Story set in Hooder's Mansion series (Cockfight, Loss of Control, Studs, The Ninja, The One Hundred, and Without Restraint). All characters abused with his permission.
"Ja, ja... genau. Selbstverständlich, darf ich... ? Nein? Genau. Genau... ja. Tschüss.
Had Michael been in a state fit to analyse the situation, three things would have occurred to him: firstly, James never answered the phone during punitive edging sessions; secondly, no-one knew James had a cellphone; and lastly, he never answered the phone in German. Michael, however, was not in a state fit to analyse the situation. Notwithstanding being one of the senior slaves at Master Jeff's Mansion, his foul mouth had earned him five extra days without cumming and as many punitive edging sessions at the hands of James, the Mansion's sadistic German rubber butler and right hand of Master Jeff. As it was, Michael was sobbing, strapped to the edging bench, his cock still twitching from the last unbearable edge that James had inflicted on him before answering that call. Now, through the heavy leather hood, he heard the ominous rustling of rubber between his thighs, heard the squelch from the bottle of lube, and felt a cool rubber glove applying it to his sphincter. If James had managed to make him sob before that temporary relief of the phone call, Michael knew that the muttering German would have him in tears soon. Michael was prepared for tears - but not, when the session was finally over, to be carried to his room, half-conscious, by two of the Mansion's boys. James was cross.
*
At breakfast, the next morning, James was not sat next to Master Jeff. There was some speculation over cups of coffee and bowls of flakes, but nothing very constructive. When Master Jeff got up and rang his empty bowl of flakes, the Mansion's boyish hubbub calmed down.
"You may have noticed, said Master Jeff in a resonant voice (deepened even more by coffee and morningness) "that our beloved James is not having his breakfast. He had to leave very early this morning, long before most of you (and I) got up, to sort out thorny family matters back in Thuringia. He'll probably be away for a few weeks, depending on the extent of formalities and such. This has, obviously, precipitated a few organisational conundrums, which, for the time being, we'll have to navigate around. There was some general muttering in the room, which soon abated when Master Jeff looked down in displeasure.
"So. As far as said organisation is concerned. Corporal discipline will be carried out by me or taken over by the relevant seniors. Routine edgings delivered by James are cancelled. A sigh of relief went through the breakfast room. "Unless, of course, someone feels inclined to volunteer to enforce them? No? No-one dared move. "No-one? OK. Just as I thought. All lily-livered. No initiative. Boys these days... Jeff smirked. "Next. Punitive or disciplinary edgings and milkings. These will resume unchanged as soon as James' substitute is able to come over. I'm not letting you off so lightly. There was some muttering this time. "And finally, the information you're all pining for: the scheduled milkings. These will be carried out by myself, by the senior slaves, or as part of entertainment, just as planned. Not being a morning person, the sessions I'll be conducting today (and tomorrow, and all other days) will start at 1PM. Morning sessions are for barbarians like James. Stephen, Tim, and Wesley will inform you of when and where you're due - we still have a few kinks to iron out. As for James' substitute: I've contacted Adrian, whom some of you may remember as Studs, several slaves shuddered at the name, "but he can not make himself available. So, after deep deliberation with James and a few more telephone calls, I'm delighted to announce that Lucian can fill in as James' subsitute, possibly starting from tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but no later than that. Those select few who have punitive edgings pending will have to have some patience. As I said, one or two days. But what are a few more days of waiting in the grand scheme of things, eh? As to your future torturer: some of you may remember Lucian as an, eh, alumnus of this very mansion, about five or six years ago. Now he'll be back to help me keep you as horny and frustrated as humanly possible. I'm sure you'll all very quickly yearn for James' touch. So try to enjoy your few edgeless days - consider it a treat. Jeff sniggered - some boys took it as a joke and sniggered as well. "That's it for today's breakfast announcements. I'll see you all later. Master Jeff downed his now cold coffee, and retreated, so he claimed, to his study (although rumours had it that he usually went back to bed or had a snooze in one of the unused playrooms).
*
Wes' skin prickled when he recognised Lucian at the breakfast table. The name - and the alumnus thing - mentioned yesterday by Master Jeff, had had no effect on him at all. Lucian, sat next to a demure Master Jeff, was chatting and brandishing a half eaten croissant. He hadn't changed much. His long black hair was held in a ponytail, round-rimmed glasses clashed with the similar roundness of his smooth, smiley face. He was small, possibly a tad more built (or pudgy) than the rail-like youth he used to be five years ago. He was wearing the same dreadful clothing he'd always worn: a T-shirt bleached, stretched, and ragged around the collar by sheer use and loose jeans that had seen far too many cycles in the washing machine. His hands, Wes noticed, hadn't changed. Nor had his mouth. He'd recognise them amongst millions. Wes sat there, transfixed, holding a spoonful of soon-to-be cold porridge, when Michael nudged him with a bump of his elbow.
"What you thinking 'bout? he said.
"The new discipline guy. Was a boy here when I arrived. Wes was talking more slowly than usual.
"OK... What about it?
"I've been edged by him.
"Uhuh? Michael was wondering what Wes was so transfixed about.
"It was unbearable.
"As edgings tend to be, you know. Michael said, stating the very obvious. "Can't be worse than James.
"Oh it can be. It very much can be.
Michael smirked incredulously. "Oh come on. Memory playing tricks on you. Bad trips. Edging PTSD. Besides, (Michael apologised for bits of toast that had shot from his mouth with that last word,) "how - why'd... how come he edged you? Wasn't he just a boy, a slave boy? No senior or anything...
"Yeah, said Wes, "just a slave boy. Lovingly trained by James, unbeknown to us, and then used as a torture device for his entertainment, once he'd practised on us. Wes paused. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck... This is bad. Wes looked at the time. "I've got half an hour before duties. I'm going for a run. Need some air.
He left. He never had a run after breakfast. Michael was about to finish his toast when he remembered that he was due for punitive edging this afternoon. Yesterday's change of schedule had thrown him off. He looked at the guy, wondering, and concluded that he looked harmless. Michael jumped when he felt a tight hand on his shoulder. Wes leaned in, and whispered: "Whatever happens this afternoon: try to breathe. Keep your calm, try to think of nothing. Eventually, it'll all be over. He left, muttering more cusses - this wasn't like him. Michael didn't finish his toast, or his tea.
*
"Come in.
Michael entered a room he'd never been in. It looked like James' study: walls lined with wooden boards, ornate ceiling, and a few bookcases with glass-panelled doors. Everything was smaller and older and looked dusted off only for the occasion. The room had been unused for a long while. The same edging bench James used was standing in front of a window. Lucian was sat at a desk, again a smaller replica of James', with a laptop open in front of him. He looked up.
"Michael?
"Yes Sir.
"Are you wearing a butt plug, Michael?
"Yes Sir?
"In that case, do have a seat. Lucian gestured, smiling, at an old, wooden chair, the seat of which had the recessed profile of a bum to make sitting more comfortable, unless one, of course, was wearing a butt plug.
"Four more punitive edgings, according to your file? Is that correct?
"Yes Sir. Michael felt a sense of dread creeping in. The guy didn't look half as harmless as at breakfast. He was wearing a full black leather military uniform, trench-coat, cap and all, taboo badges replaced by bespoke, Mansion-themed insignia. His averageness had evaporated. All that was left was a threatening silhouette in front of a window.
"I have a proposition for you, Michael. Michael could not read Lucian's expression and his voice was equally cloaked. "I can commute your four edgings - over four days - into one edging and one milking - two days' worth of punishment - after which your time in denial - twelve days - is reset. That's two fewer days of your being ill at ease. What do you think?
Michael hesitated. "Can I give it some time, Sir?
"Of course you can. I'll administer you today's edging, after which you can decide whether or not you want three more of them. Tomorrow, before your next session, you let me know me whether you want a milking or to go on with the edgings. Does that seem reasonable to you?
"Yes Sir, very reasonable Sir. Some faint smile played around Michael's mouth. "Thank you Sir.
"You're very welcome. Now, if you'd be so kind as to get yourself on the bench? I'll be with you in a minute.
Michael stood up (a relief), stripped, and put his clothing, neatly folded, on the chair. He approached the bench with dread. It was James' bench. He recognised the scratches and nicks (years' worth of boys' suffering). He got on - the bench creaked as it always did - and felt himself, even with the knot in his stomach, getting hard. Fucking Wes, spooking him out. Edging is edging, can't be worse than James. Certainly can't be worse than a cross James. And the guy seemed reasonable enough.
"Oh, and do take the plug out, please. said Lucian, still peering at his laptop. Michael wanted to sigh, but - just - managed to keep his irritation to himself. He put the plug on the windowsill. It seemed like a good spot.
Lucian muzzled and strapped him in with elegant ease. No subtlety of James' bench had eluded him. Michael was immobilised, helpless, and very vulnerable before he'd relaxed into the bondage. He heard the ominous rustling of leather between his thighs and groaned when he felt his cock getting hard, pointing down, held there by intricate, unobtrusive bits of the bench being adjusted. He hadn't cum in two weeks. The guy would make a mistake. He was, after all, on a hair's trigger. A file, even one compiled by James, can never be intimate enough. Michael would fool him, cum, and then - with all due respect (yeah, right) - blame the guy of being inexperienced.
"You're my first boy, Michael, so I apologise if it's a bit of a rough ride.
Michael smirked under the muzzle.
Five minutes in, he knew Lucian was not going to make a mistake. He was not going to cum. He tried to breathe, but being on the infinite verge of unreachable orgasm, his instincts told him to hold his breath. Lucian had installed a mirror in front of Michael's face and was peering at it. Michael could only see Lucian's face in the mirror. His cock and whatever Lucian was doing to it were out of sight. He breathed, then gasped again. He pressed his face into the leather of the bench and bit hard on the gag under the muzzle, holding his breath; he looked at the clock and saw that the pendulum was ticking with tantalising inertia. Its face grinned at him. Lucian had been coaxing him to orgasm for barely four swings while in his head - but he wasn't sure any more - he'd counted to twenty. The clock shimmered.
With James, orgasm was there, hiding at the root of Michael's cock. He just kept it out of reach. It was maddening and infuriating, but it was there. It was like smelling and hearing the sea crash into the rocks below, standing on a cliff but chained to a picket, just too far away to see the sea. With every crash of a wave, a fine mist sprayed your burning body. Lucian however, had chained him in a dirty, padded cell, strangled by a stained canvas straitjacket; sickening, warm air filled with specks of oily dust, bathed in foul-yellow light stifled his breath; a brown-smeared perspex window, unreachable, held the only view of the sea. There was no smell, no sound, no sight of it. The sea could be a desert. There was no telling.
Michael was fuzzy, warm, and wet. He lifted his head, felt the straps of the muzzle tighten around his throat and the gag plunge deeper into his mouth. He coughed. His eyes adjusted to Lucian's face in the mirror. His glasses looked like a tiny bicycle riding his nose, but his face was one of concern.
"I'm sorry, you fainted, said Lucian. "I'll be gentler. Please do try to breathe.
Fifty cursed minutes later, devoid of sweet fainting, two boys had to carry a half-conscious Michael to his room, for the second time in three days. Tomorrow with the milking, he'd decided, it would all be over.
*
"How was your night?
"Meh... Michael shrugged. "Strange dreams and all that. He was munching on a piece of toast he had been munching on since the beginning of breakfast. "So, you said you got edged by him. Were you ever milked? He nipped a glimpse of Lucian who was having breakfast in his regular clothes.
"No, said Wes, "and I only saw him do it to one guy, and just for a short bit.
Michael munched more. "What was it like?
Wes paused. "Mesmerising... and terrifying.
"You're not being very helpful.
"I guess not. Why'd you ask?
"He made me a deal. Asked if I wanted three more edgings or one milking, after which the 12-day cycle gets reset.
"Ah. Nasty one.
"I don't know - seems tempting to me. I don't think I can take three more of his edgings.
"They are brutal.
"Brutal? Michael spat out. Wes shushed him. "James is a fucking amateur milk-maid compared to that guy. he said under his breath.
"We really shouldn't be talking about this here. said Wes.
Michael sighed.
"I'm due at 2PM, can you please - please - help me make up my mind by then...
Wes shrugged. "Let's finish breakfast and go for a walk. I can only tell you what I've seen though. Perhaps we should drag Tim along. He might help you make up your mind. He was here before Lucian arrived. (Yes, he's older than me. No, I know he doesn't look like it.)
Michael leaned back, finished his coffee, and fiddled with the zip of his rubber hoodie until Wes was done.
Located at the outer edge of town, the Mansion had a solid plot of private woodland attached. The manicured back garden flowed into wilder shrubbery sprinkled with rowan and birch, then grew into a dense old oak forest. Trails following the path of least resistance wound their way through the trees. The woods were too small to get lost in, but ideal to lose oneself in. Two rubbered-up boys wearing flashy sneakers and a third one in a simple red tracksuit were doing so. They stopped in a clearing to sit down on a mossy log.
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