Jeff smothered his ear against the dark, oak door. He couldn’t hear James muttering. This was a reasonable sign.
“James?”
“Go avay!”
“Please James, let me in. We need to talk.”
“Nein !”
“You’ve been in there for days now.”
“I’ve tolt you to not bozzer me!”
Jeff rested his forehead against the door now, readied himself to beg his butler to please consider his pleas, and grit his teeth when he heard the telltale leaking quack. Oh no. Not again. He heard James count to three in German and take a deep, out-of-measure breath. The deadly squeal of a full chorus of bagpipe drones roared to life. Jeff screwed his eyes; he knew what was about to come. “James, please!” he screamed, banging on the door. “I’m sorry! I apologise!” It was no use. After loud scratching, a gritty 78 shellac record of Rule, Britannia! – where he’d found it, Jeff had no idea – thundered though the Mansion while James marched heels first into the floorboards, playing along – in different key and meter – on his reeds from hell. This could not go on.
Jeff – damn that very last, finally final glass of Laphroaig – had pushed his butler a smidgeon too far. True, James was still raw in patches from his defeat at the hands of the mansion’s boys, and after due consideration, Jeff had to admit that something rang true about that vexatious slippage James had been so adamant about. Why Jeff had gone vaguely jingoistic in his remarks during one of their later discussions about the whole damned thing eluded him. James, when irked, could get hard to understand. Some English idiom was as impenetrable to him as his free translations from German were to Jeff, and heated arguments, when not defused with some care, could blow up. Jeff and James enjoyed each other’s company in a loose, eccentric, almost business-like way and he couldn’t understand why that evening he’d been so annoyed at (if not derisive of) his butler’s sibilating approximation of plain and simple English phonemes. The drop in the bucket of injury and insults was an, in Jeff’s eyes innocuous, critique of James’ “German ways”. The rubber butler had got up, gone off to his study, and slammed the door. He’d stayed shut ever since (except, according to staff, for sneaking out in the early hours to get some food from the kitchens) and played – to everyone’s distress – loud jingoistic dinosaurs on his surprisingly powerful sound system at the slightest provocation.
*
That was three days ago.
Jeff was lying on the large chesterfield when a boy knocked on his study’s door. He groaned to let the lad know he could come in.
“Ever so sorry to bother you Sir, but there’s several milkings and edgings scheduled for today and the boys are getting restless. James usually starts the proceedings in the morning and it’s 3PM.”
Jeff sighed and felt the knot of dread tighten in his throat. Not only had discipline and morale relaxed since James’ reclusion (more slippage to clean up), flirting was omnipresent and flaunting of well-established edicts had become the new unwritten rule. He could not permit himself to forsake the milkings or the punishment edgings. That last vestige of carrots and sticks had to stay. “I assume James is still–” he hesitated, “indisposed?”
“Afraid so, Sir.”
“Any seniors who could assist?”
“Visiting family or having a day off.”
“All of them?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Staff?”
“Only the cook.”
“Oh no…” Jeff sobbed. “And the edging bench? Is it where I think it is?”
“Yes Sir, with James, in his study.”
“Oh no…” Jeff had the face of a migraine sufferer chained to a ship’s diesel engine. “Right,” he said. “I’ll check the files. Let the boys know that they’ll be summoned to one of the playrooms in short order and tell them that if anyone’s not where they’re supposed to be, that I’m not in the mood to be lenient when it comes to insubordination.”
The boy swallowed. “Yes Sir,” he said and left.
Jeff got up and massaged his temples. “First the files,” he said. “The bloody files. Haven’t checked them for ages. Don’t even know if they’re on my computer.” He let himself crash into his desk-chair.
“Let me see. Programs? No? Did I have to connect to…? What’s it called again? Mansion Database? Password? What password? Oh fuck it…” He picked up his cellphone.
None of the seniors picked up. Chris, the head slave, was off to Bermuda. (Why?, Jeff wondered. Too warm to wear leathers, only beaches and sunshine. A precious waste of time, that vacation. He shouldn’t have let the boy go. The Hebrides. That’s as far as they shall henceforth be allowed. At least he can ring them up when they’re in the Hebrides.) He left a dozen messages to anyone he could think of, checked his emails every three seconds, and was about to pour half a bottle of scotch in his coffee mug when, after wilfully ignoring his phone for three persistent, nail-biting minutes, it rang.
“Lucian. Thank god it’s you. Couldn’t have been anyone better. Master Jeff here. I’ve got a small hiccup. James’s in one of his moods and I don’t know how I can get into the files – you know, the boys’ files – and I have loads boys to edge. I can deal with the miking, I think, but the edging? Haven’t done that in donkey’s years. You wouldn’t be able to let me know how to proceed? Or better, could you come over on short notice? Yes. That seems better. Just come over, I’ll arrange some–”
“Breathe, Master Jeff,” Lucian said, laughing. “Is your computer on?”
“It was, oh it’s gone off again – no, it hasn’t. No I don’t want bloody updates! Oh why do they always do that?”
“Do you have something to write?” Lucian said.
Jeff swore at the erratic contents of his drawers (What was that lone sock doing there?) and the absence of working pens. He found a stumpy pencil instead. “Now I do.”
Jeff got into the files – how could he have forgotten? – and set up a simple milking/edging contraption in the little playroom. He was out of breath. He’d gone for the suspended A-frame, leaning it somewhat to the front. Strapped on there, most boys felt vulnerable enough. It didn’t have the impact of James’ bench, but it would do. He’d printed out the main turn-ons and triggers for the boys that he’d attend to. He’d start with the milkings. More margin for error. Breathe, Jeff, he thought, you’ve been through worse. Yet the prospect of edging a few of his own lads made him feel like a student’s being led to the scaffold of examination for a course for which he hadn’t practised in a long time.
At 4PM sharp, as instructed, the first knock landed on the door.
“Come in.”
A frazzled blond boy wearing a simple shiny tracksuit pushed open the door.
“So, Jupiter, is it?”
“Juniper, Sir.”
“Right, Juniper. Well, hop on lad. After undressing, of course.” Naked Juniper clambered onto the frame. Jeff scrutinised him. “Tell you what,” Jeff said, “climb on again, but with your legs in front of that beam. It will push out your cock more. Make you feel more helpless.”
Jeff proceeded to strap the boy in. In the process he’d glance at the boy’s reference sheet. He started humming. “So, large gags, eh? Perhaps with a muzzle on top. Followed by a hood or two. Someone’s into headtrips. We can do that, we can do that… We have the technology.”
Juniper grew from floppy to semi-solid as Jeff applied more straps. Some of them had to be loosened again because – bloody buckles – the things didn’t align properly or had twisted. The gag got the boy hard in seconds. When Jeff tightened the lacing of the overlying hood, the boy started rocking his hips.
He’d got hard with no effort on Jeff’s part, but then it had been ten days since his last orgasm. Why he’d been scheduled for today, Jeff didn’t know, but he trusted the file that James had compiled, even if it hadn’t been updated in three days and even if James hadn’t agreed to the new, more lenient edging and milking schedule. The whole arrangement, carefully arrived at after endless negotiations between Jeff, James, and the boys, was far too complicated.
“So,” Jeff said, muttering to himself, “long strokes from the bottom, slight oscillating pressure on the urethra, nicht zu fest greifen wenn …” Jeff pushed up his glasses. “This is impossible,” he said. “Nipples, tweaking: 2/10; flicking: occasional response…” Jeff shook his head. “Where are the bloody magic buttons in this wall of text? I need a tl;dr!” Juniper was going soft. Jeff panicked; he took hold of the lad’s cock, stroked it, read the file at the same time, and froze, not knowing what to do. “Oh bugger it.” He got up, tossed the printed notes on his chair, and stood behind the boy. He pressed the hood over his face, slid a hand to his neck, and got hold of the strap around it. He felt the boy’s cock pulse in his other hand. When he covered Juniper’s nose, the boy moaned. Jeff tossed him off with simple, plain strokes, no frills. If he couldn’t cum from that, tough. He felt the boy struggle and noticed how his breath would go faster and how he’d hold it for a while. Jeff picked up the pad holding the files, got behind the lad again, and smothered the hood into his face. “Easing pressure, rapid release over glans, thumb half-covering frenulum… God almighty. Eier kräftig nach unten – what? – ziehen, um zu verhindern, daß … I should’ve read these things first.” He tossed the files aside. Jeff noticed the boy was struggling hard. He released his grip over the boy’s nose and mouth. Juniper’s cock was rock hard and a patch of clear wetness gleamed around the foreskin. Jeff raised his eyebrows – good, he thought, breath control it is then – and took hold of the boy’s face again. He was sliding his other hand towards the boy’s cock when, with a groan, Juniper started bucking. He was cumming. Jeff cupped his nose and mouth, grabbed the boy’s cock, and massaged the rest of his orgasm out.
“Thank you Sir,” Juniper said, gasping, when Jeff released him from his grip.
Jeff was surprised. An easy boy. He hadn’t expected that. “You’re welcome,” he said. He got the boy down and told him to let the next one in.
Rufus got off on pain yet James’ file was thin on specifics. Not his cup of tea. This was more Master Jeff’s domain. The seniors had taken over most of the CP, and milking his masochist boys was rarely about hurting them. This time would be an exception. Jeff hooded him, hoisted him taut, feet shackled to the floor, and used floggers, single-tails, canes, and the occasional crackle of the cattle-prod on the toned boy until both of them were sweaty messes. Rufus was glistening with perspiration and welts, Jeff was sticking in his leathers. And his shoulder hurt. He felt old and in need of replacement parts. Rufus hurt too, but in a much better way than Jeff. “Right,” Jeff said, “five more minutes and then I’ll have to stop.”
“What about my milking Sir, I believe I was due today. With all due respect, Sir.”
“Of course. I forgot. Sorry. Senior moment and all that.”
Jeff looked around. If he could install some sort of cock-sleeve in front of Rufus, the boy could fuck himself to orgasm. Self-service. That would spare him the effort. All he found was a flimsy bullet vibrator. He clipped it to the boy’s cock and switched it on. Its sad hum was dying.
“You’ll have to hurry if you want to cum,” Jeff said, “the battery is almost dead.” He stepped back and with a groan started flogging the lad again. Both their gasps got louder. Master Jeff ached. He could handle only a few more strokes. The boy trembled. Jeff noticed he was trying to fuck the air. He took the single tail. On the third loud crack, Rufus’ groan turned into an orgasm. Master Jeff drew in a deep breath and gave the boy a final lash. After an ecstatic shriek, Rufus let himself hang from the wrists, giggling, rocking his hips, and still dribbling cum.
“Thank you ever so much, Sir,” he said.
“I think I need a break,” Jeff said.
After getting Rufus down, he asked the boy if he would, please, be so kind to bring him a coffee and to wait at least ten minutes before letting in the next boy. Jeff collapsed on top of the padded surface of a fucking bench and dozed off.
“Mgergh?”
“Sorry Sir,” said the rubber lad, “I’m here for my edging. I’m sorry to wake you up Sir, but I’ve been waiting for over half an hour.”
Jeff rubbed his eyes and wiped a spot of drool from the corner of his mouth. Edging? His memory notified him (with a polite cough) that three more edgings were to come after this one. Oh no. He wanted to cry. “I see,” he said. “Well, on the frame you go. (Eh, what’s your name, boy? Blacky, Sir. Blacky, yes.) Could you open the door a crack, please? It’s a bit stuffy in here. And keep your rubbers on.”
Jeff strapped him to the frame, pulled a featureless, clingy rubber hood over the boy’s head, and told him not to go away. Jeff was in search of a loud vibrator. No use trying to decipher James’ meticulous instructions on the subject of manual edging. He’d use modern machinery. Crude but efficacious.
The vibrator worked well on the boy on the highest setting. Jeff kept touching it right under the cockhead, through the rubber. The boy would start humping and moaning, and Jeff would take it away when the lad was certain he’d cum. Swearing ensued with Jeff mock-reprimanding the boy for his language. Jeff was enjoying himself. He should do this more often. Touch, release, revel in the groans of frustration, repeat. He put the vibrator down and took hold of the boy’s cock outlining the thin black rubber. He slid it sideways, back and forth. The boy was well slippery under the rubber. Gripping the root of the cock, he pushed it to the side with the most resistance, and touched the vibrator just below the pads of the boy’s frenulum. He started pleading. Jeff felt the boy’s cock twitch, released the grip, touched the cock again, and – under the uniform hum of the vibrator – made the touches lighter and shorter.
“I’ll have to gag you if you continue swearing as loud as this,” he said. “You might wake up good people having naps. Like me, if I weren’t edging you. Ten more minutes and I’ll let you go.”
“I sink ten minutes is very inconsiderate. Von’t too. And zis is not a proper position. Not for punishment.”
“James!”
“If you’ll eggzcuze me.” James, looking cold and pedantic, gestured at Jeff’s chair, and pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.
Jeff got up. “Sure, sure.”
“Now. Vair vur vee...”
“You don’t mind if I nip off?” Jeff said, killing the still buzzing vibrator.
“You do. And send ze ozer boys over to my study. I’ll be late. You keep me some food.”
“Shall I send a plate to your study, with one of the boys?”
James grumbled something unintelligible.
“Of course. Of course.” Jeff was jubilating inside, although he wouldn’t have minded edging the rubber boy (what was his name again?) for ten more minutes. He tiptoed out of the little playroom. “Good, good. Right. I’ll leave you to it then…” Jeff said.
James remained silent. The boy, however, after some urgent pleading to cum, wailed.
Jeff closed the door.
*
“Lucian? Master Jeff here. All’s back to normal. Thank god, yes. You were right. I didn’t think it’d work, but it did. He just couldn’t resist, he’s indeed too much of a perfectionist. Whisked me away after the first boy. No, you were right, he can’t stand hearing boys being edged with just a vibrator. I know it’s effective. Man versus machine and all that, I suppose. I know he doesn’t mind using them, but using them only von’t too , as he would say. Yes, using the little playroom was a stroke of genius. He could hear everything from his study. You are a clever bastard… Sure… Take care. Bye.”