dick.  Please.  Just touch it…."

You are babbling.  You can't help it.  Your need is driving you insane.  The more Señor Manuela touches that spot inside you, the more you frenzied you become.  It is ticklish and sexy and achy all at the same time.  You feel your small, hairless balls churning with the need to cum.  And still your master squeezes and prods and tickles inside you.

Your cocklet is dripping now.  Clear fluid is dribbling down, sometimes creating a long, thin string all the way to the plastiwood below before snapping and retreating back to your dick, ready to drip again.

You thrash your head about in the imprisoning stocks.  You strive to pull a hand free.  Either one will do.  Just so you can grab your dick and give it one quick jerk.  That's all it would take.  Just one.  You moan in ecstatic agony, desperate for relief.  And your master finger-fucks you, hard and fast, then returns to tormenting your aching special spot.

"Please, Master…  Please…  Let me cum…"

And then it happens.  Something wrenches inside you.  You feel it deep in your groin and down into your balls.  It is neither painful nor pleasurable, but something else entirely – a specialized kind of torment you have never imagined.  It is the essence of frustration, condensed and injected into you by way of your over-sensitive butt.  And thick, grey-white goo oozes from the end of your dickie and lands on the slick spot on the plastiwood.  You have cum without cuming, spilled your seed without ejaculating, climaxed in everything except the climax.  And the finger is still inside you.  And you are still on a plateau of need.  There has been no release.  You are as desperately horny as ever.

"Wha…  What happened…  Master?"

"What do you think happened, slave?  You're being milked.  The milk just came out.  Or some of it.  I expect there's more yet."

"But…  But I didn't…"

"Cum?  No.  Where would be the fun in that.  If you cum, you won't want to play any more.  And you want to keep on playing, don't you?"

"No, Master.  Please…."

"Your mouth says no, but your baby dick says yes.  Now be quiet, brat.  I'm busy."

And he is, too.  Busy tormenting your special place – the one you never even knew you had.  It is driving you crazy.  You can't remain silent.

"Please, Master…  Please let me cum!"

Your master takes his finger from your bottom with an audible pop, like the top off a bottle of soda.  You fear he is going to beat you, but pray that he will reach for your penis instead.  He does neither.

"You need to learn to do what you're told, slut," he says, and opens another drawer.  At least he did not go to the cupboard with the whips and canes.  You watch him, but most of your focus is on the sensations in your body and your desperate need to cum.  You hump the air, desperately missing his finger and at the same time praying that he does not put it back.  If only he would touch your penis! Then you would have the biggest cum ever…  and that would be it.  That stupid red line would go down and you could finally stop playing this horrible/wonderful game.

"Okay, slave," says your master, returning to your shoulder.  "Open wide."

You look at his hands and see a red, shiny ball with straps attached.  No – not a ball.  One half is a ball.  The other is shaped like the end of a grown man's penis.  It is a gag, and you have no doubt which end is going in your mouth.

"Please, Master.  No…."

The thought of being gagged horrifies you.  Gagged, you will no longer be a player in this strange game.  You will merely be a play thing.

The gag goes away.  For a moment, you almost hope that your master has taken pity on you.  Then you hear the swish of the martinet and fire returns to your bottom.  Six times he whips you.  When he returns with the gag, your mouth is wide open from screaming.  Then it is silent.  The rubber penis fills your mouth.  You tears, already flowing from the soreness behind, pour helplessly down your face.  And your cocklet remains as stiff as it has ever been.

"That's better," says your master.  "You know the best thing about milking a slut like you?"

He waits for an answer.  Gagged, you can only shake your head.  He smiles at your ignorance.

"The best thing is that once you've been properly milked, you can't cum.  Even if I fuck you.  Even if you're a bottom boy, which I very much think you are, or will be.  It doesn't matter how horny you are – and you'll be just as horny when I finish as you were when I started, hornier even.  You'll be desperate to cum.  You'd give your soul to cum.  And you can't.  And you know what that means?  It means that little red line isn't going to go down.  You're going to fall asleep horny.  You're going to wake up horny.  Isn't that great?  Our little game never needs to end."

You wail into your gag, but only grunts emerge.  You are appalled and terrified, and completely aroused.  You hope and believe that this is all part of the game, but you are not sure if he means it.  And the possibility that he does is what makes it so very scary, and so very, very exciting.

"I know what you're thinking," says Señor Manuela.  "You're thinking that the game will end anyway, when your grandfather comes back.  Perhaps.  But then, perhaps not.  I will show him my recording of your consent to the game, and he will look at that tab and see how much you are enjoying the game.  And perhaps he will let you keep on playing out of love for you.  Or perhaps he will make you keep playing, because no grandson of his should enjoy being a slave whore.  Perhaps he will ask me to train you, and then sell you to the highest bidder.  Would you like that?"

You shake your head and glare at him with free-boy defiance.  He tut-tuts and pats you on the head.  "I should beat you for that look, little one.  Perhaps I shall, later.  For my amusement and your education.  You think, perhaps, that your grandfather would never sell you?  Or perhaps that he cannot?  Ah yes – I see.  You think your mother can save you.  Silly boy.  Your grandfather is the head of your household.  Your mother has no say in the matter."

He sees the fear in your eyes, and laughs.  You are not sure if he is merely trying to frighten you, or if it is the truth.  He leans down and kisses your forehead.

"Don't worry boy.  Not every Master insists on strict chastity.  Your master might let you cum every now and again, if you please him enough.  Of course, there are some men who see a pretty boy like you, all smooth and sweet and hairless, and you know what they really want to do to him?"

You shake your head, mesmerized.  You know from his twisted smile that it is nothing good.  He reaches down underneath and grips your smooth balls between thumb and forefinger.

"They want to cut their balls off.  Would you like that?  Running around with a floppy little pee tube, like when you were a little boy?  Not interested in sex, but getting lots of it anyway?  Always singing soprano and never growing any nasty big boy hair?"

You whimper and chew at your gag.  Your master laughs and tousles your hair.  "You think that's bad?  Maybe it is.  But if you were my slave, you'd never cum again.  You'd get to keep your balls, but you'd spend every waking minute desperate for a climax you'd never be allowed to have.  Maybe you'd be better off without balls.  What do you think?"

You shake your head desperately.  Your master gives your balls a painful tug.  "It doesn't matter.  It's not up to you.  If your master decides he wants to geld you, a gelding you will be.  But right now you still have a nice plump little pair of baby balls, and there's a lot of milk to come out yet…"

His finger insinuates its way back into your bottom.  You grunt and moan and try to fuck yourself on his finger, seeking relief any way you can get it.  But relief does not come, just peak after peak of frustrated lust and dribble after oozing dribble of boy cum dripping uselessly from your aching penis.

There comes a time when your penis is no longer hard, when the calf is drained and has no more milk to give.  The pressure of your master's finger in your bottom is a torture and a torment.  Your penis aches with need, and yet has shriveled into a small, soft noodle.  Now, finally, your master reaches forward and touches your penis.  The touch is an agony of frustrated need.  Nothing happens.  Your little noodle remains soft and harmless.  You are raging with frustration, hornier than you have ever been.  And your penis is the innocent pee-tube of a prepubescent child.  Being jerked gives you no pleasure.  On the contrary, it is a discomfort so intense that it torments you.  Your penis remains a tiny snail.  Inside, your groin aches with unfulfillable lust.  Fresh tears pour down your face.  You almost welcome the cock cage when your master clicks it back in place.

"Very good," says your master.  He disappears behind you.  You do not even have the energy to raise your head and watch what he is doing.  If it were not for the stocks, you would have collapsed long ago.  Your entire body is covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

He pats your bottom possessively.  Then he spreads your sore cheeks with a thumb and a finger.  You tense, knowing and fearing what is coming, dreading it.  But wanting it, too.

The butt plug is reinserted.  It has an easier time than before, but still it brings tears to your eyes.  The stretching is sharp and painful.  The sense of fullness is at once satisfying and unpleasant.  The rubbing on your tormented special place is unbearable.  You whimper and hump the air.  And still your penis is small and soft and does not even strain against its cage.  Your master slaps you on the bottom, reawakening your stripes.

"Very good," says your master.  "That's what I like to see.  A horny slave boy is a happy slave boy…  or perhaps I should say a horny slave boy makes a Master happy.  Did you enjoy being milked, boy?"

You shake your head.  Your master comes around to stand in front of you, squats and looks you in the eye.  "That's a shame, because I see a lot of milking in your future"

You groan.  The sound is music to Señor Manuela's ears.  He reaches down, grasps a handful of hair and lifts your head up so that you are looking at yourself in the mirror.

"You wanted to know what a slave slut looks like, boy.  Take a look.  He looks just like that, except…  What's missing, boy.  Can you remember?"  He traces a small circle on the crown of your bottom.

You shake your head.  He can't mean what you think he means.  Branding is no game.  A brand would mark you permanently as a slave.  He can't do that to a free boy.  If he brands you, then he'll be in real trouble…  unless he's serious about your grandfather selling you…

"Oh, I think you do."  He presses a spot on the crest of your right buttock.  "Something's missing, just here, isn't it?  We'd best do something about that, hadn't we?  Can't be a slave brat unless you're branded…"

You scream into the gag, terrified.  Señor Manuela disappears, whistling happily.  He is gone for some time – long enough for your body to ache from being restrained so long.  But long enough, too, for the fear to subside.  He doesn't mean it.  He was just playing with your head.

When he returns, he is carrying a lit brazier.  He places it in front of you where you can see the heat haze rising above it.  And the branding iron heating within it. You almost piss yourself with fear.  You struggle uselessly against your bonds and shout into your gag.  Señor Manuela pays you no attention.  He lifts the brand from the brazier.  The end is red hot.  He sniffs and places it back inside.

"It'll need a while yet," he says.  "Best to have it white hot, or the mark doesn't come out right.  And I know you don't want me to have to do it more than once."

You scream into the gag and writhe in panic.  You do not want him to do it even once.  He can't.  This is meant to be a game.  He won't.  He's just trying to frighten you.

He is succeeding.

"So, let's get you blindfolded.  I find it's easier if a brat can't see when you're going to apply the brand.  They don't wiggle about so much.  And you want a nice clear brand, don't you, slut?  Something to let the world know what you really are…"

He ignores your struggles and muffled screams and carefully blindfolds your eyes.  You can see nothing.  In the sudden darkness, you are acutely aware of the sound of him moving around, and the burning smell from the brazier.  The blindfold is soon soaked with your tears.

You hear a clanking sound from the brazier.  The brand is being lifted.  You struggle against your bonds one last time, but can do nothing to escape your fate.  Your bottom is exposed to whatever Señor Manuela wants to do.  You pray that he will look at the tab and see that you are no longer excited…  but you know in your heart that even how, terrified, horrified, panicked beyond endurance…  even now you are raging with lust.  Your own needs have condemned you to this.

"Perfect," says Señor Manuela.  You beg and plead into your gag, but no words emerge.  Even if you had, somehow, managed to make yourself understood, it would have made no difference.  Señor Manuela is intent on his task.  You hear him stepping behind you.  An arm comes down underneath your belly, supporting you, holding your bottom at just the right angle.  You scream, but only a groan emerges.

"Ready, boy?"

And then it happens.  Something unbearably hot is pressed against the center of your right cheek.  He has done it.  You are being branded.

You piss yourself.  The heat is overwhelming – and so fierce that it almost feels like intense cold.

And Señor Manuela is laughing like it is the funniest thing in the world He releases you to squirm and sob, a steady flow of urine still trickling down your smooth legs.  He wrenches the blindfold from your eyes and shows you the ice cube in his hand.

It takes several seconds for you to understand the trick he has played on you.  The brand remains in its brazier, untouched and unused.  He has not branded you.  He pressed the ice cube into your spanked flesh, and in your panic you confused its bitter cold for the burning heat of the brand.  You want to scream and swear and shout at him.  Gagged as you are, you can only cry angry tears of relief.

"What's going on in here?"

It is your grandfather, returned from his trip to find you bent and bound, piss trickling down your leg.  You are immensely relieved and utterly ashamed.  And turned on by your shame.

Señor Manuela does not seem abashed.  He smiles at your grandfather.  "We're playing the slave boy game," he says.

Your grandfather snorts.  "His cousins were right, then?"

"Totally.  He's a born slut.  You should let me train him up.  We'd make a fortune."

"Enough to make it worth listening to his mother's caterwauling?"

"Enough to make her stop.  She can always breed another one, but this one's special.  Some rich man will pay a lot of money to have him as a fuck toy.  I swear, if I hadn't milked him, he wouldn't have pissed himself when he thought I was branding him.  He would have cum."

You hang your head in shame, knowing it is true.  Your grandfather laughs.  "I don't know.  It's easy for you to say I should sell him – you're not the one who'll have to put up with her whining."

He walks around the stocks examining you.  "What are those marks on his ass?"

Señor Manuela takes the martinet from his belt and hands it to your grandfather.  "Just my favorite teaching aid," he says.

"This little thing?  That's no use.  I'd use a cane on his lily white ass.  That or a razor strop."

Señor Manuela shrugs.  "Not yet.  It's too soon.  You have to flog a lot at the beginning.  There are limits to how much you can cane a boy without doing permanent damage.  And it'd be a shame to scar that pretty little ass – or beat it so badly it gets numb.  But there's practically no limit to how many martinet strokes you can safely give a boy.  I can give him hundreds of licks without worrying.  And if I run out of space on his ass, I can just start whipping his legs – even his balls, if I want to.  Can't do that with a cane.  And it hurts more than you'd think.  It stings like fuck, doesn't it slut?"

You don't respond.  You are struggling to breath.  The gag is choking you: that, or sheer panic.

Señor Manuela cuffs your head.  "It looks like the brat needs another lesson in obedience.  Why don't you give it to him.  Go on – try it out.  I promise you he'll feel it…"

Your grandfather shrugs, pulls back his arm and thrashes an appallingly hard stroke across your striped bottom.  And then another.  And another.  You howl into the gag as he methodically thrashes you, the blows as regular as a metronome.  The heat in your bottom is unbearable, and yet you have no choice but to bear it.  Hot, salty tears pour down your face.  Your legs flex in a futile effort to escape, but all you do is wiggle your bottom provocatively, encouraging your grandfather to hit still harder.  Eventually he stops.  Maybe his arm has grown tired.  He stares at you contemplatively.

"If I did agree to sell him, what kind of figure are we talking?"

"At least 100K."

"As much as that?"  Your grandfather whistles.  You pray that he is not serious, that he is playing the game along with Señor Manuela.  Yes, that must be it.  They are just playing with you.  That, or your grandfather is trying to cure you of your slave boy fantasies.  They're not really thinking of enslaving you.  They just want to scare you.

But what if it isn't a cure or a game.  What if it is just what it seems.  What if your grandfather really is thinking about selling you into slavery?  What if you really will be some rich man's fuck toy?  You have never been more frightened.  And the red line crawls ever higher.

"Look at that," says Señor Manuela, pointing at the tab.  "The slut wants to be sold!"

You shake your head violently.  You do not want to be a slave…  you are just immensely turned on by the possibility.

Your grandfather sniffs noncommittally.  "Okay…  well, I'll leave him with you for the time being, anyway.  He obviously wants to carry on playing the game…."

You shriek into your gag, desperate for him take you away with him.  You do not want to be left the tender mercies of Señor Manuela.  Your grandfather is unmoved.  He lands a mighty spank on the crown of your bottom, making you howl.

"And you, boy," he says.  "You'd best work hard on being a good slut.  If I do decide to sell you, I'll be wanting a good price.  Besides – the richer your master, the better off you'll be.  You don't want to be sold to some cheap brothel and serve a dozen different men a night – and probably lose your balls into the bargain."

He turns back to Señor Manuela and they shake hands.  He nods at the tab and the elevated red line.  "Call me if he decides he wants to stop playing, and I'll come and pick him up."

"Okay.  And you call me if you decide to sell him."

"Count on it.  Well, slut.  Have fun…"

Your grandfather departs, laughing.  Señor Manuela comes around to stand in front of you.  You sob helplessly .  You don't want to stay here.  You feel betrayed – by Señor Manuela, by your grandfather, and most of all by your own traitor body and its strange desires.  Your misery is so great that the red line actually starts to fall.

"Okay, boy.  Enough of your cock teasing.  It's time you really learned how to serve your master."

Señor Manuela loosens the gag and removes it.  You cough and draw in great, gasping breaths – until the simulacrum of a man's penis is replaced by the real thing.  It fills your mouth – warm, fat and alive.  A man is using your mouth for his pleasure.  You shudder with the shame of it.  Your face burns with humiliation.  Free boys do not suck cock.  Only slaves.  You are terrified that this is your future – that you will spend the rest of your life as a cock-sucking slave.

And the red line starts to climb once again…

Read the Sequel

© Copyright Anonymous  November 12, 2013

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