Caleb did not remember much of the following few hours. He had a vague memory of lying in mud behind the back door of the house, then hearing cars coming and going. At some point, someone came and picked him up, and took him inside the building. The room temperature was bliss after the icy rain. He was briefly aware of someone mopping the mud from his legs and torso. He drifted into unconsciousness almost as soon as he was placed in the wooden chair.
He awoke with a start. Something being held under his nose with a strong, piercing smell had shocked him back into consciousness. Henderson the butler was holding some kind of bottle under his nostrils, and the fumes had revived him immediately. Henderson replaced the stopper in the bottle and returned it to his pocket. The butler walked out of the door, closing it behind him.
Caleb looked at his new surroundings. He was in a dark, wood panelled room, sitting in front of a desk not dissimilar to the one where he had first met the ambassador. He became immediately conscious of the stiffness of his limbs, and the pain radiating from his various beatings. He was not restrained in any way, but he doubted he could make it across the room, let alone over the wall and away. He was still dressed only in the Speedos, which were soaking wet from the rain.
A door opened, somewhere behind him, and the ambassador walked into the room, walking over and sitting down at the desk opposite the semi-naked hunk.
He had removed his dinner jacket and loosened his tie. He was sweating profusely and large ugly stains had formed under his arms. Without looking up, the tormentor reached into the desk drawer and pulled some papers out, which he laid out on the desk. He put on a pair of reading glasses and began to talk.
‘My guests have departed so we can get down to business. So. We’ve had some good news. Your friends have been moved into a holding area at Hun Kok, and we’ve had the agreement of the chief of the judiciary to have them transferred to the Sof Dyk secure mental hospital until the first hearing. It’s for segregated prisoners, those who would not survive in the general population, so that gives us a bit of time to get the wheels turning. Excellent news, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Caleb’s head spun. Here he was, being talked to as if by some sort of bank manager or solicitor in his office, but in fact this soft spoken man had just had him viciously whipped, and was acting as if nothing had happened. Caleb began to realise that he was dealing with an insane man.
‘Sir... Please let me go. I promise... I promise no one will hear of this, I give you my word...’
Sir Harold glanced up from his papers at the boy sitting opposite him.
Typical colonial, he thought. The boy had no manners. Here he was, going out of his way to honour the terms of his agreement, and the least the boy could do was to thank him. He let his eyes drift across the boy’s naked chest, appreciating the broadness of his shoulders, the fine musculature of his Pecs and abs, the redness of the whip marks on the fine soft skin.
‘You are here of your own free will. Our agreement is clear. There will be no further discussion ’
He looked back down on the papers in front of him, a hand written interrogation report from the local militia. He noted that the young American stud was to be transferred tonight to the Sof Dyk prison hospital, and that he had been ‘violent’ and secure restraint was required.
The ambassador knew what that meant – a policeman’s fist had been bruised when it had struck the boy repeatedly in the face, therefore the boy had assaulted a police officer.
He decided not to reveal those details to the slave. He also decided not to reveal the nickname the locals called Sof Dyk - he could not pronounce it, but loosely translated, it meant ‘hard ride’. Yes, it was a mental hospital, but mainly it was populated with sex offenders who were categorised as insane by this society.
He remembered what had happened to that 21 year old Argentinean boy last year, the triathlete who got just a bit too drunk. The boy was taken to one of the main open wards in the psychiatric ward, where he was bound to a bunk to restrict his more violent outbursts.
Unfortunately for the boy, several of the more – interesting - patients would be spending a night on the open wards that night, for a mysterious illness was going around, strangely only afflicting the most hungry predators, and apparently spread by a bundle of cash which had somehow found its way into the chief jailor’s pocket when the first hungry eyes had seen the boy being delivered.
After the door to the ward was locked and secured for the night, the 30 or so predators suddenly found themselves miraculously cured, and they left their bunks to explore the room. There was no TV, no books, just a sexy young Argentinean athlete, tied to the bunk. Thirty sex-starved perverts, all filled with the filthiest out-of-control lusts, nothing to do and no surveillance, just a musclebound 21 year old stud, who is tied to the bed, conscious but immobile, to keep you amused for the next eight hours...
The ambassador stared at the slave, impatient to carry on.
‘now, back to other business. It has emerged, during the course of the questioning of your two friends, that you are, in fact, a virgin’ he said to Caleb
Caleb, despite everything else he had been through, blushed at this remark.
‘Answer me. Truthfully or I will know’
‘Y... Yes, sir... I am’ Caleb spluttered.
‘no intercourse of any kind? No oral, no anal, no rutting with woman or men in any way?’
Caleb shook his head slowly, ashamed.
‘I have made arrangements with a local prostitute to attend in the morning to ride you. As I disapprove of the base-level rutting of the commoners, I have made sure that she will be the oldest, ugliest, most foul whore on the island. She will be the perfect one to permanently and for ever take your manhood. It is important that you understand that this for your own good – if you are to be a perfect slave you will learn to give up any flesh except that which your Master grants you. You will be tied to the bed during the procedure and, afterwards, you will pay me back for my generosity by spending the rest of the day on the bondage frame. Some of my associates have expressed an interest in watching the rutting, I don’t understand why, it would not be to the taste of any civilised gentleman. However, that is their choice. Obviously, before that event occurs, I personally will be taking charge of the christening of your mouth, and your arse. But that is for later. In the mean time, another issue has arisen. Two hours ago, when you were waiting on the lawn, you were noted to be talking, when the rules state clearly that you do not speak. For this reason you will receive a punishment. You also failed to follow instructions regarding dress code; this is also a punishment offence’
Caleb cringed. From what he had seen, this was not a man who offered punishment lightly.
‘But’ he whined, ‘I was whipped already’
The Master shook his head. ‘No, slave. You were whipped for interrupting my social gathering. Not all my friends and associates on this island appreciate the work which I must carry out to educate crass slaves like yourself. And, added to this, you have twice spoken to me and failed to address your Master correctly’
Caleb tried to shrink back into the chair. ‘I’m sorry, sir... Master. I’m sorry Master. It won’t happen again. Please don’t hurt me...’
The Master stared over at the boy. Rules were rules, he knew that, but he was an important figure in this society, and he could pull strings. He also needs to be seen to be merciful.
‘You will need to show your remorse for what you have done. I am a reasonable man, and I am prepared to give you a second chance. Stand up.’
Caleb struggled to his feet. He was dizzy and disorientated, and he found it hard to keep his balance with his hands tied behind his back, but he couldn’t risk the return of the whip. The Master pointed to a side door leading out of the room.
‘Go through that door. I will follow’
Caleb had no choice, but he feared whatever lay beyond that door. He walked slowly, unevenly to the doorway and entered the room. He could hear the ambassador close behind him.
The room was almost the complete opposite of the room he had just left. A long, wide, grey room. Instead of the wood panelling and the elegant furniture, the room was lined with heavy sound insulation. Harsh fluorescent tubes lit the objects within. There was very little furniture, just an iron framed bed, like a hospital bunk.
There was also something which could only be described as an enormous climbing frame of scaffolding and poles, with straps and bindings attached at various locations. Chains and ropes hung from the walls. A metal hostess trolley, with the shelf filled with all sorts of gadgets and devices, some of which were recognisable – a car battery, a box of candles. Rope and reels of adhesive tape of all shapes and sizes. Many things whose purpose you would not want to begin to guess at.
And, in the middle of the spacious room, one thing stood out. A leather wing-back chair and an elegant wooden side table with a crystal decanter and a wine glass, looking like something that might have escaped from a Victorian gentleman’s club, sitting squarely in the middle of the room, facing toward the mutated climbing frame.
To the right hand side of the chair, Henderson stood, waiting.
Caleb stared into the room in fear. The ambassador pushed him, gently but firmly into the room and closed the door behind them.
‘I believe you will put on a show for me to illustrate how sorry you are. Walk over to the frame’
Before Caleb could move, Henderson ran straight over, grabbing the boys arm and pinning it behind him, in an arm lock.
Unable to resist, Caleb was propelled over to the climbing frame, and moved into position, standing under a large metal arch, about ten feet high and six feet wide. The binding process was quick and methodical. After the handcuffs were removed, leather cuffs were placed around the boys’ ankles and wrists, attached to firm ropes. Henderson tied the boy, spread-eagled, into the frame, his legs wide apart, his arms stretched high above his head. A dog collar was put around the boy’s throat, and a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth, gagging him.
Two 5 litre paint tins were placed on the floor, five feet apart. With a sharp rough movement, Caleb’s feet were lifted onto the cans. The ropes were adjusted and tightened so that he was on tiptoe on top of the cans, and he could not step back down.
He had been uncomfortably immobilised, and all the time this was going on...
The ambassador sat in the comfortable chair, and poured himself a glass of port. He regarded the binding process as dispassionately as he had watched the whipping two hours earlier.
Henderson was finished in five minutes, and the boy was trussed up firmly, legs and arms spread wide.
‘Very good Henderson. You may go. I will call you when I need you’
Henderson nodded, and left the room.
The ambassador sat in his chair, appreciating the fine port wine in his glass. He also appreciated the finely made body spread-eagled before him, the strong muscles tensed, the blond mop in disarray, the boyish fringe hanging in front of the eyes and still damp from the earlier shower. The red welts stood out sharply under the merciless tube lighting.
He took a full ten minutes to savour the glass of port, and the straining and twisting of his new toy as it tried to get into a more comfortable position. There was no hurry.
The Master replaced the crystal stopper in the decanter and stood up. He walked up to the boy and began a detailed analysis of the slave’s body.
Starting with the ankles, he ran his hands up the calves of both legs, squeezing and pressing the flesh. Up over the knees, examining the diameter of the large athletic things, moving towards the hips, examining the inner thighs, then skipping the obvious next destination and moving directly onto the stomach, running the palm of the hand over the firm muscular bumps of the six pack, sliding up to the chest, running a finger around the bulging pectorals, tweaking and examining each nipple in turn, applying pressure to the red skin where the whipping was still fresh, seeing how much pressure was required to get a reaction. Examining the broad back, and the armpits. Going over the body in the same way as the owner of a fine stallion would examine his acquisition to check that no blemishes spoilt his new possession.
He smiled. Everything was in order.
Caleb blushed and bucked at the intimacy of the contact, but was powerless to resist. Up close the man in front of him gave off a sickly smell, part cigar smoke, part sweat and some other evil odours. His breath was full of the sickly sweet odour of the port wine, and his breathing was heavy. The man’s hands were hot and clammy to the touch, and the skin on the palms was hard, the nails on the fingers manicured but yellow and dead. Caleb, at that point, did not care about his friends. He would not care if they were dead, if everyone was dead. He would have done anything at all to avoid standing where he was, undergoing this invasion. But the bindings were immovable. He did as he had initially been ordered, and avoided eye contact, looking down at the floor. He tried to blank out the sensations which passed through his mind, but he felt the hands descending down his chest again, and he knew for sure, immediately, where they were going.
The Master ran one hand onto the front of the Speedos, and another round to the rear. He closed his fingers up, and felt the resting muscle through the damp material, felt the outline of the ball sack. He fondled and manipulated the organ between his fingers as his other hand cupped and squeezed the firm muscular butt cheeks, feeling them tense and flex beneath his palms. Then, with a simultaneous movement, he slid both hands up, and then down again, inside the elastic waistband.
The fine fuzz encountered at the rear contrasted with the firmer pubic hair which coiled and twisted around his fingers. Tracing the source of the cock amongst the jungle of wiry pubes, he ran a few inspecting fingers along the length of the shaft, before taking hold, kneading, manipulating, exploring the member with forceful, detailed movements.
The other hand was exploring too, finding the crack and running up and down the sweaty valley, examining the mouth of the anus, rubbing and feeling, all the time feeling the boy pull and tense, and hearing the groans of humiliation and horror from the boy’s gagged mouth.
Caleb was in hell. His disgust at the molestation of his most private areas was twisted around the impulses coming from the first manipulation of his manhood by hands that were not his own. He fought hard to control the impulses which raced through his body like electric shocks but the careful, methodical manipulation was getting through to him. He knew he was losing control, and he hated himself for it.
An increased flow of blood began to be pumped into his flaccid cock, and the skin began to tighten up as the sleeping monster stirred. He felt the abusers hands lifting off momentarily, only for them to take the waistband of the Speedos and pull it down, revealing the cock, the Speedos being dragged down to just below the balls -as far as they could go over the spread-eagled thighs. His cock began to climb upwards, and his abusers hands responded to the challenge, manipulating the flesh, pulling back his uncut foreskin to reveal the swelling cock head. His cock rose to its full height, an impressive ten inches with a broad girth, and the tormentor’s hands withdrew, unexpectedly.
Caleb was left, his firm erection jutting out, as the Master adjusted one of the ropes. Caleb’s right hand suddenly became free as the rope slackened above it.
The ambassador retrieved a pen knife from his pocket, and quickly and efficiently cut away the Speedos, leaving the boy totally naked and erect.
‘Now, slave, you will defile yourself for me. You will use your free hand to bring yourself to the edge of climax, and you will keep yourself there, but you will not come until I give you the authorisation. Is that understood? A whole night of pain awaits if you do not comply’
Breathlessly, Caleb agreed with his Master.
The Master returned to the armchair, and sat down. ’Begin’
Caleb began the manipulation of his cock, something he had done many times before, but never with an audience, especially the audience of an elderly, white haired, fat faced Englishman.
The Master poured himself another glass of Port. He estimated on this first attempt that he could keep the boy going for 25 minutes before he broke the rules and released his seed. Caleb dutifully pumped away, humiliated, stopping and starting on command just before climax until his body had become rich with sweat. 10 minutes. 15...
Please, please, let me come, he thought. My balls feel like they will explode...
He risked a look up at the Master, and noticed that the man was not even looking at him! He was examining his port wine by holding the glass up to the light, and yawning. At that moment Caleb knew he was less than a sex object, he was just an appliance, a piece of equipment designed to do a job, to be used or ignored as his Master saw fit.
He wanted to cry out loud and beg his Master to authorise relief, but the Master, impassive as ever, simply sat there, watching the show as the mood took him, or letting his mind daydream to other matters.
It was not that the Master did not find this all exceptionally sexy, but the Master’s mind did not work like other men’s. He knew he must treat the slave as he meant to go on, as nothing more than an object, a cum pumping sex toy. He wanted the boy to know that this was not just a game that the Master played when he wanted relief. No, nothing as un-British as that.
No, this was also a game of minds 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He had to mentally and physically crush the boy into insignificance, make him realise his most personal moment, his most aroused and sexual impulses, his thoughts, his wants, his dreams, all had no value any more. His purpose of existence was to serve his Master’s need, and that was all. He was a slave.
Caleb could take it no more. He knew pain and discomfort was coming for disobeying instructions, but he could not hold back the flood any more.
‘sorry... I’m sorry...’ he blurted out between tears and clenched teeth. His head rolled back as the pleasure and agony of a long held back orgasm ignited across his body.
His cock spurted a jet of white cum onto the cold floor, and then another. The Master looked up from his examination of the port wine, dispassionately. The slave was twitching and gasping for breath, his cock red and oozing between his fingers.
He checked his watch. 34 minutes, longer than expected. He had never had any intention to give the boy permission to come, if it were physically possible he would have kept the boy in sexualised limbo until he passed out or went insane. And the boy had disobeyed another of the Master’s orders. No matter that the order was impossible to keep, the boy had failed. He pressed a concealed buzzer on the table. Immediately the door opened and Henderson entered.
Henderson surveyed the scene as he entered. His Master, reclined and elegant in the chair, and the slave boy, soaked with sweat, drained, humiliated, his one free hand hanging by his side, a stringy white line of cum slowly dripping from his softening cockhead. The boy was mumbling, a pathetic, exhausted mouse whisper of a voice.
‘I’m sorry Master, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I’m sorry, I tried. I’m sorry’
Henderson approached the Master’s chair.
In the same clipped, flat tone that he would have used if he was telling the butler to get the car serviced, The ambassador addressed his loyal manservant.
‘Ah, Henderson. The slave has disobeyed an order to not come, so he will be spending all of tomorrow night on the electrical rig. Please make sure the car batteries are put on charge. Would you please retie the slave on his back on the bed frame, tie him firmly and install the mouth restraint, ready for my insertion? I think I will allow him the privilege of my organ in his mouth today. When you have finished tying him, you may get the slaves food bowl, a half portion tonight I think. Please also furnish me with the smaller flail whip.’
‘As you wish sir’ The butler replied, and he went about his work. Within minutes the exhausted boy was on the firm mattress, half sitting up against the metal headrest, tied firmly, the head especially secured so no movement was possible, a specially made and uncomfortable rubber and leather apparatus fitted to his mouth, holding the jaw open but leaving a substantial gap at the front for access. Finally, Henderson handed his Master the requested whip, before heading off to the kitchen to prepare the slave’s meagre feast.
‘Now we can begin’ the Master said, as he removed his shoes and socks, then taking off his shirt and trousers, taking the time to fold them neatly across the chair. He removed his string vest and his pants, and stood over the boy, naked, holding the whip ready in his palm.
Caleb saw his Master’s body for the first time, corrupted and fat from age and many years of excessive food and wine, slack skinned, liver spots and crow’s feet in every crevice. And the decaying body climbed onto the bed and kneeled astride Caleb’s taught, muscular skin. The Master began his work, manipulating the body with his fingers and his tongue, gyrating against the muscles and the organs, every few moments his rat-like eyes flicking a look from across the flesh to the boy’s face, making sure he was looking down as instructed, drinking in every wince of pain, every tear of humiliation which dampened that pretty face. He was practiced at this sport, and he was going to let this take a long, long time.
The boy was thoroughly defiled, although, even when he was ejaculating for the fourth or fifth time, the eyes of the defiler remained black, cold, the eyes of a predator, no emotion, just the wolf instinct to hunt down the young buck and bring him down, forever.
Although he did not penetrate the boy’s fine, firm ass (he was saving that for tomorrow) there was not much of the boy’s skin that did not find the attention of the bony fingers, or the slavering tongue, or the rampant cock, or the bite of the leather whip. The inside of the boy’s mouth took particular attention, with the Master allowing the slave the rare privilege of looking directly into his own face as he pumped his cock in and out between the boyish lips.
The slave’s own cock received detailed attention too, brought back to attention and then introduced to the taste of the whip, up and down both sides of the shaft and across the balls. When, a good hour later, the Master looked down at the face below him, the wild, feral eyes staring back blankly as the damp cock shaft slid endlessly in and out of its mouth, the grunts and groans automatic and subdued, for the first time the Master’s plain, unemotional demeanour cracked briefly and he sighed with contentment.
Another hour later, he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully replaced his socks, one at a time. His mind had gone elsewhere as soon as he had climaxed for the final time, reverting to the mundane business of some work meeting which he had to attend to tomorrow. Now that he had had his relief, the boy was of no more interest than a discarded tissue, and Caleb was abandoned on the bed, exhausted, streaked with cum across the face and chest, new lines of red bruises and welts marking where the Master had inflicted additional levels of pain with the whip.
For a man of his age and condition, the Master had incredible staying power – he had taken the boy to the limit, held him over the edge, and let him drop. His insanity and the puritanical, righteous, almost spiritual calm with which he approached his self appointed task of breaking the young stud had sustained him far beyond what most people could sustain.
The Master stood and, adjusting his collar, walked out of the room without a backwards look, switching off the lights and closing the door behind him. He spent half an hour at his desk, completing paperwork, before taking a sherry and bathing, then retiring to his bed for an uninterrupted, dream free sleep.
Henderson cleaned the boy up and fed him his ration, before carrying him back, docile, to a small basement room that would be his new home. There was no need to tie the boy; he would be going nowhere tonight. The boy slept, fitfully, visions and nightmares plaguing his sleep.
Day one at the Ambassador’s residence was over. The first day of the rest of Caleb’s life
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