ONE
a stainless steel butt plug alive tucked inside the boy's asshole buzzing gently steadily laying upon his prostate driving him mad for hours uncounted hours
while the master watches enjoying the maddening torture his slave is experiencing repeatedly repeatedly
"Tired yet?" the master asked with a grin, and watched as the boy nodded violently, his eyes pleading, his lips clutching to the bright red ball gag that had been stuffed inside his mouth. The master was certain that his boy's jaws were stiff by now, in complete misery. He'd been sucking on the gag since morning. The day was almost over.
The boy was beautiful in this position, in this state. Wrists shackled to the headboard of the master's bed. Legs raised perpendicular to the boy's torso. Ankles tied to a wooden block suspended from the ceiling. The unmistakable glint of the cold steel protruding from his exposed rectum. Stomach muscles taut, arm muscles showing exhaustion, entire body covered with a thin layer of perspiration. The master lived for moments like these, images like these: a beautiful boy, helpless, chained in his bed, completely at his mercy.
"Do you have any idea how breathtaking you are, Steven?" the master asked gently. The boy groaned softly, eyes still pleading, as the master joined him on the bed and stroked his hair. "My beautiful beautiful boy."
The insistent hum of the butt plug pierced the silence every now and again. The master told Steven that he would keep it on low so long as he was a good boy throughout this current training session, and so far the boy had been just that. The master was pleased with Steven's improving obedience; the first week had been trying. The boy fought him at every turn, refusing to comply with his predicament. Refusing to acknowledge his new status as a slave. The last brutal whipping -- the third in as many days -- seemed to turn the tide. In the few days that had passed, the master had noted a marked change in his slave's attitude.
The welts were still visible in spots on Steven's body, especially the backs of his thighs and the middle of his back, where most of the blows had been concentrated. The cat can be a vicious instrument, and the master had never used it quite that forcefully before. But he had no choice. He had to make a point. He had to make the kid see the reality of his situation.
He had deliberately left Steven ungagged for the beating. It was a risk, and he feared that the boy would hurt himself, accidentally or otherwise. The master had seen it before -- a previous slave had swallowed his tongue in the heat of the moment during an intense punishment session, and another had gone into shock, biting through his bottom lip before the master could pull the slave out of his daze. Since then, he had insisted on using mouth plugs on his slaves. He wanted to be the only one inflicting pain on these boys.
But Steven was different. The master knew it. He had already made up his mind to beat the kid into complete submission -- he knew he would succeed in breaking Steven's will with the pain of the cat. The slave was defiant in the beginning, steadfast. His pleas and protestations were amusing at the outset, and completely normal, but they had quickly turned tiresome. The master was ready for the boy to suffer, ready for him to understand his new place. And he wanted to hear Steven's screams. Better and more importantly, he wanted Steven to hear Steven's screams. He wanted all the sounds in the room -- the graceful whoosh of the whip sailing through the air, and the hideous snap of the whip making contact, and Steven's own inhumane howling -- to work in concert, to form a unique symphony that would echo in the boy's ears for the rest of his life.
It was over in less than an hour. Forty-five glorious, explosive minutes, watching a slave truly be born. The boy -- who had theretofore been ferocious in his attempts to fight off the master -- was completely submissive when it was over, completely docile and tame, broken. He offered no resistance at all when the master unchained his beaten, spent body and laid him on the bed to treat the most serious of the bloody wounds. The boy's back was red with welts and marks, and the skin was laying open in several places. He whimpered and wept throughout the aftermath of his ordeal. His teenage dick: hard as steel, unwavering, well into the night, well after the master had cuffed his hands to the bed and told him to get some rest.
The master had never gone that far before, had never used such merciless masculine power with his whip. Had rarely ever drawn blood. He had crossed a line, broken a boundary, and he knew it. But he also knew it was necessary. And he enjoyed it. He got an erection from the experience that stunned him. He had been on fire with the cat in his hand, he had been a dancer for a moment, all fluid motion, all elastic grace. Whipping this kid was like a cruel ballet of anger and emotion and pain and, finally, acceptance. And it turned him on, more powerfully than anything ever had. His cock had jolted to life. It took all he had not to ravage the kid's ass after the whipping was done -- every ounce of willpower not to fuck him raw, his cock begging for release, his chest and legs and hands ready to fuck something.
Instead, he arranged the slave face down on the bed and tended to the wounds, treating the boy's abused back and legs with peroxide, and later lotion. Listened to Steven's quiet, fearful sobbing, which provided a perfect coda to the earlier symphony.
"Can you speak?" the master asked calmly as he continued with the lotion. The boy shook his head slowly and croaked out a ragged, "No." He had screamed for almost an hour straight, with no relief.
"You did good tonight, Steve. Took my punishment like a man. You survived, boy." The master was proud. He had finally made a breakthrough with his latest prize. He could tell by Steven's entire demeanor that he had been successful. "Don't disappoint me now, understand?"
The boy nodded his head.
"I'm going to plug you for the night." Steven began to whimper again, but stopped short of saying no again, of begging the master not to. "I won't turn it on tonight," he said as the silver object slid home inside the boy's hole. He then retrieved the menage a trois cuffs and secured his slave's hands to the bed. Finally, he fixed the kid's favorite water bottle so that he could get his lips around it without having to move. "I'll leave the gag out tonight too, so you can get a drink when you want one."
Steven nodded his head again. The master took a hard look at his boy's eyes, moist and red from crying. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Steve. I hope you'll always remember this." The eyes gave him away. They always gave a slave away. The eyes burned with defeat, with acceptance. The eyes confirmed that this slave would always remember this night, this moment. Nothing would ever be the same.
"Get some rest, Steve. It's gonna be a long day tomorrow for the two of us," the master said, and leaned down to give the boy a small kiss on the forehead. He flipped off the light switch as he left the room, leaving the sobbing boy to dwell on his pain.
Upstairs in his suite, the master unsnapped the tight leather armbands that had been hugging each of his biceps and threw them on the floor. His dick was still solid, still standing. The head was already dripping. He ran himself a hot bath -- water close to scalding -- and eased his sore body into it. He already knew he'd be dreaming of Steven's ragged voice tonight, hearing the boy's repeated screaming. He'd have given anything to have someone to fuck at that precise moment, someone who would just drop to his hands and knees without a word and submit, and take it. Take it raw and rough.
He'd have to settle for his hand, for just one more night. He knew in his bones that Steven wouldn't be fighting his advances any longer, so the lonely nights were done beyond this one. His dick was so ready, aching to be enveloped anew, dying to plunge into another fresh, clean ass. He couldn't wait to teach Steven how to prepare himself for a master's love.
His dick was burning: hot to the touch, swollen, deep purple, throbbing. The warmth of the bathwater was sending the master's body completely over the edge as he pumped his cock with his firmest gentle grip. Steven's screams and moans replayed inside his mind, and the master was overwhelmed by the sheer erotic thrill of the pain he had just inflicted upon the kid. All-American boy. High school quarterback. Cheerleader's boyfriend. Perfect young man. Slave.
There was no controlling the orgasm, the desperate release, it came and went too quickly. The master's dick exploded inside his fisted hand as he lost himself in dreams of a new slave. Life was beginning all over again, for both of them.
He toweled off from the now-tepid bath. His cock, temporarily spent and satisfied, was still half-hard, threatening to spring back to life at any moment. He was dying to fuck, still. He had to fight a strong urge to return to Steven and maul him.
He retired to the darkness of his personal bedroom, sank into his inviting bed, and proceeded to count the minutes until he could be a true master again. Steven had been in his possession for two weeks, and the master had yet to fully penetrate the boy. The boy had fought him so hard. The waiting, the anticipation, had been torture.
No more waiting, the master whispered into the darkness as he felt his cock return to full strength. Our new lives begin tomorrow.
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