I have received permission to re-post The Slave Boy Game by the author that was originally posted on malespank.net.  Regrettably he has, for personal reasons unknown to me, withdrawn from MMSA in early 2018.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.

Click to have ​Metric units​ (​American/English units​) used in the story.

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The Slave Boy Game (1A/2)

By

Anonymous

It is still early morning, but the heat is already oppressive as your grandfather's buggy makes its slow way up the hill.  You do not complain.  You are still unsure why your grandfather has chosen to take you along with him this morning, and do not want to do anything to make him change his mind.  You have been in New SoCal for a whole month now, and this is the first time he has shown the least interest you.

You have not enjoyed your time here.  Your cousins despise you as a soft Anglo runt, undersized and underdeveloped.  Your mother is busy with family and friends she has not seen for so many years.  Your grandfather has no time for you, until today.  It was almost enough to make you wish you'd taken your father's side in the divorce and stayed with him in the Greater Eastern Urbation

But there are no slaves out East, and you were desperate, achingly desperate, to see slaves.  And see them you did – but not the ones you wanted.  Just hulking field slaves.  The only house slaves you have seen are the nannies who look after the younger children (including, humiliatingly, you, even though you know that cousins younger than you have escaped their clutches: but they are tall, strong and hairy, not smooth, small and puny like you).  You have seen no sign of the sex slaves that filled your fantasies back East, fantasies fuelled by a thousand surreptitious searches on the dark nets.

Grandfather flicks his whip, making the horses pick up their pace.  You fantasize, briefly, that you are a pony-boy, pulling a rich man's buggy.  The fantasy sends a horror-thrill through you, and your ever-eager baby-dick grows hard.  It is almost constantly hard these days.  There is no privacy in the nursery, nowhere for you to masturbate.  It has been three days since you last jerked off – far the longest time without relief since you first discovered the joys of masturbation.  There is no privacy at the hacienda, and you are too shy to do it where you might be seen.  Besides, the nannies might spank you, and you'd never live it down.  The bigger boys – some of them only eleven, three years younger than you – are beaten by grandfather with a belt he keeps for the purpose.  The little ones have their bare bottoms smacked by the nannies.  You are in no doubt to which group you belong, and what will happen to you if you are naughty.  You are certain your cousins all know it, too, but do not want to give them the satisfaction of proof.

But maybe not.  Your grandfather roused you from your bed before dawn.  He has chosen to bring you along with him on business.  Maybe you were wrong.  Maybe he would take his belt to you if you deserved it.  The thought is terrifying and pleasing in equal measure, and strangely thrilling.  Will he make you take down your loose white trousers?  Will he take them down for you?  Your dickie strains yet harder, and it is a good thing your trousers are so loose.© YLeeCoyote

"So, boy, Eduardo tells me you want to see a slave boy.  Is that right?"

You blush.  How Eduardo laughed when you asked one too many questions.  You knew you had pushed it too far, that you had revealed too much of your interest in boy sex-slaves.  But you just couldn't help yourself.  Your dick had to know.

"Suppose…  We don't have them back East."

"Our first stop is Señor Manuela.  He trains up slave boys as fuck toys for brothels and rich men whose taste runs that way.  Maybe you'll get to see one.  You like that?"

You almost cum on the spot.  Finally, you are going to get see, maybe even touch, a real live slave boy – the kind you fantasize about.  The ones men use for sex.

You breathe a 'yes'.  Your grandfather lapses back into silence.  You sit there, concentrating on not cumming.  A procession of naked, collared slave boys troop past your inner eye.

You are thrilled when you meet the trainer of slaves.  He is a tall man, and an imposing one.  His eyes twinkle as he smiles at you.  He is the kind of Master you have dreamed of in your most secret fantasies, a handsome thirty-something, grey at the temples and effortlessly dominant.  You feel so small and weak as you greet him, your puny white fingers lost in his big, dark hand.

But you are disappointed.  Señor Manuela has no slave boy in training.  He hopes to have a new one soon, but currently there isn't anyone for you to see.  You try to conceal your disappointment as your small cocklet wilts.

The three of you walk through the lobby.  The villa is hollow.  At its center is a garden, and in the garden – a swimming pool.  It looks so welcoming after the heat and dust of the buggy ride.  A pity you came unprepared.

"Would you like a swim?"

"I can't.  I didn't bring my suit…"

Señor Manuela and your grandfather laugh.  The trainer of slave boys explains.  "Boys don't wear suits to swim!  Nor do men, if there are no women present.  Come on – we'll all swim."

Your reluctance disappears – and then returns, as you see the contrast between the strongly muscled hairy men, so dark and handsome, and your puny self.  You are small and white and hairless.  Your baby dick is tiny, a little noodle beside the men's large organs, which emerge like fat sausages from thick bushes.  Your hands move, instinctively, to hide your inadequacy.

"Don't cover up!" Señor Manuela is laughing at you.  "I hate it when a pretty little thing like you won't let me see your charms."

You blush.  Is it wrong for a man to think you are 'pretty'?  If so, why does it feel so good.  You lower your hands.

"You're so lucky," says Señor Manuela, reaching out to put a friendly arm around your shoulders.  "Most boys your age have hair."

Your blush deepens.  "I wish I did!"

"No…  Boys are much prettier without hair.  I never train a boy who's got his hair.  Come on – race you!"

He dives in effortlessly, a perfect dive.  You jump after him.  Grandfather is already in the water.  He watches tolerantly as you try, and fail, to keep up with Señor Manuela.  He follows with a smooth, unhurried stroke.  Time passes.  Your grandfather pulls himself out of the water.  "Would you like to stay?  I could pick you up on the way back."

You are breathless.  You glance at Señor Manuela who is not even breathing rapidly.  Part of you wishes to go with your grandfather, to cement the new relationship you hope for.  But most of you wants to stay in this wonderful pool, with the even more wonderful Señor Manuela.  Perhaps you will be able to get him to tell you about slave boy training…

"Yes please, Grandfather…."

And so you stay, alone, in the house of the slave boy trainer.

You are resting on your forearms against the side of the pool, wondering how to begin.  Señor Manuela swims over lazily and stands beside you.  He can stand here.  You cannot.  He puts an arm around your shoulders.  You shiver, even though his arm is very warming.

"You were disappointed, weren't you?"

You blush.  Are you so transparent?  You shrug, affecting indifference.

"We don't have slaves out East.  I wanted to see what one looked like."

"Your grandfather has slaves."

"Yes, but…"

"Not the kind you want to see." Señor Manuela laughs.  He hugs you closer still.  "I could show you my kit, if you like.  I expect you'd like to see a boy's collar?"

You nod, trying to conceal your eagerness.  He laughs again, tousles your hair and pull himself effortlessly out of the pool.  Then he stoops and offers you his hand.  You take it, and he lifts you out of the water as if you weigh nothing at all.  It makes you feel very young.  It reminds you of when you were little and your father used to throw you up in the air and catch you.

Señor Manuela leads you by the hand towards the back of the atrium.  There is a door there, concealed behind a spiky bush.  He opens it, and leads you into the white room beyond.  It is a stark room, pregnant with possibilities.  There are only two pieces of furniture: a small table, and a pair of plastiwood stocks.  It has a standard board at waist height, with a three holes – one for a boy's neck and one each for his wrists.  There is also a separate horizontal board at ankle height, with just two holes.  It is definitely designed for a boy.  These stocks would never fit a grown man.  This is a device where a slave boy can be bent for punishment, or other things.

The far wall is a single enormous mirror.  You see yourself, so small and white and hairless beside Señor Manuela.  Your eyes are drawn, not for the first time, towards his magnificent, manly penis.  He smiles at you in the mirror, and you blush.

Señor Manuela goes over to the nearest wall.  It is covered in round handles.  There are cupboards and drawers everywhere.  You shiver with anticipation, wondering what lies concealed.

"Here you go, little one," says the trainer.  He has turned back to you, a collar in hand.  It is a simple grey band made of one of the new materials, lightweight but immensely strong.  He presses a spot no different from the others, and it opens in his hand.

"I can't show you a slave boy – but you can see what one looks like, if you want.  Just put this on and take a look in the mirror."

There is no chance that you will say no.  You lick your lips and lift your head, offering your neck to him.  He smiles at you and places the collar around your neck.  You hear it click shut.  Then he steps away and you see yourself in the mirror – a little slave boy, naked except for your collar.  You can feel it's padded interior pressing against your neck.  You see the slave boy reach up and touch his collar.  It is hard and unyielding.

"Do you like what you see?" says Señor Manuela.

"How do I take it off?"

"You don't, silly boy.  You're a slave.  And a very pretty one, too."

He pats you on the bottom.  Your small penis, already stiffening, twitches at the intimate touch.

"Here, look at this." Señor Manuela retrieves a tab from the same drawer as the collar.  He unrolls it on the table.  The display is full color.  You see a graph with many colored lines, each moving from left to right.  In the top, something pulses in time with your heart beat.

"You see this," says the trainer, pointing at a red line.  Instantly, it enlarges to dominate the screen.  "This tell me the same thing this does…"  He reaches out and tweaks your stiffening dickie.  You flinch, shocked and embarrassed, but your penis grows instantly to its full ​three skinny inches​ (​7.6 skinny cm​).  You want to protest, but you cannot even swallow, never mind talk.  "It tells me you enjoy wearing that slave collar.  Would you like to play the slave boy game?"

Your cheeks are burning.  You feel like you have no secrets from this man.  You are entirely in his power.  The feeling horrifies and excites you in equal measure.

"The slave boy game?" you whisper.

He smiles.  "You'll be a little slave boy, and I'll be your trainer.  It'll be exactly like the real thing – except that you can stop any time you want."

"Cool…" The word emerges almost as a breath.  He smiles at you.  It is a scary smile.  A predator's smile.  You are suddenly nervous.  "I can really stop any time?"

"Any time," he says.  "Only…."

The word hangs there.  Your small penis twitches.  The hint that you might not have a choice, that you might be compelled, is hugely exciting, and very frightening.  You look up at him, hanging onto his every word, and even his silence.  His predator's smile widens.

"Only you would really have to want to stop.  Slaves beg and plead all the time.  You wouldn't be playing properly if you didn't.  So I need to know that you really mean it…"

"A safe word?" you say, and then blush deeply as he raises an eyebrow and you realize how much you have given away.  You are not such an innocent little boy, after all.

"Better than that," he says, and points at the red line.  The graph has rescaled itself twice.  The red line is very high above the baseline.  "Once we start, the game carries on until the red line goes down to normal.  You can beg and plead all you want, but I will only stop when you really, truly want me to stop, and not a moment before.  Nothing you say matters.  Only the red line."

"I don't know…:"

"And yet that little red line keeps going higher…  Here – try these cuffs." He retrieves two wrist cuffs from the drawer.  They are the same grey as the collar, and fit just as snugly.  They might almost have been made for you.  Your stiffy grows.

"You'll stop when I want you to?"

"I promise – the moment that little red line reads normal."

You nod, consenting to your 'enslavement'.

He shakes his head.  "No – you need to say it.  Say 'Yes, Master', and that'll be it.  You'll be my little slave boy in training – until the game's over.  So – would you like to play the slave boy game?"

You have never been so turned on.  Your little dick feels like it's going to burst, it is so stiff.  Inside, a small, scared voice is screaming at you to say 'no'.  You do not listen to it.

"Yes, Master."

And Señor Manuela smiles, leans forward and kisses you full on the lips.  A proper kiss, not a mom kiss.  It is utterly shocking.  You have never been kissed that way, not even by a girl.  You are hugely embarrassed – and swooning with lust.

He steps away and returns to the open drawer.  This time, he returns with a pair of ankle cuffs.  They, too, fit you perfectly.  You look down, and like what you see.  So does your small penis, which is as hard as it has ever been.

Señor Manuela snorts and flicks your erection with a finger.  "And now, slut, we'd better do something about that pathetic little erection of yours.  A slave boy who can't control his little dickie gets it controlled for him."

He reaches back into the drawer and retrieves what looks like a wire model of a finger, with a larger metal ring at the base.  You know it is not destined for your hand.  You swallow hard.  It is a cock cage, and it is much smaller than your erection.

"It's too small," you whimper.

"Did I give you permission to speak, slut?"

You shake your head.  Señor Manuela is not smiling now.  He seems very stern, angry even.  You shrink before him.

"When I ask a question, slave, you answer 'Yes, Master, or 'No, Master'.  Did I give you permission to speak?"

"No, Master…"

"Come here, slut."

He is only a step away, but suddenly it seems an enormous gulf.  You take the step nervously, and find yourself tucked under Señor Manuela's arm.  He bends you over.  You are aware of your heart beating so quickly you feel like it will burst.  Your bottom feels incredibly vulnerable.  Will he really spank you?  Or is this all just a ga…

SMACK!  "Owww!"

The answer burns itself across your bottom.  There was nothing playful about that spank.  Tears spring to your eyes.  It is a very long time since you have been spanked, and your father did not hit half as hard as this trainer of slave boys.

"That was for speaking without permission.  The next time you do so, I will not be so kind.  These are for failing to speak when spoken to…"

'These'?  You barely have time to process the fact that you will receive more than one spank before another smack lands.  The sting is appalling.  You yelp and reach back, instinctively shielding your bottom with your hand.  To your astonishment, Señor Manuela stops and straightens up.  He releases you from under his arm.  You do not know whether to be relieved, or disappointed that the game is over already.  Then you see the look on your trainer's face.  It is not over.

"Your body belongs to me, slut.  You do not cover it.  Ever.  And most especially not when being punished.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master.  I'm sorry, Master."

"Don't worry, little one.  I know it's hard at first.  So I'm going to help you."

He lifts your right hand until your cuff touches the side of the collar.  Then he takes his hand away.  Your hand remains.  Cuff and collar are one.  A moment later, and your left wrist is also shackled.  Your elbows point forwards.  You whimper softly, knowing that the next time he bends you over, you will be helpless to protect yourself.

But the trainer does not bend you over.  Instead he walks over to the wall and opens a tall cupboard.  What you see inside terrifies you.  There are canes and horse whips, paddles and straps – a child's nightmare of punishment implements.  You glance over at the tab, hoping against hope that the red line is plummeting to safety, but you know in your heart that the hope is false.  Your stiffy is hard and twitching.

"This one, I think." Señor Manuela reaches inside and retrieves a small whip with many strands.  You stare at it, baffled.  He sees the look on your face and smiles, running the strands through his fingers lovingly.  "It's a martinet.  The French used to use them, back when there still was a France.  They spanked children and dogs with them.  Could there be a more perfect tool for training a boy animal such as yourself?"

He looks at you expectantly, and you realize you are expected to answer.  And that only one answer is acceptable.

"No, Master."

He smiles, pleased at your submission.  "And how many strokes should I give you for your disobedience, little slave?"

"Wh…  Wh…  One, Master.  Please…."

Señor Manuela laughs and tousles your hair.  "One, pretty slave boy?  I think not.  I was thinking four – but now I shall give you eight, to teach you to think before you speak next time."

This time, there is no request for your submission.  You are not required to step forward.  Instead, he reaches out and tucks you under his arm.  Once again you are bent forward and your bottom is presented for punishment – but this time, you know beyond doubt that this will be a real hiding.  You are a slave, and your master is about to teach you a painful lesson.

There is no preamble, no parental-style lecture.  You are a slave being whipped, nothing more.  Words are superfluous.  Pain is not.  Your trainer's hand hurt – but the martinet is far worse.  Each stroke is a dozen tiny lashes, and each of those lashes is a bee sting.  You howl and squeal and plead, but your master is relentless.  Your legs kick, jump and run in place, but offer no impediment to the skilled beater of boys.  Your bottom is thrashed relentlessly until all eight strokes have landed and you are a wailing mass of snot and tears.

Your master releases you.  You dance on the spot, wishing more than anything that your hands were free and you could do something about the awful burning soreness behind.  But you can do nothing except dance and sob, to the obvious amusement of your master.  And more than amusement.  His cock is no longer quiescent but has risen to full tumescence.  It is ​eight inches​ (​twenty cm​) long, and fat.  You find it almost as terrifying as the martinet that still swings in your master's hand.

"Please," you beg him.  "Please.  I don't want to play any more."

But sore as you are, frightened as you are, your penis makes a liar of you.  It does not care about your sobs.  It does not care what you want.  It has a mind of its own.  You do not even need to look at the tab to know that the red line is nowhere near the base line.

"Say 'Master' when you speak to me," says Señor Manuela, and you wail in panicked horror as you are bent over once again.  This time the martinet is wasp stings, not bees.

"Please, Master! I'm sorry, Master! Please, Master!"

Señor Manuela releases you to dance again for his amusement as you try pathetically to flee from a burning pain that is part of you and goes where you go.  "That's better, slut.  Now let's do something about that pathetic little stiffy…"

He reaches out and takes a handful of your hair, using it to drag you across the room.  You follow, scalp burning.  He opens a cupboard, that turns out not to be a cupboard at all, but a door into another room.  It is white and empty save for a complicated many-headed shower above a small, round hole in the floor.  A drain, presumably.

There are small chains hanging from the shower.  Your master uses one to attach your collar.  Now you can only stand and suffer whatever he plans for you.

He turns to leave.  You gasp in surprise and strange, betraying disappointment.  How long will he leave you here?  There is nothing you can do but wait, your neck chained to the wall, your wrists bound to the collar around your neck.  That is the worst part.  Your throbbing penis longs for your touch, and you are helpless to do provide comfort.

Señor Manuela returns.  He has slipped on a tunic – mercifully hiding that threatening erection.  The martinet is hooked, ominously, onto his belt.  You watch, sore and nervous, as he lifts one of the showerheads from the wall.

"A little cold water, I think," he says.  And then it begins.  Cold water, directed at your erection.  It would be welcome behind, where you are so hot.  Here, it is horrible – a biting cold that seems to burn as badly as your stripes.  You struggle and squirm to avoid the freezing water, but your master has a firm grip on your arm and you cannot escape.  Your small stiffy dwindles and becomes a soft little noodle of flesh.  You sob, overcome with emotion and physical discomfort.

"That's better," says your master.  Then he leaves you, chained as you are.  Your frustration at not being able to comfort yourself, front or behind, grows even more intense.

And then your master is back.  He is carrying the chastity device.  You watch in fascination and terror as he slips the cage over your shrunken penis and snaps the ring behind your balls.  A click, and it is done.  Your boyhood is locked away.  You cannot play with it, cannot even get stiff unless your master allows it.  The thought is horrifying – and immediately sets your heart racing and your small penis pushing painfully against its cage.  But no matter how much it pushes, it cannot become erect.

"That's better," says Señor Manuela.  "A slave's body belongs to his Master.  You exist to please him.  And a horny boy is always more eager to please.  And nothing makes a boy hornier than locking his little penis away where he can't get at it."

He reaches down and grips your cock cage, waggling it from side to side.  The sensation is mildly painful, and intensely erotic.  Your cocklet tries, and fails, to stiffen.  You whimper, and he laughs.

"Come along, little one.  Take a look at yourself now…"

He takes a firm hold of your imprisoned genitals and leads you back into the other room.  You face the mirror together, his arm around your shoulders.  You stare at yourself in the mirror: a little slave boy, tear tracks on your cheeks, eyes bright from recent crying, a collar around your neck, wrists bound to your collar…  and a chastity cage trapping your small genitals.

"Now you look like a proper slave boy," says your master.  "A little slut like you should be caged at all times and never allowed to cum.  Have you masturbated today?"

Your face, already pink, flushes deep red.  You don't want to answer such a horribly embarrassing question, but you have learned the consequences of disobedience and your bottom is already sore.

"No, Master."

"No?  You're not lying to me, are you slut?"

"No, Master.  I promise."

"No?  So when did you last masturbate?"

Your face flushes deep purple.  You swallow and it takes you three attempts to answer.  "Three days ago, Master."

"Three days since your last orgasm?  Was it a good one?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good.  Because you never know when you'll get another – maybe never, if I can persuade your grandfather to sell you to me…"

He is smiling at you in the mirror.  You shrink away from him, appalled at the thought.  And your small penis strains still harder at its metal prison.

He brushes a finger gently against your cheek.  "You blush so prettily.  You'd make me a fortune if you were properly trained…  You wanted to know what a slave boy looks like – look in the mirror, slut."

You do so.  A fresh tear is trickling down your face.  You do not want to be a slave.

"Please, Master," you say.  "I don't want to play any more."

"Really?" Your master leads you over to the table, where the tab makes a liar of you.  The red line is not as high as it was at its peak, but it is still far from the base line.  Your master puts a finger under your chin and tilts your head up so that you are looking him in the eye.  "You are a born slut, boy.  You look like a slave because you are a slave.  You always have been.  You just didn't know it.  See – you have the collar and cuffs and cage – and your bottom bears the marks of your master's whip."

He turns you so that your back is to the mirror, then forces your head around so that you can see your bottom.  It is dark pink, and covered with fine red-purple lines.

"Now isn't that a perfect slave boy's bottom – nicely warmed and beautifully fuckable.  But there's something missing, isn't there?  Can you tell me what it is?"

Your heart pounds in your chest.  Fear grips your stomach and squeezes it.  But you must answer.  "A slave brand, Master?"

And your master releases you and laughs so hard he begins to cough.  It is a while before he speaks.  "No, boy.  That comes later.  Here, let me show you…."

He opens a second drawer and retrieves a heavy cloth package.  He unrolls it on the table beside the tab.  The package contains butt plugs.  They are made of hard black rubber.  The smallest is ​three inches​ (​7.6 cm​) long, flaring out to ​an inch​ (​2.5 cm​) around and with a stem of perhaps ​half an inch​ (​1.3 cm​) before the bottom flange.  The largest is ​six inches​ (​fifteen cm​) long, ​two inches​ (​five cm​) wide at its broadest and narrowing to a ​one inch​ (​2.5 cm​) stem.

Your master picks up the largest one.  You realize your knees are trembling with fear, but you can do nothing to stop them.

"Do you know what these are, slut?"

"Yes, Master."

"Well?"

"Butt plugs, Master."

"Yes.  Would you like this one inside you, boy?"

"No, Master, please…"

He smiles, almost mischievously.  "No, perhaps not.  You're a virgin.  This would tear you – and that is your master's privilege.  A boy's largest plug should always be smaller than his Master's penis.  That way the boy will feel discomfort at his Master's size and the Master will have a tight hole to fuck.  All boy lovers like a tight hole.  Might as well fuck a woman, otherwise."

He puts the large one back, and picks up the smallest one.  You breathe a sigh of relief and your pulse rate, carefully marked by the tab, begins to slow down.  The red line goes up.

"Nor do I approve of cruel plugs, with knobs or spikes.  A boy's passage loses sensitivity when scarred.  If I want to punish a boy with his plug, I use chili oil instead of grease.  That has the added benefit of making the boy nice and tight when you fuck him afterwards.  Would you like to try it?"

"No, Master…  Please…."

"You're worried it would hurt, perhaps?"

"Yes, Master."

He shrugs.  "It doesn't.  Not if you wear a condom.  It's best to gag the slut first, though.  It's good to hear a slave boy squeal when you fuck him, but too much screaming can be tiresome."

You shiver.  His point is obvious, theatrical even, but no less telling for that.  Your pain is nothing to him.  Your body is his to use as he wishes, and his pleasure is the only consideration.

"Very well, no chili oil this time.  And no plug, either – not until you've been properly cleaned out."

Your master takes a firm hold of your left ear and leads you back to the wash room.  Your ear feels like it is being torn off.  You squeal and he chuckles, enjoying your distress.  He leads you back to the shower and positions you over the hole in the floor.  Then, to your surprise, he releases your wrists.  Your hands fly behind to rub your sore bottom.  Your master smiles indulgently, enjoying your compliment to his expertize at punishing slave brats.

"Okay, slut.  Bend over with your hands on your knees."

You do so, trembling.  Have you angered him?  Are you about to receive yet more stripes on your already sore bottom?  Señor Manuela locks your collar to the shower by a short chain to ensure you remain in position.

"There's one rule and one rule only, slut.  Keep your hands on your knees.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good.  And now, a small nozzle for a small bum….This one looks about right."

He shows you the nozzle that is about to penetrate you.  It is the size and shape of a man's index finger, but with a bulge towards the base.  Your master taps it.  "This part sits inside your butt and stops any spills," he says cheerfully.

You swallow hard.  Your mother used to give you enemas when you were younger and prone to constipation.  You do not have fond memories of them.

Grownup fingers part your bottom cheeks.  You gasp, bracing yourself for what is to come.  Will the nozzle hurt?  It is much bigger than the one mommy used to…

"Wooah!"

You buck, but otherwise manage to keep in position.  Señor Manuela has pushed a greasy finger up your butt.  The sensation is incredible.  You are a slave boy, bending over while your master forces his finger up your virgin hole.  The sense of submission, of utter helplessness and total intimacy is overwhelming.  It is all you can do not to fall to your knees.

"God, you're tight, boy.  You'll need a good bit of stretching before you're ready for fucking.  Okay, that's that…."

The finger is removed.  In its place comes the hard nozzle.  It is much less welcome, though you take it well enough – right up until the widening ring stretches your virgin hole beyond endurance.  You squeal and shoot upright, hands reaching behind to remove the intruder.

Then you stop and bend forwards again, your hands back on your knees.  You are learning, but not quickly enough for your master.  You hear the martinet rustle as he pulls it from his belt.  You whimper, and then scream as four strokes land – vertically this time, so as not to be impeded by the invader lodged within your bottom.

"Don't worry, boy," says your master, kindly.  "You'll learn.  Eventually."

You hear the squeak of metal turning against metal, and warm fluid starts to flow into your bowels.  The sensation is not unpleasant, at first.  You wait for your master to shut off the flow.  And wait.  Soon you are panting and sweating.  Bent as you are, you can see your belly stretching with the weight of the water.  You are a pregnant little boy, and your baby is kicking.  You flex your knees and shift your weight from one leg to the other, trying desperately to lessen the discomfort.  It makes no difference.  Yet still your hands remain glued to your knees.  Uncomfortable as this is, more stripes on your burning bottom would be far worse.  You sob with the unselfconscious misery of a toddler, all pride forgotten.

Then, finally, your master shuts off the flow.  And waits.  You stand there, stamping and flexing, moaning and whimpering, tears pouring down your face.  And your master watches, amused.  You try to hold out, but you cannot help yourself.  The cramping is terrible.  You have never felt such a need to empty your bowels.  Once again, you beg him for release.  Not, this time, for your freedom.  Just for permission to void your tortured bowels.  And yet, and yet…  your penis aches from pressing so tightly against its metal prison.  Despite yourself, you find the humiliation, the discomfort, the nozzle stretching your ring, intensely erotic.

Continued in Part 1B/2

© Copyright Anonymous  November 12, 2013

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