Tent

THE TENT by "Pafbam"

Level Zero

...As he stepped into the dark tent Anton couldn't see anything: the bright, late autumn sunlight had temporarily blinded him. The voice had been quiet, but the command was delivered by one clearly used to being obeyed: "Step inside and close your eyes." Anton did so instinctively.

He had found the site easily, and then the tent: recognised from the description and because of the distinctive car which stood outside. He had set off early, anxious to be on time. His heart was beating solidly as he revved his engine through the lanes: he could feel a tingle of excitement in every part of him. Then he had had to slow his bike down to a slow cruising speed, because he wanted his timing to be exactly as ordered.

As he dismounted, he had felt like turning and running; twice he had put his hand out to knock on the tent corner where the solid frame's outline was clear beneath the stout canvas, and the eventual knock had been feeble. But when the voice sounded from within, he lost the will to flee: it told him to run the door-zip up and enter, and he did exactly what it said.

Now he stood in the uncertain, comforting darkness of his own tight- closed lids. He felt the helmet being removed from under his arm: one item of his armour gone - a willing surrender to vulnerability. He could feel the presence near him, a little radiated warmth; he heard the gentle rustle of cloth on cloth. Then something was placed onto the front of his face - a blindfold? He felt hands twining something behind his head.

"Open your eyes!" - again the calm authority.

He could not see. He heard the big door zip closing firmly behind him. His hands were still free, and his legs. He could tear the blindfold of easily and run. The tent zip was no prison door....

But The Presence was. Anton felt the nearness - wanted it - feared it; but wanted it more. HE was behind him. Doing what? He must be looking at his servant? Was HE appraising him? What did HE think of him? Was his slave good enough? Or worse, was HE ignoring him? That chilled him - to be standing waiting in service, and be ignored! Then the Master moved - he could hear it. What was HE doing?

Then again the voice: "Raise your arms out sideways, please."

A "please", but it was not a request. Yet it was not ironic, that "please" - a gentling of the order tone - perhaps his Master was pleased? He felt cold metal snap onto his wrist, then again on the other and heard a jingling. Then hands grasped his upper arms and manoeuvered him forward and to the side. After a few moments he felt some movement of the metal around his wrists: he tried to move slightly, experimentally, and realised that he couldn't.

"Relax your arms and let the rope support them." He could drop them about a foot before they held. Then hands were on his foot - the shoe off - the foot placed carefully on the grass-springy groundsheet. Something was round his ankle: he felt it through the sock. The same thing happened to the other foot. Then he felt sideways pressure from the bindings on his ankles - his feet were moved progressively apart, till they spanned about a yard. He felt an urge to pull, to struggle - he wriggled a little.

The voice spoke again: "Don't pull on the restraints. They will hold you: don't hurt yourself testing them. Even if they did not exist, you would still stand in that position, because that is what I want you to do. You may not speak to me yet. Nod your head to show you understand."

Anton nodded carefully once.

"Good" A word of reward. Gentle and reassuring.

Then he felt hands, THE hands, making explorative motions over his clothed body: they passed lightly over the smooth surface of his leather jacket, barely sensible through the fabric, following the contours of his shoulders, along his upper arms. His master must be standing behind him. The hands followed his arms down to the cuffs, one hand on each wrist - the master spreadeagled like the slave - then hands on hands; fingers twining with fingers. He could feel the body pressing against him, as if he were wearing his master on his back; then lips made gentle contact with the back of his neck. He felt the mouth follow the skin of his neck round, just below the hairline, till the tongue was toying with his earlobe, the nose exploring behind his ear, the twin columns of warm breath washing over him and down into his collar. He felt a tingling stirring of the hair roots on his neck and scalp as he bathed in the intimate contact of his lover lord.

Teeth held his ear now, and pulled his head back and over to the side. He felt the mouth steer round to the front of the ear and then move downward and start along the line of the jaw outward, the nostrils laving his lower cheek and the tongue making little lapping movements as it progressed. The mouth came upon a little stubble, missed in the oh so careful shaving by which he had prepared himself. He tensed slightly as he realised his failure, then relaxed deliciously as the tongue tip prickled them and trickled them; the teeth began nibbling at them, trying to close on one enough to tweak it - he felt a sharp trill when one became trapped and tugged momentarily. His master obviously enjoyed the variety of texture and expressed no displeasure at all.

The hands were active again now too: one was beneath his jacket at the hip, pressing against his side as the fingers sought for lower edge of his tee-shirt, moving onto the naked skin at the top of his groin. The other arm was across his front, the hand under one side of the jacket front. First it cupped under the low mound of his breast, then fingers made the nipple hard, sliding the fabric over its sensitive surface in a twisting movement.

His master's arm across his chest was a true embrace, and the fingers on his nipple and the lovebites on the side of his chin inflamed him to a low groan of pleasure...

The blow was more surprising then painful at first, though he felt the reddening fingermarks of burning shame on his cheek like acid afterwards. The arms were withdrawn, and the nipple-hand it was that had struck his unkissed cheek a sharp slap.

The voice was different now. "You know what you have done?"

But he did not know - was not sure. He stood in silence for a few moments of thought, his head hanging. He heard movements. Fingers gripped his chin and raised his head.

The voice, now in front of him, repeated the question with a harder edge. "No, Master..." he started to say, when the second blow sent him reeling against his restraints. This was harder, with a full swing behind the slap. Now both cheeks burned, and his heart burned as he realised his own stupidity. Silence. The rule was silence, and he had twice broken it. He nodded his head three times now, anxious to show that he had realised, and pursed his lips tightly in demonstration for good measure.

A hand gripped his hair hard from behind and pulled his head back, then his master's mouth fell upon his throat, symbolically gripping his voice- box with lips and teeth. But the threat turned to nuzzling, and the biting moved to the root of his neck, where it met the shoulder, the tongue exploring the nooks, cables and crannies. His cheeks still burned, but he was embraced once more by arms which crossed behind him, by hands which pressed against his shoulders.

He rehearsed, while locked in this embrace, the instructions which he had been given - and which he had overlooked. He was to start on the bottom rung, a silent, sightless, virtually immobile thing; he would gain privileges according as he pleased the master - speech, sight, voluntary movement. In his present stage he must not speak or move, whether restrained or not, except as ordered, or to save himself or his master from danger. He must certainly never touch himself below the waist or attempt to cover his organs from his master's gaze. When first granted his sight, he must not look up from the ground except to serve his master. When he had earned it, he could move freely, speak freely and act freely, even teasing his master if that seemed desirable to excite his master further. But now he was not even a robot, just a tailor's dummy - an action man doll to be dressed or undressed or moved into any position at his master's whim. The master's hands were now caressing downwards, arms enfolding his waist, then feeling the full shape of his buns. He hoped they pleased and would soon earn him some little advancement so that he could serve better.

Cover his organs... That made him think of his member. His attention had been so focussed elsewhere that he had to feel mentally what the state of it was. His master had not seemed to be interested in it so far. It was full, he felt, but not rigid. As he contemplated it he could feel it stirring, the head rubbing against the fabric as it swelled and stiffened. It was caught in the folds and not comfortable as it strengthened. For the first time he was really aware of his own arms' immobility: he could not lower a hand to adjust it. For the first time he was thoroughly aware of the meaning of the restraints. But touching himself below the waist was forbidden anyway. Even the thought was disobedience. But that cock was getting damned uncomfortable - perversely stiffening more as the pain that action caused increased. He tried to free it by sucking in his stomach muscles and twisting his hips - and got his bottom smacked for his pains. Now three of his cheeks burned, and his cock-head felt as if it were being strangled down there. What was he to do?

He COULD speak if it was necessary to save his master or himself from harm: was there really any danger? Could his prick be injured by it? Dare he speak out? He didn't think so. He concentrated all his thoughts into willing his master to notice and to do something about it, and this took away all the pleasure he had felt from the embrace and the bun-fondling. He realised what it really meant to be helpless and at his master's mercy - or lack of it. He was filling rapidly with a panic. Half of him said it was a foolish, meaningless panic, a nonsense. Reason! He must use his brain. Talk himself down. Back off mentally. He started counting backwards from 100, tearing his mind from any thoughts but the numbers...

He got as far as 69 then the significance of the number brought him back to insanity....

Where was his master? He could not feel hands or arms upon him now. Surely HE would notice? Then he felt his belt being loosened. He felt it slipping around him as the master removed it from the loops. Then his fourth cheek took fire: his master had struck him with his own belt. It wasn't a hard blow. At least the shock concentrated his attention away from his fancied near-maimed cock for a moment. Why had his master done that? Could he read his lack of concentration? Was he just testing it? Or him?

"Too light - not enough flexibility either..." It WAS just a test of the leather belt. And it had failed. But at least he himself had not, for the voice continued: "...but you took the blow well enough."

He felt movement at the front of his jeans - the buttons were being unfastened one by one. Suddenly the knotted fabric loosened - he felt his prick spring forward, tenting the pouch of his briefs. Then the jeans fell away from his torso, exposing a few inches of upper leg below the briefs till the width of his stance caught them ridiculously. He felt very silly with his trousers at half mast: felt more bare and undressed than he would if naked.

"Damn - I need you to be down and you're stiff as a board. Give me a yell when the erection subsides." Hands dragged the briefs down off the privates and then moved them back up sufficiently to recover the ball- sack, leaving the prick jutting unattended and untouched into space. With nothing touching it but the cool air, he was much less aware that it was still erected. Nothing stimulated it. His proud manhood was unheeded - not even looked at apparently, for he heard a metallic creaking as his master reposed himself in a camp chair behind his back.

He stood there a while, trying not to think. He could hear a rustle of paper behind him. Was his master reading? Sitting there reading, and ignoring him completely? Well the fault was his. He only had to call to regain attention, but that could only be when his erection had subsided. And the feeling of capture, of helplessness, standing there with his trousers partly down and his member exposed, ignored - he felt completely a chattel, completely a thing owned, dedicated to his master, who was as yet a voice and a presence. It satisfied and excited him, yet it was not truly satisfactory.

After an age, a measureless eternity, his organ subsided, and he called quietly, "Master!"

Another crackle of paper - putting it down? Then the voice, "Oh, well that didn't take long - the state it was in, I expected a long wait. Well done, my slave."

"My slave" - the words thrilled him.

"Well, we'd better get you emptied before I fit this ring." A feel of sharp. slightly clammy plastic around the root and front of his prick. "All right, now empty your bladder for me."

He could never remember having pee-ed before without his own hand to guide, to direct the jet. Now he was blind and completely helpless. It took an effort to relax his sphincter, then he heard the liquid flowing into some sort of bottle. It felt as if he was pissing himself. He half expected to feel the warm liquid flowing shamefully down his legs as in some half-remembered juvenile accident. The flow lessened and stopped. He urged a few times, and a little more liquid spilled out. The bottle neck was removed and his tip wiped on the cloth of his pants.

Then, for the first time, he felt the touch of his master on his genitals. First his balls were raised, still warm and floppy from being wrapped in the pants, and he felt something alien beneath them. He realised it must be a ring of some sort, but had expected hard cold metal, and this was - what was it? - leather? - rubber? Gradually first one then the second ball was pressed through it, then the softened shaft of his member bent. The glans was poked through and then pulled to draw the remnant of the shaft after it.

It didn't seem too tight. It pulled his balls forward, but was not uncomfortable. His master made a final adjustment, seating the ring at the very base of his cock, then drawing the foreskin, which had been pushed back slightly in the process, as far forward as possible. He didn't want to stiffen, having received no order to do so, but he had no choice. Soon he found that the ring was just tight enough, making his early stage erection seem deliciously full, swollen by the constriction at the base restricting the flow of blood from the organ.

Next he felt a cold band being fitted to his neck: a leather collar - with studs, he guessed, from the weight and the spots of extra coldness. He squared up, proud to receive the accoutrements of his servitude. By the time the stiff buckle was set, his manhood was at full flare, gulping spasmodically in ecstasy when his master's clothing brushed it as he passed. How he longed to use his hands on it - to grip it in his fist and slam the skin backwards and forwards. But his hands were his master's now, and his cock was his master's - and the collar and ring meant that HE was his master's...

Suddenly he felt an urge to throw himself to the ground, cram his collared neck to the earth and drag his master's foot upon it to show his zeal. He thrust himself against his restraints until the bands on his wrists pulled him back to reality. He waited for the blow theat never came, his buttocks clenched. Then he felt a hand upon his cock. It adjusted his foreskin, which had pulled back somewhat in his excited state. Then the hand grasped his two balls and pulled them down - not hard, but quite far - to settle them into an aesthetically pleasing position.

Next he felt the pull on one of his wrists going slack. The line holding it was being released. At first he was tempted to move his arm around, then he remembered his place. He held the position just as if the rope were still taut. He must be a doll to be played with as his master wished.

"Good, my slave! - Very good!" - the voice was soft and warm - so was the hand that fondled his erection gently as a reward. So were the lips that brushed against his cheek and down across them to his lips. He thought he was to be kissed, but the lips parted and the teeth behind gripped and gently bit his upper lip, then tightened, with what sweet pain!

This must have turned his master on suddenly, because hands suddenly grasped his head from both sides and then there was a kiss, a deep kiss, with the firm tongue thrusting into him, body pressed up against his violently, till the crushing of his erection against the abrasive cloth of the master's garments gave him shock-waves of pain-pleasure.

The voice again: "You have done Very well, my slave. You have earned the right to help a little. I am going to remove your upper garments first. You may bend and move your free arm as required to assist." He flt his jacket being eased up until it was withdrawn from the free arm. Then the tee-shirt had the same treatment, being drawn right up on his body in the process until his free hand was right inside it. There were some movements that he did not understand, and then he felt a weight and pull on the side of his collar - he realised that the wrist was fastened to it on some short tether coming through the shirt's neckband. The other arms was freed and treated in the same way. Now he was within the shirt, like some straight jacket. The leather jacket was removed and he could hear sounds of it being placed carefully somewhere behind him. Finally the shirt was dragged away over his head. Now he was naked down to where the pants and trousers hung ignominiously from his parted thighs.

By releasing and re-fastening each ankle restraint in turn, the lower garments were removed, leaving only socks. His master, he knew, preferred to leave them on: they were the kind carefully specified to please - tall white socks with the tops turned down. He was now as naked as he would get. He stood there, not really feeling cold, but, in his isolating darkness, he shivered briefly.

"You have done well, my slave! Soon you will be raised to the next level. You may now make one request - if you choose wisely, I might even grant it. But be careful!"

He didn't stop to think. Down he went, forward, pressing his neck to the ground - not caring what was there. In fact it was the soft fabric of the collapsed sleeping quarters he found later. In this position, kneeling with his buttocks high in the air and his face pressed into the cotton canvas, he said, as calmly as he could, which was a hysterical, tremulous burst: "Put your foot on my neck to demostrate my submission to you, Sir! Beat me, Master! Let me feel your lash, please, Sir!"

No answer was made, but after a moment he felt a socked foot pressing his neck, then the heel against his cheek. Soon, he knew, he would have the second part of his wish granted. He felt fear and love and horror and happiness and isolation and communication all together in some terrible, wonderful melding. This, he was sure, also signalled the raising of his slavery to the next rung. No more, provided he didn't displease and relapse, would he be just a zero. He had pleased his Master!

--o)]O[(0--

Level One

The Master considered. Under his foot he could feel the shape of the neck, and a good neck it was. Looking down he saw the back, hollowed abjectly to raise the buttocks higher. And fine they were too. He didn't really like what he was to do next. What he MUST do. The slave expected it and needed it. It would be highly stimulating to the slave, and even pleasurable in the initial stages, but it was his duty to go beyond the pleasure stage. He must bring pain - real pain - pain that wouldn't stop. Yet he must judge the ending point exactly. And each blow must be finely placed in time and space for the maximum effect and the minimum damage. He must hurt well, for the slave needed to be hurt - to feel humiliated and helpless: that was why the pain must continue a little beyond endurance.

He hated himself too, because his cock was already rising to the occasion. He despised himself for the feelings of pleasure that he would feel as the leather bit into the buttocks. By the second stroke he would, he knew, be rigid and aching with stimulation. It was hard to reconcile the feelings going through him. Later it would be worth it, when the slave would be humming and purring like a (literally) well oiled machine entirely at his control. This was what he wanted and the slave wanted. Ultimately the pain was love - his cock knew that, so why didn't his brain?

He must control himself. Control. Himself and the slave. In that control lay ecstacy for them both. He must drive down the anger that he felt - drive it down, yet draw on it for the power it would give his arms.

He planned the first stroke. He would deliver it from this position. He would make the slave think it would fall across the buttocks, then feel the startle, the shudder, the wince of the whole body through his foot as it fell elsewhere. He would drape the wide belt across the buttocks, as if measuring for the stroke. Raise it and lower it so that each cold, gentle touch was a foretaste of an agony that was not to be. Then he must shorten the free leather in his hand and drive it savagely down across that back's flank and hips in a staccato cut.

All this he did, and he felt the reaction through his foot - saw the body tensing for the wrong blow and then the shock of the real biting contact. Heard the strangled half cry. This slave was good. He'd expected more noise than that.

He moved to behind. Now those buttocks would really feel it. Should he give some preliminary indication again? No - that trick wouldn't work again for a while. Now it was all timing. Keep him waiting? No. Two quick ones now - don't let him get his breath. The second one very sharp indeed - he'd break that silence yet.

The first blow landed very square - the reddening weal formed a neat cross with the arse slit. The second was a rising blow, licking the underside of the left globe more than the right. It had had more edge in it than he liked, producing a cleaner line. This was not good. He wished neither to cut the skin nor bruise the meat. Still, it produced the cry he wanted.

How many more strokes? Unfortunately, a lot more yet. This slave had strength, of character and of body. He knew he could not stop until the slave sincerely begged for him to stop - and then only after more strokes to show his mastery and properly instruct the slave. It was in this going beyond that the real relationship was born. Well, three down - how many more to go?

His own cock seemed on fire - he expected it to glow when he looked down, so hot and full did it seem. And so stiff, so hard - felt like it could knock nails in. But this was not for his pleasure.

He would make the slave stand now. The movement of the muscles would bring additional discomfort. He decided to stand in front of the slave as he stood up, so that he could see his face responding to the twinges. He would also be able to exmine the state of his erection. And the sight of his Master's erection would give the slave pleasure. Indeed, perhaps he the buttocks. By the second stroke he would let him do more than just look...

"Raise yourself to a kneeling position. I will then remove your blindfold temporarily. You may kiss the extreme tip of my penis as reward for what you have done so far. You may not touch it. You will lower your gaze to the ground immediately afterwards."

This was done. The slave blinked blearily as the fold was raised. The grazing touch of his lips made the Master's cock surge. It took strength to stay back from ramming its whole length deep into his throat. He permitted himself the luxury of stroking his raging glans against the slave's smooth cheek for a while; rubbed it against his nose so that he could smell it. Then he pulled the head forward and rubbed his balls against the slave's hair. Then he slipped the fold back over the eyes and dragged himself back to his correct role as Master, his balls still tingling from the touch of the hair. The slave was smiling now, happy at the Master smell he had encountered at such close quarters.

"STAND!" - abrupt. Rapid, wincing compliance. Sharp cut across the front of the thighs. Yell. Good! Soon be over.

And, Oh!, the prick! No organ could ever be more sharply erected. He lowered his nose towards it - smell of musk and new baked biscuits. He put out his hand towards it, then drew back. Too soon! Too soon! An idea struck him. He picked up the second leather belt and used it to caress and torment the organ for a while. He prodded the pointed end of the leather between the glans and the skin. He pressed the cold buckle into the balls and dragged it slowly upwards along the front of the shaft. He caught the bead of precum forming at the end on the side of the leather and smeared it between the slaves nipples. He jabbed the point of the buckle into the nipples, then moved back down to the cock. He tapped the top of the flaring rigidity with a small loop bent out of the leather and watched as it bounced up and down. He trapped the shaft in a loop and dragged it downwards painfully, then twisted the loop to tighten it, then pulled it sharply away, dragging the skin back into place as he did so. The way that shaft wobbled in the air!

He tapped a loop against the lower belly and saw with satisfaction the effect on the cock of the sudden contraction of the stomach muscles. This cock was on offer to him. It was becoming HIS with each stroke he laid on the body before him. Back to the task...

Next dirty trick - the reason he had applied belt to cock. He flexed the second belt ready for a blow, then held the leather of the first belt against the inflamed organ. While the slave thought the strap was otherwise engaged, the second belt crashed across his lower back - a downwards blow onto the top of the buttocks. The surprised yell was very satisfactory. Loud and sincere, but with no pleading in it yet. To tighten the screw...

"How many more strokes do you think you can endure?" Make him think he would know when the end came - feel he was only to last out a little longer. Then the cruelty of the extra blows...

"Ss - ff - ssi - - FOUR, SIR, I think..." Good. The indecision and the doubt of the final "think". Maybe this would not be too protracted.

The next two blows were not too heavy, but the rapid alternation, using first one belt then the other in different hands, gave no time for recovery. The slave was out of breath. Damn! He had forgotten a detail. "You will count out loud each time a blow lands. We'll forget those two," nasty! "and you can start at ONE for the next."

Shouting the numbers would MAKE him yell. For the next blow he used both belts in one hand, a double flailing across the buttocks and the back of the thighs. The red marks were criss-crossing now. He grabbed the balls and pull hard down, squeezing. A croaking intake of breath. Two single strappings in rapid succession, one across the back. The "THREE" was ear- splitting.

"Three, WHAT?"

"SIR, SIR!"

"Begin again with ONE! Do it properly!"

Crash. "ONE, SIR!" - and a very pleading "SIR" it was.

"TWO, SIR!"

"THREE! SIR!"

"NOW BEND OVER. STRETCH THOSE BUNS TIGHT!"

The slave bent nearly double. He yanked the cock which appeared between the legs, squeezing it and pulling it upwards and pressed it against the arse-slot, thrusting the balls painfully sideways. Oh! the feel of it! Oh! the sight of the marks on the stretched skin.

His whole body was shaking as he delivered the next blow - this time with a wooden paddle, which made contact with most of the twin globes.

"FOUR!! gulp SIR!" Triumphant!

But the paddle came down once more.

Startled silence.

"That was for your stupidity. And this -" splat "- is because you have stopped counting!"

"Er SIX, SIR!"

"Five - they don't count when YOU don't! This is Six!"

But he waited for a moment before laying into him once more. Then...

"SIX, SIR!"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Yes, SIR, please, SIR!"

SPLAT! "Who cares what you want? You're only a shit - slave. You may beg me to stop, but I'll stop when I'm ready."

"SEVEN, SIR!" - sounding wounded now.

SPLAT! "EIGHT, SIR!" - He'd had enough; soon it would be over.

"Why aren't you begging me? I told you to beg me!"

"OH PLEASE, SIR, STOP, SIR!"

SPLATT! "PLEASE, SIR, N-NINE, SIR, I'M BEGGING YOU SIR!!

SPLATTT!! "TEN, SIR, OH! NO MORE, SIR! PLEASE, SIR! I BEG YOU, SIR!"

His voice was breaking up! What? Three more? Maximum. It was nearly all done. Mustn't let the slave hope though...

SPLATTTT! He'd almost straightened up with that one. The begging and the numbering were screamed. The SIR was automatic. His mastery was assured. One more for luck. The slave would never know hope again and he need never do this again. Not need, but if he wanted to.... His own cock was threatening to split right open from the internal build up of blood, it seemed. Many more blows and he would cum from sheer excitement. And that would be a waste.

Back to the belt for the last one. The change would scare the shit out of the slave, expecting surely that the new implement would be used for many blows not just one singleton. It followed the line of the spine and licked between the buns. The slave's body just hung from his hips waiting for more. The earnest begging wailed rather than screamed. He didn't silence it. Let it die unacknowledged. He'd punished the outside; now for the inside of the arse.

-oO)0(Oo-

Level 2

He stood there, his head low down. Bent over like this, he couldn't breathe properly and the blood rushed painfully through his face with each contraction of his racing heart. He had touched the edge of terror, and could not quite believe that no more strokes were to come. He continued to repeat the words of pleading with reducing urgency, like an incantation.

He was his Master's, and his own wishes were irrelevant. If his Master wanted to beat him, then beaten he would be. Actually, he had felt the first strokes exciting, and when they did not stop, he felt the total lack of ability to do anything about it exciting too. But he was glad they had stopped. This bent over position was becoming very uncomfortable. He liked that too. Staying like that was serving. He wanted to serve...

The Master looked at the buttocks, at the red marks, at the weals. Nothing was deep enough or localised enough to cause bruising, but the slave would feel their position for many hours to come. He touched the places gently with his finger ends, feeling the difference in temperature between the areas. Now the outside had suffered, time to apply himself to the inside. This would be far more enjoyable. He reached for the jelly...

The slave felt a finger, strangely cold, teasing the outside of his anus. He realised it must be applying KY and his heart rate increased again. His pleading had dropped to a low murmur, which would die away of its own accord soon...

The stretched buttocks were sufficiently parted for the Master to see the strangely puckered orifice, those pink wrinkles twisting together like the bud of a flower where the petals were showing. As he touched it, it began to gleam with the clear jelly, and he felt it contract and surge to his touch. Gradually he worked the first joint of his forefinger within; he could feel it biting around it, then fall back to just mumbling it as it relaxed around it. Inside was hot and soft. He thrust the rest of the finger in as far as it could go - the body thrilled around it. He turned it around and explored the depths.

"Straighten up, but slowly..."

The slave had dreaded anal penetration - a nasty experience before had left him feeling scarred and scared. This Master, who had deliberately hurt him, had the right to jam and thrust into him. He wanted to feel him, but felt terror at the prospect. But this was pleasant. His arse had soon got used to the alien presence, and seemed to be caressing it. As he uncurled his body slowly, the finger moved to new positions, sending shockwaves of thrills through him. His attention was so concentrated on the penetrating finger that he hardly felt the twinges and groans of complaint from his punished buns, till a gentle slap from the free hand of the Master brought some of that anguish back and made him quiver...

The Master savoured every little movement of the body which enclosed his finger. He grasped the root of the cockshaft in a ring made of the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, the other fingers cramming onto the balls. He put his face into the dimpled hollow of the nearer cheek and began licking and kissing it. Then he started to finger-fuck his new property. His finger changing its angle and speed at a whim, so that the slave never knew how the next stroke would feel - nor did he care: they all felt marvellous. The slave was rising; his cock was surging; he was rising onto the balls of his feet; he was rotating his buttocks slightly to help with the angling of the thrust finger, to make better contact with his Master's mouth on the side. He felt like some instrument being expertly played. If this went on long, he would be spurting forth his cream in a gushing fountain - and he wanted to - he wanted to....

The Master stopped. Enough pleasure for a moment. Leave him wanting. Don't waste his orgasm on the empty air. He removed his finger, leaving the slave feeling empty and hollow. He broke off all contact. He left him standing there for a time, waiting, wondering, hoping, dreading...

The slave was lying on his back on the cotton sheeting which was the wall of the sleeping compartment, still collapsed, and which lay over the surface of the comfortable air mattress. His hands were still tethered on short ropes to the collar around his next. His ankles were now joined by a rope, long enough for his legs to be well parted, and this was hooked around the back of his neck. Thus were his buttocks drawn up and parted. The Master was stroking the underside and inside of the thighs, admiring the complexity of curves and angles which made them up.

The Master slipped a towel under the buttocks and raised them further by putting a cushion beneath the towel. The hole was no offered up for further use. The Master was trying to decided which tool to use first.

He had finger fucked the slave once more, first with one finger, then two, widening and relaxing the hole. Then came three fingers forming a cone, which had widened the hole further, the fingertips parting, distending the tight flesh.

He had two weapons at his disposal, both of heavy black latex, carefully scrubbed and disinfected to make them safe and clean: one was a large, very long cast of a huge penis. The tip was a flaring glans and the shaft was knobbled and veined realistically. The other was a more geometrically shaped butt plug - a three-dimensional diamond formed of two cones, with a less severe stalk and a wide disk at the base. As it entered, the upper cone would force the sphincter apart - it would spasm hard trying to eject it. Once it was more than halfway in, the flesh would accept it and pull it in greedily, till the stalk remained, tantalising the orifice. The wide disk would ensure that it remained in place, help by the muscles which had tried so desperately to reject it. Later the slave would wear this, even under his clothes, as required.

He decided to administer the long shaft first. He raised it to the slave's mouth for him to kiss. The blindfold had been raised. The slave had earned the right to see, at least for part of the time. He saw the horror on the face of the receiver, who did not realise that with the thorough greasing it would get the smoothly contoured glans would slip easily into place.

After coating it throroughly with the jelly, he held the point of it against the hole. He saw the muscles spasm, locking, denying the huge knob access. He waited for a while, teasing the hole with gentle movements, until the contraction became less determined, and a steady rhythm of tightenings and relaxings set in. Then he thrust it forward during one of the loosenings, until the whole glans was entered and the sphincter was complaining around the narrowest part of the shaft, just below the flaring corona. The slave had cried out - a double cry: first when he realised it was coming within him and then a second, louder cry when the hole's contractions were held by the solid shaft. He stirred it and twisted it slightly to allow the membranes to adjust themselves as comfortable as possible around it, then began to sink it gradually further and further into the body before him, make slow stabs forward and even slower, and shorter, withdrawals. Sooner than seemed possible it was all in - until the charicature of a scrotum at its base was pressed against the flesh of the hole.

There were no more cries - a little whimpering, a groan or two, then silence. The face of the slave was relaxed. He knew that worst was over, that, indeed, it was beginning to feel good.

The Master was pleased - the slave was pleased. The Master showed his pleasure by stroking various sexual centres of the body in turn. He moved around the body - the anal dildo was firmly in place now and the body held it, did not try to expel it. When the Master reached the slave's head, he paused for a while, stroking the cheeks, then lowered his own face to kiss the cheeks, the forehead, finally the mouth, penetrating that cavity with his tongue.

Next he kneeled on the shoulders, his crotch near enough to the face for his odours to flood the slave's senses. He leaned forward to kiss the belly, twisting the dildo upwards as he did so and feeling the muscles flutter beneath his mouth. Then he allowed his body to fall into the slave's, enjoying the warm contact of flesh. As he lay there, he began to withdraw the dildo slowly to about the halfway point, then moved it slowly back in to full depth, feeling the gentle writhings of pleasure from beneath him. Then a few more positive movements of the latex shaft - simulating the fucking movements. Nothing violent at this stage - just educating the passage to the size, the shape and the pleasure. He could feel the slave beginning to lick and kiss the parts of his body that overlay the mouth. The head was turning to allow more and wider contact. The fucking movments became more deeply rhythmical.

Then he withdrew the shaft until the neck below the glans appeared outside the hole, till the flared edge of the glans began to torment the sphincter from the inside. As it pulled against it the slave's mouth service stopped - he could almost smell the tension of disappointment as the slave believed it would be withdrawn.

He turned the shaft, twisting the latex corona around in the hole. The orifice which had protested and fought against the insertion now strained to retain its comforter.

He place his other hand over the latex balls, then rammed the whole length back with some force, penetrating the body deeply with one jerk. He heard the crying out from beneath his loins.

The dildo fully seated once more, he straightened himself, bringing his crotch hard onto the face. He felt the nose against the sensitive patch beneath his scrotum, and roved himself around upon its knobby pleasure, while the tongue curled upwards to caress his balls. He reward the slave for this service by grasping the slave's member, standing firm, ignored and untouched, and frigging it gently for a while, as he grasped and contorted the balls sack with the other hand.

Then once more the torturing withdrawal almost completely of the shaft. The replacement this time was gentle until about halfway, when the shaft was rushed back and slammed forward completely. He ended the work in this position by biting each of the nipples firmly between his teeth and shaking them.

Again he knelt on the slave, this time astride the midriff, facing the head. He stayed for a while, one hand forward, twisting earlobes, gripping and pulling hair, stroking the face, or just allowing the slave to suck and lick his fingers. The other hand alternate between the three shafts: turning the latex one, or making it fuck the now hungry anus; giving his own member a few frigs or fondlings; squeezing the slave-shaft, or pressing its hot flesh against his buttocks.

Then he raised the slave's head, using the hair as a handle, and slid forward to place his member where it could be licked and sucked. This made it difficult to continue the fucking from time to time with the rubber monster. He would have liked to have kept up all the stimulations at once. For a moment he had a vision of assistant Masters and slaves helping in some future session - one holding the head between his thighs while the Master fucked the face; another shafting away with the dildo while a slave clamped his mouth on the slaves member; two slaves would offer their cocks to his own hands while the body beneath serviced two Masters with his hands - others rubbed their parts against the exposed surfaces of the body. And all this pleasure was gathered by the slave and transferred to the Master by his frenzied mouth.

The vision almost made him come. He had lost control temporarily. His anger at himself made him slap the slave's cheek - then he regretted it, and covered the reddened spot with comforting kisses.

Control - control - control! If he couldn't control himself, how could he control the slave? But this slave was wonderful - his submission absolute and his attentions tender with duty.

He stood up, distancing himself, then walked around to the anus end again. The white of the flash with the little crisp hairs, dampened by sweat and the spill of jelly, then the shock of the hot pink membranes pulled out as the dull black truncheon was withdrawn.

For a while he kissed, bit and mumbled at the muscles of the calves, explored the back of the knees and the under and inner surfaces of the thighs. He lowered his face right down to bite at the buns.

Then he rubbed his cock over the same surfaces, till he came to rest with his cock and balls pressed against those of the slave, feeling them rise and fall as the shaft of warm blackness continued its teaching and torturing of the unaccustomed bowels.

============

The slave's face was radiant, pleasure-proud. Most of his body had now felt intimate contact with his Master; he had smelled his most intimate odours, and even been permitted to taste his member and feel it thrusting in his mouth. Most of all, the painful passage into his entrails had been made without too much distress and already he found the fullness and the thrusting deeply pleasurable. More than that, he could read pleasure in the face that he was now permitted to observe.

He had seen the other implement too - the plug that he would be forced to wear. He had been chilled initially by the remorseless logic of its double wedge. Logic told him that its mass was less than that which filled him comfortably now - had to be, for he was to move around, sit, stand, kneel and prostrate himself at his Master's command while wearing it. He did not think that motion would be possible penetrated by the great axle on which his world spun now. Yet he dreaded the change, would be reluctant to lose the great pipe within him. It had felt cold and hard when it had penetrated him, but it was now warm with his body and his Master's attentions. It slid easily through him, physically, but created great qualms and gasps of pleasure within him as its shape swirled and slid and explored the deepest secrets of his body.

Then suddenly it was gone. One withdrawal more thorough than the rest and it sucked out, leaving emptiness behind. He was aware of his Master wiping the orifice and exploring it with his fingers once more, testing the softness and compliance of the once rigid and resentful flesh, but these were minor sensations compared with that great mighty presence to which he had been accustomed. He relaxed, straining only to remember.

Then the voice spoke once more. Restraints were released and he was ordered onto all fours, with his buttocks pointing skywards. His Master gave them a few play slaps with the flat of his hand. These were love not pain.

The plug was offered to his mouth to be kissed. He brushed his lips over the rounded point of it, then he tried to take it into his mouth. He wished he hadn't, as the bulk of it strained his jaws and filled him with terror again. The trembling spread from his mouth to the rest of his body.

The firm, controlling hand spread his buns once more and the sharpness was against him. He tried to make his anus deliquesce around it, but flesh would not melt. His Master's fingers massaged the opening and then the point was grinding inexorably into him. It widened and widened into him until he thought he would burst. His Master twisted it, screwing it into him. Width and more width, splitting him, until, with a physical, if not audible pop, it sprang into him, his anal muscles contracting around the downslope of the narrowing wedge. Soon it was lodged into place, the narrow stalk holding him permamnently, but not widely apart.

"Stand and move around, slave," the Master ordered. Gingerly he complied. Sitting might be a problem with that ring against his buttocks, but he could move relative freely. This training aid would not impede his service of his Master.

He knelt before his Master, his eyes on the ground between his feet, and waited to hear his Master's voice.

He had attained Level Two!