Mergers and Acquisitions

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Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don't enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't look back! This story is NOT to be taken as an endorsement of the materials found on that site. Caveat emptor.

Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 9

Bill pulled Brad, struggling to keep up on his sore knees and tired arms, into the room. Thornsburg was waiting for them, leaning against the bench, his arms crossed over his chest.

"You're late," was all he said.

"Sorry boss," Bill said. "The pup took a little extra time to do his business."

Brad didn't think he'd tarried at any point this morning but realized it really didn't matter; if there was a problem, he would be the one to answer for it.

"Figures," Thornsburg said. "I can see I'm going to have to work extra on him to get him into line. That's the problem with these older dogs; they have bad habits, especially if they're used to calling the shots. But I knew all that before I started so I guess it's just part of the price. Of course, he'll be the one paying the price, not me!"

Bill and Guy laughed along with Thornsburg at his joke but Brad just crouched on the floor and glared at them. Sons of bitches! He'd make them pay for it if he ever got the chance. He'd make them pay for all that they'd done to him: the kidnapping, the stripping, the beatings, the humiliation, the degradation, for making his cock stiffen and shoot in a response he hated.

He was lost in his thoughts of revenge when he noticed that a dead silence had settled over the room. He glanced up at Jack Thornsburg and saw that Thornsburg was looking into his eyes, a smirk on his face. As a sense of dread crept into his brain and moved into his eyes, the smirk morphed into a grin.

"You're probably thinking about how you'll get even someday, if you ever get out of this," Jack said, chuckling.

Before he could stop it, a look of shock flowed across Brad's face: how could he have known?

""What? You think I'm stupid, pup? You think I'm as stupid as you are? Well you can think again. First off, you're not getting out of this. Second, you can kiss any ideas of revenge goodbye. The only revenge will be revenge on you for treating other people like shit. I can tell you're going to hate every minute of it but that doesn't matter. You see, what you want, what you care about, how you feel isn't important to me. You're a dog now and you'll sit when you're told; you'll beg when you're told, you fetch when you're told, you'll lick when you're told, you'll suck when you're told and you'll be fucked whenever a man orders you to open your cunt. And in time, you will come to enjoy it. Oh, maybe not mentally, but your body will enjoy it. I can see that already. And you're just beginning to understand. But it takes time... Yes, training a dog takes time and patience and those I have. So let's get started with your training. I've never liked dogs with docked tails. Get a tail in this pup. And get an open gag in his mouth. I want to hear him but not understand him. After all, dogs don't speak And put a cage on that dick; I don't want any dog of mine shooting his spunk around my place."

Bill and Guy went to a cupboard and returned to where Brad crouched. Guy was holding a metal ring with leather straps attached on both sides. He pulled the dog's jaws open and Bill shoved the ring behind his teeth. Then he wrapped the straps around his head and buckled the ends together. Brad's mouth was now held open but only noise would come out of it since he was unable to move his jaw to speak. Next, Bill pushed down on his shoulders, squatted over his head and leaned over his back, pinning him to the floor. Then he reached back and pulled Brad's ass open. Brad felt the touch of Guy's cold fingers entering him and lubing his innards. Then he felt the hotter, harder, stretching penetration of something that was not human flesh. He howled in pain as his ass ring was set on fire and though he would have liked to get up and flee, he was held immobile by Bill's weight. Fortunately, Bill began to spank his ass, distracting him from the pain and ringing that distant bell in his head that caused his dick to stiffen. Pain and arousal were once again joined and he struggled to focus his attention on the spanking rather than the fire inside. Finally, the fire began to flicker and die and he breathed a sigh of relief. His dick was still quite firm and he could feel it was beginning to leak when, suddenly, Guy reached between his legs, grabbed him and bent his cock downward, sliding something over it. He moaned with the pain of having his semi-erect penis bent opposite the direction it wanted to go and as he whimpered, he heard the distinctive ratchet of a handcuff. Bill got off his back and raised his head with his hand under Brad's chin.

"Walk pup," Bill said and backed up three paces.

Brad followed and felt the thing inside him oscillate with his movements. He quickly glanced down and saw a metal tube, like a downspout, hiding his dick with a single cuff locked around his cock and balls. He knew that, as long as that was on him, any erection would be pure torture. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a black tail rising over his butt. He flushed with humiliation, realizing that they had indeed planted a tail in him. And every movement made the tail "wag" and stimulated his prostate as the plug holding it in place rubbed back and forth over this spot inside him he'd never known existed. But he wasn't given long to consider his humiliation. Jack Thornsburg stepped in front of him and stood over him. Brad kept his eyes level and forward, looking at Jack's knees. He refused to look at the floor and he refused to look up into his tormentor's face. Thornsburg just laughed. How, Brad wondered, did he seem to read his mind? This in itself was maddening. Then Thornsburg spoke.

"The first lesson is to heel. Give me the leash Bill."

Dutifully, Bill handed Thornsburg the leash. Jack took the leash in his left hand, turned and walked away, barking "heel!"

When Brad failed to move, Thornsburg yanked on the leash, pulling Brad off- balance and choking him. As quickly as he could, Brad struggled to catch up with his antagonist, moving awkwardly on his hands and knees, trying to move to Thornsburg's left, where he held the leash. Then, just as he reached his trainer's heels, he wheeled around to his right, pulling Brad around in a wide circle.

"Heel!"

Again, Brad strove to catch up, crawling on his already sore knees and aching arms. Time after time, the same action: Brad would catch up and possibly stay even with his trainer's heels and Thornsburg would turn again, pulling Brad after him. Each step pulsed in his ass as the tail wagged back and forth and each turn emphasized the movement as the tail whipped around, following the movements of its dog. Brad forced himself to focus on Jack's intake of breath as he inhaled to snap the command. He realized that if he was ready to turn when the order came, it was less effort on his part because he didn't have to play catch-up. So he found himself paying fierce attention to his trainer's every move. Sweat was pouring off his body in a matter of minutes, burning his eyes, forcing them closed. He had to use his hearing and his tactile awareness of his trainer's movements to anticipate when he was going to turn and in which direction. As he got better at it, he found himself feeling a perverse sense of pride in what he was able to do. He'd show this son-of-a-bitch what he was capable of! He would excel at this, as much as it hurt, as humiliating as it was. What he failed to realize was how like a real dog he was becoming.

Finally Thornsburg stopped. Brad fell to the floor, panting, his body shiny with sweat.

"Give the dog some water Bill while I take a time-out," Thornsburg said, handing him the leash.

Bill poured some water from a bottle into a metal bowl on the floor. Brad was parched and, getting quickly to his hands and knees started for the bowl

"Ah, ah!" Bill warned.

Brad realized his mistake and stopped.

"Sit boy," Bill ordered.

A small objection flitted through Brad's mind but he was too thirsty to entertain it. He sat back on his haunches, pushing the plug in even farther. He whimpered slightly from the discomfort and struggled to maintain his stoicism.

"Good boy," Bill crowed. "OK, you can drink now pup."

Without a second thought, Brad lowered his head and began to suck in the water. He realized it was probably some brand of fitness water, having flavor and apparently some additional calories and electrolytes. Smart, he thought; keep him better able to function. Not point in having him collapse. What he hadn't figured on was how difficult it would be to swallow without being able to close his mouth. At first, some of the water went down the wrong pipe, setting off a fit of choking.

"Slow down pup. Use your tongue to close your throat so you can swallow," Bill said.

Brad tried this out and found that he could indeed do it. But it made the drinking quite slow; he had to take some water in his mouth, tilt his head back so that it could flow toward his throat and then raise his tongue to his palate so that he could swallow. It took forever but the fitness water revived him and as long as his abusers permitted him to drink, he was going to do so. Finally, he'd had enough and sat back on his haunches, waiting to see what miseries they would visit on him next.

It suddenly hit him how sore he was: his back ached, his legs burned, his knees felt like someone had hit them with hammers, his shoulders were beginning to cramp and his arms felt like they might fall off. He'd never been through such physical labor in all his life.

As he sat there, his butt pressed down on the tail, rubbing the plug against his prostate and making him leak pre-cum onto the floor. Unconsciously, he began to rock, ever so slightly, to increase the stimulation of that spot inside him. Thornsburg noticed his motion and smiled. Yes, this pup would be a tough one in some ways, but in other ways, he was already trained. Now it was simply a matter of reinforcing his urges and needs and tapping into that dark place into which even Brad McClintock himself couldn't shine a light. But the light would shine and Brad McClintock would be illuminated fully, both to himself and to everyone else.

Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 10

"Get him up on his feet," Jack Thornsburg ordered.

Looking quizzical but obeying his command, Bill and Guy took Brad under the arms and raised him to a standing position. This was unusual for a dog trainee. But neither of them questioned Thornsburg's decisions, at least not out loud and certainly not in front of him. Brad stood there unsteadily, his legs quivering from exhaustion and fear, though he never would have admitted as much.

"Take the cuff off him and clamp his tits to his dick," Thornsburg ordered.

Brad wasn't sure what that meant but he felt a chill pass down his spine. He knew it wasn't intended for his benefit. Guy took a key and unlocked the cuff around his cock and balls while Bill went to the cupboard and brought back two sets of clamps, each joined by a chain. He gave one set to Guy and, in moments, they had fastened a clamp on each tit. Brad sucked in his breath at the pain. Then they fastened the other clamp of each set to the skin on the shaft of his dick, pulling it up and forcing it to stand straight out. Since he was already leaking, Bill took some of the pre-cum and painted the head of his cock with it. Even the slight pressure caused a short jolt of pain to shoot through his dick and tits and he whimpered slightly, in spite of himself. The pulling on his tits, combined with the pinching of his dick skin was distinctly unpleasant but not unbearable, at least not yet.

"Nice and shiny, the way a dog's dick should be," Bill chuckled.

Brad's mind focused on one word: queer. Only queers liked this sort of shit. Only faggots got off on having things stuck up their asses. Queer, faggot. The distant taunts of peers echoed deep in the recesses of his mind, still goading him all these years later. The young boy in him wanted to lash out, to run away, to cry. But he would never let them see him cry; he'd die first.

"Good," said Thornsburg. "OK, I'm going to try something I haven't done before. Get me a halter, a back strap with cuffs and a rope Bill."

Bill fetched the items Thornburg had ordered and the two factotums began fitting them onto the pup. Removing his collar and leash, they buckled the back strap around his neck and then, pulling his arms up and behind his back, buckled them into the cuffs. Brad's arms were now held across the small of his back and he realized he needed to actively hold them up or choke himself with the strap around his throat. Then they fitted the halter on his head and buckled it into place with two straps going across the top of his head, one from front to back, the other from side to side. These were joined to a strap going across his forehead and round to the back of his head, and a fourth going under his chin. What its purpose was, he wasn't sure.

"Tie the rope to the back of the halter," Thornsburg instructed and Bill did as ordered. "Now go get a belt. We're going to exercise the dog some more," he grinned.

Thornsburg moved to the middle of the room, holding the rope in his hand. He ordered Bill to get the belt and stand behind Brad.

"Now," he said, "we're going to try a new technique that came to me last night. I'm going to turn you into a long-distance dog. I've trained several speed racers but I want a dog that can go the distance. So start running pup. Bill, stay with him as much as you can, and incent him. Run pup!"

Brad was no longer questioning Thornsburg's orders; he realized it was futile to object, so he began to trot in a circle around his trainer. Each step jerked his suspended dick, yanking on his tits and cock simultaneously. Then he felt the crack of the belt on his ass and uttering a sharp bark, he began to run faster. His trainer stood in the center, holding the rope that determined the radius of the circle in which Brad was forced to run.

Every few steps, the belt collided with his painful ass, incenting him to keep running. As his body became shiny and slick with sweat and his lungs burned, memories began to arise from his sub-conscious. Running, running, running. He'd forgotten, it had been so long ago...

He was a boy, eight, nine, ten? When he disobeyed his father, or even when he simply made a mistake, his father would remove his belt and tell Bradley to run. Run outside, circling around the house. Circuit after circuit, until he thought he might die. And his father would wait for him on the back porch and each time he passed, would apply the belt to his ass. Sometimes, his father would order him to stop when he came around. He would put his hand behind Brad's neck, bend him over and apply several licks, enough to redden his ass while Brad gasped for air and choked on his tears and snot. Then Dad would order him to continue running. What he couldn't quite understand was that this always made his little penis hard. He thought that was just the way it worked: you get whipped; your penis gets hard. When he reached his teen years, sometimes his father would see his bulging pants and cup his genitals, squeezing and massaging them. Then he'd squeeze very hard as he delivered several more hard whacks to his backside. He realized that was about the time his father started "punishing" him for no particular reason. Dad might come home a little late, having stopped for a few beers and he'd yell for Bradley to present himself. Then he'd berate him for his failure (what failure, Brad asked himself?) But he never had anything specific to cite; he was just pissed. And he'd order Brad to fetch the "special" belt he used and start running. Brad hated his father for doing this to him but he admired him so deeply and wanted to please him so he ran and ran. He hated his father; he loved his father. He needed his father. All he needed was his father's approval.

"Please daddy," Brad gasped, though the words were unintelligible because of the gag. "Please hurt me daddy! Please love me. Please don't leave me!"

Brad was so lost in his memories that he hadn't noticed that Bill had stopped following him and was standing just outside the circle in which he was running. Opposite Bill, Guy had taken up a position and both had belts in their hands. As the pup made his circuit, each time he passed one of the two, they would slash at his ass, much as his father had done as he circled the house. Around and around he went, losing track of how many rounds he'd made; losing track of how many welts were building up on his backside. His butt burned, his lungs burned, his legs burned. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps but he focused on moving forward because he knew the price for stopping before he was told to would be far worse that what he was suffering now...

"Enough!"

Jack Thornsburg signaled Bill to intercept Brad on his next circuit. Brad was gasping deeply for air, his body shiny with real sweat, looking like those bodybuilders oiled for competition that merely imitated the real thing. He fell to his knees, he was so exhausted; then he toppled forwards to the floor.

"Uncuff his hands, take him back to his kennel and give the dog some water; not too much. Then let him rest for a couple of hours," Thornsburg directed.

"Yes sir," Bill and Guy answered in unison.

"And put the cage back on his dick. Dogs' dicks are sheathed. I don't want to be looking at that thing," Thornsburg growled.

Bill grabbed the chains joining the clamps clasping his tits and dick and he yanked them off causing Brad a swift, ragged inhalation from the initial shot of pain as the clamps pulled free. Then another inhalation and a groan as the blood came flooding back into the compressed tissues, sending pain through his nipples and penis. Guy took the cuffed cock cage and closed it behind Brad's cock and balls. Then the two keepers unfastened the cuffs holding Brad's arms behind his back, removed the gag from his aching jaws and, taking him under his arms, pulled him to his feet and half-walked, half-dragged him back to his cage. They put a small bowl of water inside with him, locked the door and left.

Brad lay completely still, every muscle in his body aching and quivering with fatigue, his backside on fire from the beating. He closed his eyes and waited: waited for his body to begin to recover; waited for his mind to process what was happening to him; waited for... for what? He knew he was powerless now so all he could wait for was whatever Jack Thornsburg decreed for him.

Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 11

When, at last, he felt he could move, Brad rolled over, got to his knees and drank. His throat was parched, both from the sweat and the gasping for air during his forced run. He saw there wasn't a lot of water in the bowl and, wanting to make it last a little while, forced himself to slow down. He filled his mouth, let his mucous membranes absorb whatever they could before raising his tongue to close his throat and let the blessed liquid run back, swallowing only small amounts at a time. After each gratifying sip, he sat back on his haunches, closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of the fluid being quickly absorbed into his dehydrated cells. When he'd drunk to the bottom of the bowl, he stuck out his tongue and tried to lick up the last drops.

Brad collapsed into the back of his kennel and promptly fell asleep, grateful to be freed from the physical pain and torment of the training and glad to be freed from the psychological ordeal of finding his body responding in ways he resisted. His sleep was dreamless but he was constantly aware at a subliminal level, of the penetration in his ass and the continual stimulation of his prostate. His rhythmic breathing caused the plug to oscillate slightly and as he slept, his prostate responded to the stimulation and semen began oozing from his dick, running out of the tube ensconcing his flesh and down over his leg.

It seemed he'd been sleeping only seconds when the door banged open, there was motion in the room and the door of his kennel was thrown wide.

"Out boy. Come on. Get up. Time for more training, lazy bitch!" Bill shouted at him, banging the bars of his kennel with a nightstick.

Groggy, Brad pulled himself out of the cage and began to stand. Bill struck the back of his knees with the club, sending him slamming to the floor, crying out in pain.

"On your hands and knees bitch. What the hell are you thinking? Dogs don't stand on two feet!"

Brad groaned from the pains in his knees, both front and back. Then Bill pulled his head up by his hair and wrapped the collar around his neck, buckling it on and snapping the leash into the D ring.

"Heel!" he ordered and turned to walk out the door.

Brad moved as quickly as he could; much more quickly than his knees would've permitted if he'd had his choice in the matter. But he had no choice and Bill wasn't waiting. Brad threw himself after Bill, struggling to keep up as his keeper strode down the hall to the training room.

When they arrived and the door closed after them, Brad realize he no longer had any idea what day it was, what time it was or how long he'd been there. It seemed like forever but he realized that wasn't possible. But the sleep periods had thrown off his internal clock. Had they been long? Brief? He didn't know and his continuing exhaustion was becoming a lasting state of being. He didn't know if he'd ever feel rested again.

"Welcome back pup. I never believed in that old adage 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks'. And you're going to prove me right. So, it's time to learn a new trick bitch."

Brad looked up at Jack Thornsburg's face and saw the delight in the pain of another, Schadenfreude, the Germans called it, that he'd seen so often in the mirror after brutally dressing down an underling. Seeing the same look in Jack's face suddenly made him feel ashamed. How could he possibly be like this man? He couldn't, could he? Didn't he just have high expectations? Sure, he was demanding, but wasn't that how you got ahead in this world? Isn't that what he'd learned from his fathers training? But seeing the same look in his trainer's face started him questioning his own motives.

Jack stood roughly ten paces from where Brad crouched.

"Come boy," he ordered.

Immediately, Brad crawled to him, not wanting to invite further punishment to his still painful buttocks. On aching knees, he moved to his trainer.

"Sit."

Brad sat back on his haunches.

"Stay."

The flat of Thornsburg's palm in front of his nose was exactly the gesture he'd seen used on obedience-trained dogs. He stayed, trying not to move a muscle as Thornsburg turned and walked across the room.

"Come!"

Again, he lifted himself off his haunches and crawled painfully to his trainer. He forced his mind to focus on accomplishing each order as well as he could, which proved a difficult challenge in having to overcome the agony in his limbs. And every "step" caused that damned tail to wag, massaging his prostate with the plug that held it in place and causing his imprisoned cock to press sorely against the pipe enclosing it.

"Sit!"

Brad lowered himself again, once more feeling the plug pushing into his anus. He lifted his eyes to look at his trainer not as a challenge, but rather to watch for any telegraphing of his next command, enabling this dog, as he was beginning to think of himself, to anticipate and execute the command as soon as it was spoken. His trainer smiled at him and he felt a sense of grim satisfaction: he was doing what was expected. He was pleasing his master.

"Stand up pup but keep your hands on the floor," Thornsburg ordered.

Brad groaned as he straightened his legs and felt the pull down his hamstrings. He hadn't been in a position like this since he was a teenager playing at yoga. The intervening years had reduced his flexibility and now he felt it. Why was his master ordering this now?

Jack Thornsburg moved up to him and stood directly in front of him. Brad realized that his mouth was now level with his master's crotch and he began to tremble. Was it from excitement or dread or both? He couldn't tell; all he knew was his limbs were quivering slightly and he felt a hollowness in his stomach. Thornsburg undid his pants and pulled them down, exposing his stiffening cock.

Brad looked at it and shivered involuntarily. Men will steal glances at other men when there's a chance, such as when pissing in a public restroom. How do I measure up? That's the question. Longer than I am? Thicker? Bigger head? Bigger balls? Thicker bush? Men compare and compensate with other things when they come up short. Well, I drive a nicer car. I make more money. I have... A man has to compensate or he is defeated. But what could Brad compensate with now? Here he was, stripped of his property, stripped of his dignity, stripped of his clothes, even stripped of his hair. His compensations were gone. All he could do was look on this cock that was going to take him and feel insignificant.

Even though Brad had sucked his master once before, this was the first time he'd gotten a good look at his cock. It wasn't terribly long, not that Brad had seen many erect dicks in his life, but it was intimidating. At seven inches, there were certainly longer cocks in the world but what captured Brad's attention was its thickness. It reminded him of that sausage; what was it? A knockwurst? Yes, that was it. It was long enough but Brad realized it was going to stretch his jaws a great deal when it became fully erect and entered his mouth. The corona seemed to fit right into the shaft, rather than forming a ridge that stood proud from it. It was cut neatly and there was a network of blood vessels extending down the shaft along the top. It looked like a medieval battering ram and Brad's anal sphincter clenched in fear as he thought of it crashing through his gates.

"Open!" was the command. And it was a command; not a request or a suggestion. It was a straightforward command and there was an implicit tag: open or suffer.

Brad opened his mouth as far as he could, hoping it would be enough.

"Tongue out!"

Brad extended his tongue.

Jack placed his battering ram on Brad's tongue.

"Don't move," he ordered.

Brad crouched there, his tongue straining to remain extended as his master's warm flesh rested on it, oozing fluid onto his taste buds.

"Lick."

Brad looked down at the flesh in front of him, curling his tongue under it to lick. There was a clear drop exuding from the lips of the piss slit and instinctively, Brad licked it up. It was salty and viscous and he realized he liked the taste. But he knew that his likes and dislikes were not at issue here: his goal was to please his master, his trainer and demonstrate his competence.

Finally Thornsburg slid his column into Brad's open mouth, stretching his jaws wide and pressing against his soft palate and making him gag.

"Control it pup! And don't let me feel your teeth!" Thornsburg ordered and Brad understood and strove to obey.

Jack wasn't thrusting: he simply stood there, the end of his broad dick at Brad's choking point until Brad was able to control his reflexes and resist the urge to gag.

"Very good pup. I knew you'd be a quick learner. You're a born cock-sucker."

Thornsberg didn't necessarily like clichés but he understood the psychological impact inflicted by the phrase he used. Calling a man like Brad McClintock a cocksucker was another step in his humiliation and degradation. Chip by chip, his defenses were falling away.

When Brad's throat had been trained to accept his cock, Jack took hold of his ears and began to fuck his mouth.

"Good boy," he whispered. "Good cocksucker."

Over and over, driving the point home with each thrust as Brad struggled to find the synchronization between breathing and Jack's thrusts. Finally, he mastered it and felt less like he was suffocating on cock and less like gagging. Spit coated Brad's chin and dripped onto the floor. The sounds of Jack's dick sloppily going in and out almost drowned out the mantra he kept repeating, training Brad's mind.

"Good boy. Good cocksucker. Good boy. Good cocksucker."

"Press your tongue against my dick pup. Squeeze my meat with your throat. Make me come boy. Make your master come!" Jack gasped as his thrusts increased in urgency.

Brad felt the beginnings of the tremors through his tongue, then the throbbing waves pulsing through his Master's cock and then the sudden, urgent eruption as hot fluid hit the back of his throat and ran down his gullet accompanied by Master's guttural shouts. Jack let go of his ears and braced himself on Brad's shoulders, gasping for breath. Brad himself was gasping for breath around the cock that still filled his mouth.

All he could hear in his mind was the mantra "Good boy. Good cocksucker. Faggot. Queer!"

To be continued.