A Cute Boy Learns Total Surrender

Slave Being Teased By Master

The room is about 12 feet on a side and 10 feet high, the walls faced with roughly dressed light-gray stone. The floor is covered with thick black rubber and slopes gently toward a drain in one corner. On the ceiling there’s gray acoustical tile.

Light is provided by glowing tubes all around the top of the walls, just below the ceiling, that are controlled from outside the room. They dim for part of each day to allow sleep and are on full the rest of the time. There are ventilation grilles low on two walls and in the ceiling, and the temperature is kept at a constant mid-70s. At least, it never seems too cold or too warm despite my always being naked.

There are no windows. The door is a steel slab with a small spy hole set into it. It has no handle on the inside; this, too, is controlled from without. There’s a video camera in each corner, up near the ceiling, as well as several microphones. I never know if anyone is watching or listening, or which camera is live, but I have to assume that anything I do or say can be seen or heard.

Toward one side but still away from the wall is a slab of dense foam as wide as a twin-size bed. It’s covered in black canvas, with a zipper at the end to remove the cover for cleaning. The only furniture besides my exercise equipment is an antique-style wooden armchair, intricately carved, against the wall next to the door. Its seat cushion is covered in a rich, red velvet, the only spot of color in the whole chamber, and the wood is stained dark brown. It looks like it came from the Doge’s palace in 15th-century Venice.

The chair is not for me, of course. The chain padlocked to my leg irons and bolted into the opposite wall isn’t long enough for me to sit there if I wanted to, reaching only far enough for me to kneel in front of the chair and service the Master when he sits there, licking his boots or sucking his cock.

Thick, 2-inch-wide metal cuffs are fastened onto my ankles and wrists, and a collar in the same style is around my neck. The edges of the steel bands are smoothly rounded, and the welded connecting chains are long enough for me to wash myself or exercise, but they can be shortened with clips or locks whenever the Master wishes. Every move I make is accompanied by the loud jangle of chains, almost the only sound in this place. At first it was exciting, and then I thought it would drive me mad, but by now I hardly notice it.

Near the floor drain is a seatless metal toilet, and a pipe set into the wall next to it has a long hose connected. The hose is usually terminated in a nonadjustable shower head, but that can be replaced by a douche tube if required. There are no faucets inside the cell to control the water temperature or flow, nor is there a flush handle for the toilet. All that is regulated outside. But the Master is not cruel, or thoughtless, and he has the toilet flushed several times a day so that there is sufficient clean water for me to drink.

All of the hair on my head and everywhere else is clipped as short as possible once a week, and then my head, pubes, and ass crack are shaved smooth. The Master seems to enjoy doing it himself rather than having me do it. I enjoy his doing it, too. He also seems to enjoy seeing the growing fuzz on my face and body between clippings, knowing that it always makes me itch. There is no mirror in the cell, so I can’t see how I look, only feel the smoothness or fuzz.

A padlock joins the thick PA in my circumcised dick with a guiche ring further back. I can manipulate my cock to some extent, but I learned early on that it wasn’t worth it. I can’t come without being erect, and if I start to get erect the pain soon deflates me. I can’t even have a wet dream, because the pain wakes me up. The Master has hinted that he will allow me to come eventually, but I have no idea when, nor if there is anything I can do to hasten the release. The horniness tormented me at first, but after nearly two months, I don’t think about it much one way or another — not more than 20 or 30 times a day.

Of course, I also don’t know exactly how long I’ve been here. At first the Master deliberately manipulated the light and his own comings and goings to confuse me and destroy my grasp on mundane time. Even now that he has settled me into a routine, I have no way of being certain if it’s daytime outside when it’s light in the cell, or nighttime when it’s dim in here. As the Master works out of his home and thus can visit me whenever he pleases and spend as much time with me as he wants, I also have no way of telling weekdays from weekends. But I do keep track of my sleeps, and as near as I can tell it’s been between 50 and 60 days. Otherwise, the only way I can gauge the passage of time is by my own pulse, which is slow and steady except when I’m exercising.

i don’t know how long I’ll be here, either. The Master certainly has the resources to keep me here for the rest of his life, if not mine, but somehow I don’t think the experiment will last quite that long. Probably less than a year, though that’s just a feeling. The arrangement is open-ended.

The routine I currently follow is quite simple in its outlines. In the “morning,” or what I assume is morning, the light tubes brighten, and I rise from my pallet. I take a drink from the toilet, release my piss, and go through an extensive exercise routine, first stretching, then calisthenics, free weights, and finally a half hour on the treadmill. The black-finished steel and rubber treadmill is the largest object in the cell. It’s programmed by the Master to tell me when to speed up, slow down, and stop. The time readout has no hour indicator, just elapsed minutes and seconds, and it goes back to zero whenever I step off.

After exercise I kneel by the shower pipe. Eventually the water will start pouring through, and I will cleanse myself. There is no towel or washcloth, just a squeeze bottle of liquid soap. I wash quickly so as not to be soapy when the water stops. The moisture level of the air is low enough that I tend to dry quickly.

When I’m clean I kneel in front of the Master’s chair and wait for him to come in. During this time I am required to repeat aloud, again and again, a short “slave’s creed”:

 

I am a slave. I live to serve and obey the Master. I own nothing. I have a right to nothing. I control nothing. Everything comes from the Master and by his will. What makes me happy is to obey. What fulfills me is to be used for his and other men’s pleasure.

 

These are the only words I am permitted to speak when I am alone in the cell. I do not rebel against this or the other rules, nor provoke punishment to enforce them. This is the life I asked for, and I do my best to follow the program.

Generally the Master makes me wait a while, but eventually he will enter and set a dog bowl with my food down beside the chair. It is always the same, a dry formulation that he will moisten with his piss so I don’t chip my teeth on the hard pellets, which also serve in lieu of a toothbrush. He has assured me it contains all the nutrients I need.

In the “mornings” I am not allowed to eat immediately, however, even though by then I am always very hungry. First I must recite my creed once more, this time addressed directly to the Master, and when that is done I am allowed to lick his boots. If he is in the mood, he may also allow me to service his cock and balls, or to lick his ass. This is no hardship: the Master keeps himself fit, and he is still an attractive man. Besides, he’s well hung. I also have no worry about catching any disease from him — no one is more scrupulously careful, and I know that he would never put me at risk. But at 64 his libido isn’t what it was, and some days he doesn’t bother to use me.

He has another slave, Stephen, who’s been with him for five years or so, as well as several part-time slaves he trains off and on, so perhaps he saves himself for them. Stephen is certainly young and handsome enough to be worth focusing on. The intimacies the Master grants me are more a reward, or encouragement, than a service to him, I suspect.

The Master says little to me at these times, indicating by a nod or a gesture, or a single word, what he requires. And, of course, after my creed is repeated, I have no call to speak to him nor to look at him — my eyes stay fixed on the floor between his legs unless I am servicing some part of his body. His morning attire is usually casual, just slacks or jeans and a shirt, maybe a vest — plus boots, of course. He favors lace-up logger boots or cowboy boots for the daytime, motorcop or engineer’s boots at night. Even before my confinement, I’d never seen him without boots on. I suppose he takes them off for sleep, but the only times I ever slept in the same room with him, I was hooded or blindfolded.

 

After I worship his boots, and then render any sexual service he requires, the Master flogs me. A selection of flogging implements, a muzzle and gag, a hood, and other pieces of gear he likes to use on me are stored in a small, locked case set against the wall behind his chair. Usually he makes me stand against the wall and clips my wrist and ankle cuffs to rings set there for that purpose, my arms above my head and my feet stretched as far apart as the leg chain permits. Sometimes he has me lie down on my belly on the sleeping pallet and clips my arms and legs to the rings set in the floor at either end, or he’ll restrain me to the bench I use for weightlifting. It seems to make no difference in the severity of the flogging how I am restrained, just a whim of the Master, though I imagine the vertical position is easier for him than bending over me.

In either case, he always straps the muzzle over my face and inserts the thick leather plug gag inside my mouth. I am allowed to scream as much as I need to during the flogging, but it does not please him to have his ears assaulted by my noise, and it makes no difference anyway in how many strokes I must take. The number varies according to some formula known only to him. It’s always at least 50 and usually much more. I’m grateful to be gagged and not required to count them out. I can sink into the rhythm of the ever-changing now and stop thinking. My back is heavily calloused, of course, yet I still feel the impact of his blows. They’re about as painful as a deep-tissue massage, which can be very painful.

After my flogging, the Master will release me from the wall or floor, take off the muzzle and gag, and allow me once again to bathe his boots in my saliva and tears. I always thank him profusely for the discipline, which he has made very clear has nothing to do with punishment. It’s not even because he enjoys flogging me, though he clearly does most of the time. Even if I’ve sucked him off before the flogging, he’ll usually be erect again by the time he stops. Sometimes he even fucks my ass before releasing me from the wall or bench. No, these daily floggings are a matter of basic discipline.

“A slave needs to be flogged regularly,” he’ll say in his brusque, no-nonsense voice, “and that’s all there is to it. It’s like taking a dog out for a walk or rubbing down a horse after a run, something an owner simply has to do.” Before leaving, he wets down my breakfast, pats my head, and gives me my journal pages. I am free to eat once the door shuts behind him.

It is when the Master comes back late in the “evening” with my second and last meal of the day that he talks to me and listens to anything I wish to tell him. He usually wears either a police uniform or full leather, but once or twice a month he appears in a tailored suit or even tuxedo and black tie, with black dress boots, having come back from a formal dinner or cultural outing. He allows my eyes and tongue much freer reign at these times, seeming to enjoy my admiring glances, my nuzzling, and my compliments on his appearance. He lets me curl up between his legs and rub my face against the cloth or lick the leather covering his thighs. It’s not exactly passion between us, but comfort with each other and with our respective roles.

After I eat, we talk. The conversations we have as I sit at his feet are wide-ranging — we are both well-educated men with many interests. The Master will tell me what he wishes me to know about the state of the world outside, which is generally little, as he has gone to considerable expense and effort to allow me to focus inward, on my own body, mind, and spirit.

That is why I am here. It was my idea, actually, but it was his gift to enable me to realize my obsessive fantasy of nonstop bondage, solitary confinement, and total control. It’s designed as a test of whether such a narrowly circumscribed life, free of the usual distractions of earning a living or interacting with the non-Master/slave world, can move me further along my destined path. I know that I was born to serve and obey a Master, but all too often, out in the world, I lost sight of that clear goal and became caught up in other commitments or concerns.

We’ve been friends for a long time, the Master and I, much long–er than I’ve been a slave, let alone his slave. It often goes the other way: two men come together first as Master and slave, and over time their growing intimacy and affection make the roles too awkward to continue. The Master is too experienced for that trap. He won’t even allow a boy to call him “Sir” until they’ve known each other for a couple of months, sexually and otherwise, and he’s never taken a live-in slave after less than a year’s probation.

As for me . . . I’ve experienced enough to know what I want, what I need. After several Master/slave relationships that ended sooner than I wanted, I have few illusions left, about slavery or about myself. But I do have resistances, self-doubts, and, above all, habits of self-regard that make it hard for me to go deeper. Thus this experiment in deprivation and regimentation. For the Master to move me into his house as a servant would prove nothing — been there, done that (though not with him). Call this experience boot camp for the soul.

The truth is that I chose all of it, every detail. The Master and I discussed the arrangements exhaustively for more than a year. After all, orchestrating a long-term confinement as rigorous as mine is not a matter for negotiation over drinks in a bar or a few online chats. Everything had to be planned, all the contingencies allowed for, the appointed space constructed and equipped. I had to quit my job, vacate my apartment, dispose of or store my possessions, and notify my friends. One half of my savings went to the Master to defray the expenses of my upkeep, and the other half was safely invested. I had to be absolutely sure that once I entered this cell, I wouldn’t need to leave it again until the Master decided I was ready. And I had to be sure that he wouldn’t soften if I lost my nerve, or exceed his mandate, or allow the experiment to end prematurely because of the cost of keeping me here, submissive but idle.

The daily floggings, and any other torments I suffer, are intended to purify my submission and to wean me from my ego. For the same reason, though the Master permits me to use the first person in my journal and when I talk with him, he never uses my old name, or any name. I am just “slave” to him and anyone else I come in contact with, even his other slave. But he tempered my initial enthusiasm for a much harsher regimen, with far less space to move around in. i’d had in mind something like an oubliette, a small underground hole where he’d throw food down to me, piss on me, periodically hose me off, and otherwise leave me alone.

“And what would I get out of that?” he asked, laughing. “I wouldn’t even have your warm mouth to piss in, or your conversation to while away the evenings. What a supremely selfish idea! If you expect me to give you room, board, and bondage for an extended period, you’re going to have to be available for my use — and that of selected friends, too. You’ll spend plenty of time alone, don’t worry, but you’ll also earn your keep, sexually and otherwise.”

The logic was inescapable, of course, even more so than this cell I inhabit. The Master convinced me that the kind of confinement I’d fantasized about wouldn’t prove anything more or achieve any quicker results, just bore him and ruin my health and mental balance, reducing my value as a slave.

As time passes, it is obvious that he was right. A greater harshness would have activated my defenses, delaying my acceptance of his control, or else pushed me into that apathetic passivity many mistakenly equate with submission. The way I live now is certainly harsh enough, restrictive enough, and barren enough compared with my former professional-class lifestyle, and yet it clearly suits me. In terms of health and fitness, I’m in better shape than I’ve been in years, and my mood is farther from depression or despair than when I had the whole world to move around in.

Within these gray walls, I have no worries or fears. I am well taken care of. I fall asleep easily, sleep soundly, and wake without regret. Naturally, I miss music and art, and daylight and colors and trees and animals, but I have a well-stocked memory of these things. I miss books — oh, what I would give for a single box of those I put in storage! — but I don’t miss TV or newspapers or most people. An hour of the Master’s company is worth days of useless chatter with others.

All in all, I’m more content here than I ever was outside. Oh, that’s not to say I’m never bored or never chafe at my restrictions. Of course I do, who wouldn’t? But such feelings pass quickly, more quickly than when I had a whole city’s worth of amusements to choose from. If all else fails, I kneel in front of the Master’s chair, at the limit of my chain, and repeat my slave’s creed. The peace that descends as I repeat the familiar words assures me of their truth, and I gratefully embrace the strict conditions of my confinement once again.

The fact is, I would miss my daily flogging if I didn’t receive it, and I’d probably gag on a conventional meal if offered one. I never liked wearing clothes, and my collar and chains are as much a comfort to me as a constraint. They make me feel wanted, valued, secure. If I were suddenly placed in a crowd of people, I would run to the nearest small room and lock myself in.

Servicing the Master day after day, with no release for myself, I’ve come to displace my sexual response onto him, so that when he cries out in orgasmic joy, my own body spasms and relaxes. I still remember my name, I’m pretty sure I do, but would I even respond if someone called me by it? If he held open the door to this cell, and I weren’t chained, would I make a move toward it?

 

For most of each day I am usually left alone, to pass the time however I can. At first it seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me, and I wondered how I could make it to the Master’s next visit without screaming and smashing my head against the wall. But I soon learned that my sense of duration is very flexible, and I can control it by my attitude. Once I stopped always looking forward to “what’s next,” anticipating, and learned to live in each moment, five hours came to seem much the same as five minutes. I have all the time I need, all the time there is, no more nor less. I suspect all long-term solitary prisoners learn this — at least those who survive.

Much of the day, of course, I spend in meditation — classic Zen sitting or walking (once I became able to tune out the rattle of chain), and I also think things through in more conventional fashion, patiently testing and rehearsing my ideas in my head before writing anything down. I receive five blank sheets of paper a day, no more, and each evening the Master takes with him whatever pages I’ve filled as well as any left blank. The next morning, along with my breakfast, he returns to me Xeroxes, on bright yellow paper, of the finished pages, keeping the originals. So I have my completed work for reference, if I need it, but there is no way I can alter my words retroactively.

The Master gave me a wooden lap desk to write on and a good ballpoint pen, a far cry from the elaborate computer setup I used to write with but sufficient to my needs. Because I cannot erase anything, and I am reluctant to disfigure my manuscripts with cross outs, I think much more than I write, and I write very slowly, pausing before almost every word to be sure it is the right one to express my meaning. While my physical world has been pared down close to a minimum, my mental world is unlimited. I find that my memory is much better than it used to be, strengthened by hard use and the absence of electronic crutches, and my powers of concentration are greater.

What do I write? Musings, recollections, how I am feeling, debates with myself or the Master, little essays about slavery and its discontents — or its joys. The writing has no goal, no overall structure. It’s a snapshot of my mind at a given time. And yet I always come back to one point: the persistence of choice in even the most inescapable captivity. No matter how much is taken away from me, I always have choices to make, if only where to direct my eyes or focus my hearing. Even naked and chained in a solitary cell, I am learning just how much I still have left to surrender.

The Master jokes that in its disconnected way my journal amounts to a “critique of pure submission,” like Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. He says that when it is done — when I am done with this confinement, when he decides that I have no more to learn from it — I should edit it down and publish it. “Tell them all the truth for once,” he says. “There’s too much nonsense about slavery going around, with folks trying to re-enact the Old South or Ancient Rome or some such silliness. They miss the point and waste everyone’s time.”

 

For the first month or so of my captivity, I never saw anyone but the Master, and then usually just twice a day. From time to time, though, he’d look in on me unexpectedly, and he might demand my service, if only as a urinal, or amuse himself by putting me into some more stringent bondage, installing a butt plug or catheter, or placing clamps and clips on my body. Anything to reinforce that I am not in control of my bodily functions or sensations, only how I react to them. Now that my routine is well established, he sometimes sends his house slave instead to check on me and carry out whatever he’s planned but doesn’t care to do himself — I assume he watches on the video to be sure all is done to his standards.

Sometimes he sends in visiting friends of his, other Masters or Topmen, to amuse themselves with my body or to make use of my holes. He insists they use condoms with me, even for oral sex, and a latex barrier for rimming. There’s a container of rubbers and oral shields next to the cell door, kept full by the house slave. There are probably also some other limits he’s set to keep me safe, but it’s out of my hands — I have no safeword, no way to draw a line. The Master’s good will and good sense are my only protection.

It is absolutely forbidden me to speak to these visiting Tops, or to the house slave, not one word, and this is enforced if necessary by gagging me. The only choice I have is to cooperate and endure whatever they wish to do with me, or to resist and have to endure it anyway in the end. Because of my love and respect for the Master, I would never resist his use of me, however painful, but I’ll still balk at times if someone else interrupts my meditation or writing for a fuck or a piss stop. It never does any good, of course. The chains put me at their mercy.

The rule of silence was very hard on me at first. Some are men I would have been drawn to in any case (others, alas, not), and I yearned to communicate with them, to convey my respect and my appreciation for their blows, their piss, their hard cocks filling my holes. But at the first word, even “Sir, thank you, Sir,” they stick in the big plug gag, filling my mouth, and tightly strap it around my head, or else the ring gag that stretches my jaws wide to receive their offerings. Only my eyes remain able to express my feelings, except when these, too, are covered.

Some men — a surprising number — find it unnerving to look into the eyes of a bound slave they are using and need the depersonalization afforded by a mask or hood, or at least a blindfold, while others look back at me with a fierce joy and a clear conscience, sure of their right to dominate. For me, the feelings are ambivalent. While it is good to be hooded and used as a nameless slave, just a body with convenient holes and parts available for torture, it is also thrilling to be in the hands of a man who really seems to want me — me in particular — and to take pleasure in my helplessness to resist him.

 

Although I had become used to occasional visits from Stephen, the Master’s trusted house slave, either to check on me while I was in stringent bondage or to release me from it, I almost balked the first time he came in to initiate a session of immobility. Oh, shit, not now, I said silently to myself as he entered the cell carrying several large hanks of rope. I was in the middle of writing a very closely argued paragraph and didn’t want to stop.

But as he came toward me — the thick, man-size cock bouncing between his lean, muscled legs, an eager grin on his boyish face — I lost all desire to resist. It would be, I think, like smacking a puppy for being friendly. So I smiled back at him, put my writing materials aside, and got onto my knees, resting my manacled hands on my thighs.

Although I had been introduced to Stephen before my confinement, and he knew my name, once I was locked up here his demeanor changed. Instead of a fellow slave’s sympathy, what I sense from him now is a Topman’s relish for my vulnerability. Despite his nudity and the padlocked chain around his neck, he carries himself less like a slave than like a young Master. Maybe it seems that way because the Master leaves his chest, pubes, arms, and legs unshaved.

In his late 20s, more years younger than me than I like to admit, and a few inches taller, Stephen has a dark complexion, short black hair, a small goatee, and bright black eyes. At the front his hair is longer and trained in a stylish upward flare. Like me, he has thick silver rings in both his nipples and the head of his cock, which is uncut, but on him they seem decorative, not marks of possession. Since his earliest visits he hasn’t been completely nude but now wears heavy black lineman’s boots laced to his knees. And on this occasion he’d added studded leather armbands and tight black leather gloves.

While my chains prevent some rope-bondage positions, such as a classic hogtie, Stephen worked with them and methodically immobilized me. He roped my upper arms and elbows tightly behind my back, pulling my manacled wrists to my sides and pushing out my chest, which he crisscrossed with more rope until my whole torso was rigid. My cock tried in vain to become erect as his gloved hands moved over me with rough efficiency. I said nothing, of course, just looked at him as he bound my legs at the thighs, knees, and ankles, and then roped my feet back up to my arms. His usual eager expression had changed into a fierce concentration. I felt like a wild hare transfixed by a snake or bird of prey.

When he set me back upright on my knees, tightly bound from shoulders to feet, I could barely hold my balance without his hands on my shoulders. I stared into his sparkling eyes.

“Fuckface” he whispered to me, as soft as a lover’s sigh. “Such a good fuckface.” And then he clamped my head between his hands and did just that, fuck my face with his dick.

I was shocked — what would the Master think? — but Stephen seemed to have no compunctions about using me for his pleasure. “Trust me” was all he said when my eyes widened in alarm at his failure to put on a condom, and, confident that the Master would not own an untrustworthy slave, I did.

He came quickly, gushing out his cum after only a few strokes once his fat, uncut cock was lodged in my throat. Then he pulled back a little and smiled as he filled my mouth with his piss. After I’d swallowed his whole bladder load, he astonished me again by kneeling and kissing me deeply, passionately, and for a long time. He could probably still taste his urine on my tongue — I certainly could! Finally, he stroked my eyes closed and wound more rope around my head to form a blindfold and gag. He laid me down on my side, rubbed my shaved head between the ropes, and left the cell.

At least, I think he left — for all I knew, he could have stayed and watched me for the hour or two I lay in bondage. But there wasn’t the slightest indication I wasn’t alone. The only sound was my own breathing, an occasional slight clink from my chains as I shifted position, or tried to, and a periodic whoosh from the ventilation ducts. I think I’d have lain there for a long time even if I hadn’t been bound so tightly, overcome by what had just happened to me. More than merely being used by this young man, I’d been possessed by him.

The bondage eventually became painful, of course, and then I went mostly numb and stopped feeling it. All I could think about was Stephen’s taste in my mouth. His cum, piss, and spit, I’d had them all in one go. The only things left to taste were his sweat, tears, blood, and shit. I felt that I’d as soon pass on the last two, but I fantasized giving him a tonguebath after he’d worked up a good sweat flogging me. As for tears, I couldn’t imagine what might cause him to cry in my presence, and I didn’t want to find out, either.

When he returned (assuming he’d left) and released me from the ropes, rubbing my arms and legs with his gloved hands to restore full circulation, I just kept looking at him, marveling at his youth, his confidence, his deftness in handling me. The deference I accorded the Master did not seem to apply to him, a fellow slave, and yet his use of me had placed him far above me. Even without my rule of silence, what could I say to him? My feelings were still too new, too confused to articulate.

Stephen was in no such confusion. He held my head and kissed me again, then smiled and pressed my face down onto his boots.

“All right, slave. Show me how you lick boot leather.”

It was as if he’d thrown a switch, releasing me to show the feelings I couldn’t speak. I slobbered all over his tall boots, covering them with my spit and happy tears, rattling my chains until he finally put a stop to it, saying, “That’s enough, bootdog, enough for now. You’ll have plenty more chances to worship my boots. I’m nowhere near through with you.”

That was a turning point between us, especially after I reported the incident to the Master in my journal and he made no comment. Stephen was clearly acting within his limits, so in serving Stephen I was also serving the Master. That’s all I needed to quiet any misgivings about being a slave’s slave.

Stephen visits me now almost every day, and he always uses me before he leaves. It isn’t always oral service, either. A few weeks ago, after gleefully tormenting my nipples for an hour or more, he turned me over and fucked my ass for even longer, again with no condom, just like the Master.

He’s also training me to take larger and larger toys up my chute, and now when he leaves he usually installs a butt plug, which I wear until after my evening session with the Master. I am allowed to remove it when the light dims for me to sleep. After I take a last drink from the toilet, I wash the plug there, along with my hands. Stephen (at least I assume it is him) always flushes the toilet again before my morning drink.

He isn’t always affectionate, though; sometimes he seems cold and almost brutal. I hate those times, and when he leaves I vow to stop responding so eagerly to him, to make him work harder for my submission. But then the next day he’ll saunter in, smiling devilishly, and kiss or stroke me before he starts, and I’ll melt all over again.

 

I think Stephen is following his own inspirations in binding or torturing me, not just carrying out the Master’s orders. He brings whatever he needs with him, sometimes more than he needs. He’ll lay out a whole repertoire of implements on the floor before choosing what to use. But there is none of the tentativeness in his handling of me that novice Tops often show, because they can’t quite believe they can actually do such things to another person.

Stephen knows he can do whatever he wants with me, though of course he’d be answerable to the Master if he injured his charge. Perhaps the Master is training him as a Top — he already has an amazing degree of skill for someone his age, as well as the inner fire. I like to think that Stephen is inspired by my increasingly deep submission, my total vulnerability. Unlike that first time, I go to my knees immediately when he enters now, bowing my head in respect as I do for the Master. He seems to expect no less.

More and more often Stephen comes in with the Master in the morning, and it is his piss that moistens my breakfast and his hand that gives me my regular flogging while the Master watches — or even leaves to go about his business. Also, it’s usually Stephen who clips and shaves me once a week now, rather than the Master. He never sits in the Master’s chair, however, always remaining standing or crouching, unless he lies down with me. He is obedient and deferential to the Master but does not kneel to him in my presence.

Stephen does make mistakes at times and has to back up a move or two, particularly when he’s trying out a new technique, but he usually works on me with a sureness almost equal to the Master’s, as if everything he does had been practiced to perfection in advance. But on whom? Himself?

The only hesitation I’ve noted, on occasions when he’s left my eyes uncovered, is that when he has me stretched out, tied into a bundle, or strung up to the wall, he’ll step back and just look at me for a while. His eyes sparkle and a half grin plays on his lips, as if he’s wondering which torment would be the most fun to inflict. Will it be needles this time? Or electricity? Things that pinch, or things that sting?

Why do I stand for this? Why don’t I complain to the Master? I’m no pain pig, and our experiment never envisioned regular torture, just a simple daily flogging. Is it his eyes? His smile? Surely it’s not simply lust for his cock! I’m not really a dick pig either, just a man who needs to obey and serve.

That must be the key: I am serving Stephen in his coming out as a Top. Thanks to me, and to the situation created by my need that makes me so available to him, he’ll gain as much experience in a few weeks or months as most new Tops acquire in years of cruising and tricking. Are his kisses and gentle strokes anything more than gestures of appreciation for my service to him? Why is that important to me? Does it still matter so much whom I serve, as long as I serve well?

Except for screams and involuntary cries, I honor the Master’s rule not to speak to Stephen, but he talks freely, vocalizing a running commentary on his use of me. Early on, I almost laughed, because his name-calling was so reminiscent of bad porn. Since then I’ve grown accustomed to his growling, muttering, boyish sex talk.

He calls me “dickhead,” “fuckwad,” and “pissdump,” or worse, but there’s no edge of malice in it, no contempt, more a kind of roughhewn affection. It’s as if I’m his pet and he’s encouraging me with words I can’t really understand. Perhaps he just needs to underscore the difference in our status, since he, too, wears a slave collar. For how much longer, though?

Much of the tenderness he shows me could be chalked up to a Top’s empathy, not the deeper affection of a lover or owner. He may gently stroke my face before he starts slapping me, or lightly kiss my ass cheeks before laying into them with a belt or paddle. But there are hints of something more.

Recently, for instance, after he kissed me on the mouth — hungrily, demandingly — he allowed me to lick his face before pushing my mouth into his armpits, and thence to his crotch. And though my tongue has been inside his ass crack and hole more often than in the Master’s (he especially likes to have me lick along the taint between his balls and asshole), his has been in mine almost as often, gently opening me up to be fucked. I often daydream about his taste and smell, so sweet and rank at the same time, and wonder if he thinks about mine.

I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else but his visits. One day my journal pages contained nothing but the words “Stephen’s slave” repeated over and over again. Five pages of it. The Master couldn’t help noticing what I’d done when I wordlessly handed the papers to him as he was leaving that night, though he usually leaves reading my journal for morning. He scanned the pages, his eyebrows dancing, and then sat down again.

“Is there something you need to tell me, slave? Or ask me?”

“Master,” I said, on my knees before him, “are you planning to give me to Stephen?”

“Maybe. How would you feel about it if I did?”

“Master, I’m not sure. He can wrap me around his finger, Sir . . . ,” I said and stopped, confused.

“And? What’s troubling you, slave?”

“Master, is it any more than sex? Would I trust him, Sir, if he weren’t your slave, Sir?”

“I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to trust him.”

“Yes, Sir, of course, but I don’t really know him, Sir, not the way a slave should know the Master he gives himself to — not the way I know you, for instance, Sir. But if you think it would be good for me, Sir, to serve him, I will follow your lead, Sir.”

“That’s a hopeful sign, slave, your trusting me in that. Maybe this experiment you cooked up is working!”

“Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Nevertheless, I won’t make that decision for you. When the time comes, it must be your own free choice.” He sighed heavily before continuing.

“I never planned what’s been happening between you and Stephen, slave, and it’s damned inconvenient for me! It’s an accident that our experiment coincided with his blossoming as a Top. Or maybe not — maybe you’re bringing it out in him.”

“Sir, it’s nothing I’ve done intentionally, Sir.”

“I know that, slave. I’ve known for more than two years that Stephen would turn Top eventually — before he knew it himself. It’s just that I thought the process would be slower, giving me plenty of time to replace him as my house slave and business assistant.”

He stopped and sighed again, shifting in his seat.

“Stephen certainly didn’t show any eagerness to switch before. I let him watch me train other slaves, or do scenes with experienced bottoms, and I explained a lot of the techniques I used. He would assist me in the dungeon whenever I needed him, but he hung back from doing anything solo, even when I offered him opportunities.

“Then you came, and he begged me to let him help take care of you. Now he’s spending most of his free time in here with you, or planning what he’ll do to you next. He’s driving me crazy with his questions!”

He paused in thought, then continued.

“By now he’s gone through every piece of gear I own, asking how to use it, what dangers he should be aware of, how heavy it’s safe to get with it. I’ve looked at the tapes from his sessions with you, and it’s remarkable how good he is already. But you should be able to tell if he has real feelings for you or is just using you like a practice dummy.”

“Master, most of the time he acts like he cares for me, but then occasionally he’ll be cold and distant. So I don’t know what he really feels, Sir.”

“Well, you’re a captive slave, not really anyone’s property, and he’s a Top in training feeling his oats. I’m not surprised if he enjoys keeping you guessing. But I think he does care for you. He’s never seemed happier than since he started having regular sessions with you. He glows with the energy you feed him.”

“Master, thank you for telling me that. Sir, Stephen makes me happy, too, even when he gives me terrible pain. Sir, I endure it for his sake, because he wants it so much.”

“That’s good, because he was a heavy masochist as a bottom, and he’s turning into an extremely sadistic Top. But also a good one, a careful one — one you can trust, slave.

“And more than just a Top: he’s aiming at Mastery. I can tell by the questions he’s asked about you. He wanted to be sure your food was really adequate and healthy, for instance, and he’s the one who makes sure your toilet gets flushed without fail half a dozen times a day. He’s made suggestions to me about your exercise regimen, and he wanted to know all about the terms of our agreement.

“No, he’s not just a Top interested in unconnected scenes. He’s learned that owning is better than renting — if you can handle the upkeep.”

“Master, do you think he can? Sir, how much could he know of life from being your slave?”

“Don’t sell him short, slave!” he said almost angrily. “Somehow you talked me into setting up this experiment in long-term confinement, but my other slaves do real work — they’re not just toys to play with. Stephen has had as much experience dealing with the real world as most men his age, if not more.”

“Yes, Master. Begging your pardon, Sir.”

“That’s okay,” he said, looking kindly at me again. “Why do you think I can afford to stay home so much of the time? It’s because I send him out to represent me, sparing me the trouble. And his experience being a slave can only be an asset for a Master. It’s more than I had, more than most Masters have. He’ll make mistakes, sure, but he won’t have to guess what it feels like on the other end of the leash, or the whip. He’ll know, and you won’t be able to put anything over on him. He’s bright and he’s sensible, and with the right slave he’ll learn from his mistakes rather than becoming spoiled or giving up in despair. Can you handle being his slave?”

“Master, I don’t know. But if he wants me, and if we have your blessing and counsel, I’ll do my best, Sir.”

“We’ll see, slave.”

 

Part 6

 

If I expected anything dramatic to come of my talk with the Master, I was disappointed. Weeks have turned into months, and things are still much the same as before. Little changes happen, though, such as when Stephen — it’s always him in the morning now, not the Master — shows me a new exercise or resets the treadmill program to push me harder. One day he brought a tape measure and took a complete set of measurements of my body, with no explanation. He’s also taken urine and blood samples and sent them off for analysis.

“You’re healthy as a horse,” he told me after the results came back. “A strong draft horse. It’ll be a lot of years before you’re ready for a rest home.”

Within the framework of my relatively fixed, but slowly evolving, routine at the beginning and end of each day, the middle varies at Stephen’s whim, or perhaps according to changes in what the Master needs from him. Some days he might come in for no more than a quick blow job or piss break, followed by a kiss or a pat on the head. Other days he’ll spend hours with me, orchestrating elaborate bondage or torture scenes, culminating with a long fuck and then cuddling until I come down from whatever cloud he’s put me on.

More often now he’ll simply lie on my pallet and talk while I massage him or tonguebathe him, or sit on the bench while I lick his boots or nurse at his cock. He pours out his dreams and hopes — the kind of house he wants, the kind of work he wants to do, the additional education he needs for it, what he wants to accomplish in five years or ten. He says little about becoming a Master, just occasional references to “my slave and I” and the life he expects they’ll build together. His self-confidence is breathtaking, and very seductive.

Under my vow of silence, I make a good listener, and he usually keeps my mouth busy anyway. Even lying down, his hands are always in motion as he talks, and they’re never out of contact with me for long, always stroking or teasing or pinching some piece of my flesh. He doesn’t say, “I love you” or “I want you,” but he makes me feel it many times a day.

It’s been a long time since I gave up the idea of coming, and my body has found a way to give me wet dreams without erections. The dreams are always about Stephen. In real life, he has the oddest look on his face when he fondles my locked-down genitals, and I shiver, wondering what he plans for them. He has no guiche piercing, so apparently the Master never harnessed his sex the way he did mine.

 

Part 7

 

Today Stephen arrives full of even more energy than usual.

“Hello, slaveshit,” he says. “I call you that because today I’m going to beat the shit out of you, and since you’re a slave, you’re going to take it and thank me afterwards. Isn’t that right?”

Staring at him, open-mouthed, I automatically nod assent. I’m way past being able to deny him anything.

He uses no additional bondage for this session, just the chains I already wear and his gloved hands moving me into position and holding me there. He begins, in fact, by sitting on my pallet and laying me across his knees. Using his hands, a paddle, and a folded belt, he turns my flesh flaming red from my neck to the soles of my feet. When my backside is “done,” he turns me over and does the front the same way. I am whimpering long before he finishes, but he is unmoved.

Finally he dumps me onto the floor and stands up. I have a brief hope that he’s finished, but no: now that I’m “tenderized,” as he puts it, he starts in on me all over again using his boots. He kicks me, stomps on me, rolls me this way and that. The excruciating pain is eased only slightly by the knowledge that I am being pulverized by the same boots I’ve worshipped so often.

When he’s done all he can with his boots short of causing me internal injuries, he lowers the rarely used hoist from the ceiling, hooks my manacles onto it, and pulls me up to my feet. Then he starts using me as a punching bag!

Ungagged, I scream bloody murder, but Stephen never wavers, not even after I break my discipline and start sobbing out clear pleas to stop.

“Please, Sir, no more! Please stop, Sir! Please, Sir!”

Instead, he grabs my skull and starts slapping my face, hard.

“You don’t really mean that, fuckface! You don’t want me to stop before I’m damned well good and ready, do you, shithead slave? Do you? Answer me, asshole!”

“Sir, it hurts so much! Please, Sir!”

He slaps me some more before answering.

“It’s supposed to hurt, slaveboy. I enjoy hurting you. Haven’t you got that through your thick skull yet?”

“Sir, yes, Sir. As you please, Sir,” I force past my bruised lips.

“Damned right, dickhead. As I please, not you.”

At least he moves away from my face after that, and in my agony I realize that his heavier blows are all aimed at well-padded spots on my body. Although I hurt everywhere on the surface, and down into the large muscles, inside I’m okay, just shaken up and pumping out adrenaline and, finally, enough endorphins to turn the pain into ecstasy. I cross over into a masochist’s nirvana on a wave of natural opiates, my brain’s response to the stress of the beating.

Finally, when I’m too blissed out to care, he lets me down and half drags, half carries me over to my pallet, where he lays me out and fucks me royally. There is no more pain — I’m flying.

Before he comes inside my bruised ass, he bends over and says right into my ear, “I want you, slave. I never knew it could be this good. I want to own you and keep you for myself. I don’t want to share you anymore. And I want you to want me, too. I’d let you come now if I could, but the Master hasn’t allowed me the key to that lock. He will, though. He will.”

After he comes with a triumphant shout, he lies on top of me, his dick still inside my ass. We both doze for a while, but when I swim back to consciousness, he’s talking again.

“You want me, too, I know you do. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me. You know who you belong with. You know it’s time you started serving for real instead of in this zoo. I’ll take care of you all right, but you’ll cook for me, and clean my home, and wash my clothes and oil my leathers. You think I don’t have any of those things, and it’s true, I don’t have much — not yet, just the things I’m wearing now, the boots and armbands and gloves. I bought these for you, so you’d respect me even though I still wear a collar. “

He caresses me gently and kisses the back of my neck before continuing.

“It’s been years since I’ve had any clothes of my own, anything besides what the Master gives me so I can run errands and do business for him. And the only home I know is this one, the only space of my own the one room he lets me use. But I have plenty of money — he’s been saving it for me since I’ve been in his service, and he showed me the total — and I have marketable skills.

“All I need to make it worthwhile is a slave to come home to. I’ll be able to support you, dickhead, don’t worry about that, and maybe you can even earn a little on the side. The Master said he would free me if I mastered you, and when he sees you tonight, covered with bruises I gave you, and you kneel at my feet and kiss my boots in front of him, he’ll know that I have.”

He licks my ears and the back of my fuzzy head. I’m sure I look like road kill, yet in my heart I feel at ease. What needed to be said has finally been said. I don’t have to speculate anymore about Stephen’s intentions — or my future.

Relaxed and obviously feeling good about his conquest, Stephen lies half on me, half on the floor, and lightly strokes my shoulders and arms. It tickles and I shiver. He thinks something’s wrong and immediately reassures me.

“It’s okay, boy, you’ll be all right. It’s over now, and you did fine.”

Turning my head, I flash him a grin. He laughs.

“Guess you are okay, asshole!”

He lays his head on my shoulder again and rests for a while, but he can’t keep quiet for long — there’s so much he wants to say to me.

“I’ll bet you think he made it too easy for me, pissface, because here you are, all chained up and available, with no way to resist me. But I know you, slave. I’ve read your journals, too. You could have resisted me in your head if you’d wanted to. I could have been no more to you than some jerk who interrupted your precious meditation. But no, you bent your neck to me the first time I reached out my hand. You knew I would take you, and you wanted me to.”

He’s right, of course. He reads me perfectly.

“And you egged me on by the way you responded,” he continues. “I don’t think you even realized what you were doing. You could have laughed at my inexperience, or my presumption. But you loved it, dickwipe, you loved my using you, fucking you, beating you. You love it now, don’t you? You’re aching in every limb, and you wish I’d never take my cock out of your ass, don’t you?”

If he never took it out of my ass, he couldn’t put it in my mouth. I grunt ambiguously, and he laughs again.

“Yeah, I know you can’t talk to me, can’t tell me you agree — or that you don’t! That’s okay, cocksucker: you’ve talked too much in your life anyway. Now I’ll talk for both of us, and you can listen. Your body language is telling me all I need to know.

“I own you already, asswipe. I just have to make sure that the Master accepts it and lets us both go. I know you’re older than me, and better educated. That’s good; you can help me avoid mistakes. But I don’t think you’re smarter than me, not about anything real, and I’ll always have the balls to keep you in line when I have to. I don’t think I’ll have to punish you much, though. You’re well trained, give the Master credit for that, and you’ll obey me because you know it’s what makes you happy.

“Get your head around it, slave. I’m going to leave here soon, and you’re coming with me.”

The pain in my cock as it tries, and fails, to become erect is all the testimony I need from that quarter. Despite all the pain Stephen gives me, he wants me, he wants me badly, and that’s always been my chief aphrodisiac. The Master clearly doesn’t want me the way Stephen does, or need me. Confining me was a gift from him, because the experiment intrigued him and he enjoys our talks. But it was my obsession, not his, and he’ll probably be relieved to end it. This cell will get plenty of use from his tricks and other trainees.

Stephen pulls out finally, his cock still half hard, and goes to his gear bag for the ointment he applies to my welts. Lying there as he gently rubs the cooling salve into every inch of my bruised skin, I find my mind drifting. It feels so good just to let him take care of me. His spate of talk seems to have run out, and he is as silent as me. We communicate only by looks and touch, the eternal languages of love.

Nonetheless, sometimes I shiver when Stephen strokes me gently, almost preferring his slaps and kicks to the confused emotions his tenderness arouses. His rough but confident handling feels so right. Why should I have any doubts? I do want to please him. I can easily see myself cooking and cleaning for him, helping him off with his boots, polishing them, running his bath, turning down his bed, sleeping on the floor at his feet. I’m a slave, after all — more of a slave now than ever before — and serving a dominant man is what I need to do.

And he’s right that I need to serve him in real life, not in this arti-ficial environment the Master created for me. This isn’t the essence of slavery at all, but a parody of it! I can see it clearly now: my fantasy of open-ended confinement, of being nothing but a sextoy and urinal, is actually extremely selfish. Here I am, serving both my Masters sexually, taking their piss, absorbing their blows, but unable to work for them. I’m not carrying any of their burdens. Time to be real again!

Stephen fucks me once more, very gently, before he leaves, and then lets me clean him with my mouth until he empties his bladder down my throat. He says not another word, just kisses me deeply and rubs my scalp fuzz. After the door closes behind him, I lie back on my pallet and — exhausted, happy, hurting, confused, hopeful — soon fall asleep.

 

Part 8

 

When the Master comes to me that evening, I’m not surprised to see Stephen with him. It’s Stephen who carries my food bowl and crouches over it to moisten the gritty meal with his piss so I can eat it. The Master sighs and watches, saying nothing until I finish. When I thank him, still on my knees, he tells me to stand up and slowly turn around. I do so, barely suppressing a groan — I ache everywhere! The Master checks the bruises left by Stephen’s beating.

“Down, slave,” he says at last. “You may speak freely. Stephen did this to you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Did you want him to?”

“No, Master. It was all his idea, Sir.”

“But you enjoyed it?”

“No, Master, not exactly. But he enjoyed it, and that made it okay.”

“I see. Do you feel that he went too far, exceeded your limits?”

“No, Master . . . .”

“Go on, slave.”

“Thank you, Master. It was the worst beating anyone’s ever given me, Sir. But as you can see, Sir, I survived in one piece.”

“I see. What did Stephen say to you, exactly, about why he did this?”

“Master, he said that you told him that he’d be freed if he mastered me.”

“And do you feel that he has? A beating alone is not Mastery.”

Now my eyes move over to Stephen standing beside the Master’s chair. His bare arms are crossed behind his back, his booted legs spread, his cock half erect, to all appearances a perfect slave. He raises his bowed head just enough to hold my eyes and pull them down to his boots. I know exactly what he wants from me, needs from me. His fate is now in my hands. I could say one word, “No,” and he’d remain a slave, and probably be barred from my cell so I would have nothing to fear from him. He’d be just another slaveboy who got above himself and was slapped down again.

No way can I do that to him. I might not be totally sure yet that he’s the right Master for me, but what do I have to lose by trying? A few more months of solitude in my cell? I’m suddenly eager to move on and try real slavery again.

A second or two was enough for these thoughts. The Master sees only the barest hesitation as I shuffle on my knees toward his slaveboy and bend my head to kiss his boots. As soon as I do so, Stephen reaches down and hooks a finger through one of the rings on my collar, pulling me upright between his legs. I kiss his cock, too, now proudly erect.

“Let it be so,” the Master says, and I swear he sounds pleased. “Stephen, come here.”

Quickly, my new Master releases my collar and steps around me to stand in front of his Master.

“Kneel, boy, for the last time.” The Master pulls out his key ring and unlocks Stephen’s collar chain, then rises from his chair and they embrace, hugging each other with every evidence of considerable affection. I see all this over my shoulder, as I don’t dare move without permission.

The Master kisses Stephen and holds him at arm’s length, looking him up and down as if for the first time before speaking again.

“You’ve grown so much in the past year. I never intended this outcome when I agreed to this slave’s proposal. I’m going to miss your smooth running of this house and all your help in my business. But it feels right. I think it’s what you both need.

“This slave’s greater age and experience will help you mature and develop into a fine Master, as long as you never lose his respect. You may not stay together long, or you might be a match for the ages — there’s no telling yet. But right now I think you’ll do very well together.”

“Sir,” Stephen replies, still giving the Master the respect he deserves, “unless you wish us to leave immediately, I’d be happy to continue here for another month or so, while I make other arrangements. My slave can do my chores, under my direction, and I can help you find and train a new assistant for the business.”

“Stay as long as you like,” the Master says. “But won’t you find your room too cramped now?”

“It’ll be good for the slave to get used to it, Sir,” my new Master says, grinning as he steps over to me and turns me around with a touch on my shoulder. “You’ve been too easy on him, Sir, letting him have all this space to himself. At least he won’t need any of my closet — I’m going to be filling it with my new clothes.”

“Very good. Take this key and unlock his leg chain from the wall. Do you want to take off his collar and cuffs, too?”

“Thank you, Sir, but I’d like to keep them on, with your leave, for as long as we stay in your house. I’ll give him a new collar when we move to my own home. Meanwhile, your chains suit him well, I think. Don’t they, fuckface?”

So ingrained was the rule against speaking to anyone but the Master that I hesitate to reply.

“You can answer me, slave,” Stephen says. “I am your Master now.”

“Sir, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!” I say in a rush, and bend to kiss his boots again.

“Silly slaveboy!” he says, grinning down at me. “It’s going to be fun training you all over again.”

He squats down to disconnect me from the wall chain, then pulls me to my feet and into his arms. I wince as he hugs me, because of my bruises, but there’s nowhere else I want to be.

“Looks like our experiment is finished,” the Master says, “but given such a wild card as Stephen here proved to be, I’d have to call the results inconclusive. What do you think, slave?”

Glancing at my new Master for permission, I answer firmly,

“Sir, it was a wonderful experience, and I am deeply grateful to you for it, but it’s time I faced my responsibilities. Sir, I’m ready to be a slave in the real world again, Sir.”

“Good boy!” the Master says.

“Woof!” Stephen says, and kisses me hard. “C’mon, dickface,” he says at last, grinning widely, “and I’ll show you where the real slaves around here live.”

“Yes, Master.”

 

THE

Banded

 

I was always a farm boy, although I think I thought of myself more as a rancher than a field worker. We raised crops for sure, corn mostly, and I’ve been working in the fields since I can remember. But what I liked best were the animals, and I have always enjoyed that part of it far more than tending crops. Yeah, I’ve loved animals as long as I can remember. My dad raised cattle, hogs, and sheep, which is an unusual combination, but he liked the variety and if the price fell for one of them then our market losses were often offset by having the other breeds to sell.

I was probably eight or nine the first time I saw a bander being used, and by the time I was a thirteen year old I was an old hand as castrating livestock. It wasn’t so much that I enjoyed it, as it was just a chore that had to be done. Still, when you are slipping thick rubber bands around a young bull’s scrotum or nutting the young hogs one after the other you are certainly aware of what you are doing, and I’d always get hard when it was going on. I don’t know why, but I did, but it wasn’t so much that I was consciously thinking about it. I mean, it’s just a chore. If you aren’t gonna breed them, then if they’ve got balls you nut them, plain and simple, and the bander is the easiest way to do it. Just put on the band, and after that it does the work and within a couple of weeks their balls literally fall right off. I’ve castrated pigs, calves, ponies, and sheep, and I’ve done more scrotums in my lifetime than I can count. Of course, I never thought I’d be banded, never thought that in a million years, although we sometimes would joke about it when we were out doing the animals.

But I think every farm kid alive is aware of the device, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you put one of those bands around a teenager’s balls, it would do the same thing to him as it would do to any other animal. Of course, animals don’t have any idea what you are doing to them, and they really don’t fight it because they don’t understand what’s happening. My dad uses an EZY, because it’s fast and works well, and it didn’t take me long to master it. All you do is load the device with a pre-made latex band, sized for the animal you are nutting, and then you can do it in less than twenty seconds. It’s a one person deal—and there are no hassles with trying to stretch the band while castrating because the band is already stretched in the device, so it’s a simple matter to slip the scrotum through the spread band, and then just slide it off the jaws of device, clip the band, and it is done. The animal doesn’t even react, and within a half hour or so it’s nuts are numb and after that they just slowly die. Of course, if you ever did a human it would probably be different, cause for one thing a guy KNOWS what his balls are for, and he sure as shit isn’t ever gonna spread his legs and let some guy put some rubber ring around his sack. No, no sane guy alive is ever gonna allow someone to do that. At least, that’s what I thought.

Now, before I describe what happened to me, I guess I should at least talk about punishment on the farm, cause when you misbehaved where I was growing up, you got the strap. Plain and simple, if you screwed up, it was a trip to the barn, and that’s where you bent over one of the low hog fences inside the barn, which was typically about waist high. Then you had to grab and hold onto the lower rung of the fence while dad painted your bare bottom with the strap. At our farm it was a big razor strap, about three feet long and about 1/8 of an inch thick, and that fucker burned like a fire when it was being ripped into your bottom. Now, I know in this day and age that seems cruel, but it was just the way farm boys were punished, and you got used to it and that was that. If you didn’t hang onto the lower rail while you were taking your licks, then dad would use a leather horse rein and tie your wrists together, and then with your hands tied then you bent over the rail, and he looped the leather around the lower rung and after that you weren’t going anywhere no matter how hard you squirmed. Usually when one of the three of us was getting strapped, the other two had to watch, and I’ve watched my older brothers more times than not hanging over the hog fence, their balls swinging as my dad worked that leader strap up between their legs and across their bottom until both cheeks were flame red.

We didn’t get strapped all that often; so it’s not like it was an everyday thing. Dad didn’t strap any of us until we turned thirteen; he said the strap was a man’s punishment and if you didn’t behave as a teenager then you had it coming. Thomas got the strap at sixteen when he got caught smoking. Jeremy got it at 13 for stealing, and again at 14 for lying to mom. He always got his hands tied when he took the strap, cause he would always let go and grab his ass instead of laying there with his legs spread while the strap taught him the lesson.

When Thomas got caught fucking his girlfriend at 19 he got the strap again, and I’ll never forget the way my dad worked that thing on his ass that time. Yeah…sex outside of marriage was one of the big ones, and he strapped my brother’s ass for a good ten minutes. I remember that time well, because my brother’s dick was hard while he was being strapped, and that only infuriated my dad even more.

As for me, I got the strap twice at thirteen, but after that I just behaved myself and never had to feel it again. Still, when I was watching my older brothers get their bottoms lashed I usually grinned, and there was something sort of primal about the way they would jerk and pull and struggle as that piece of leather painted their buttocks cherry red. You didn’t forget a strapping after you saw one, or worse, felt one, and it did cause you to change your behavior that’s for sure. As a farm kid we just learned to respect authority, and I said “yes sir” to my dad without even thinking about doing anything else.

I was one of the good kids, as I wasn’t stupid, and I just figured out it was easier to behave myself, and so I somehow avoided the strap. But I feared it, that’s for sure, as did all of my friends.

Yeah, most of my friend’s parents also used the strap, because in school we would all swap stories, but my best friend in all the world had it worse than any of us. I had the chance to find that out for myself when I was sixteen; that’s when I got to see my best friend get it. I was over at the Kramer’s farm playing with Michael—we had gone squirrel hunting without any luck. Michael’s dad had died when he was a baby, but his mom ran their ranch with an iron fist and she was one woman everyone feared. She had hired a few hands to help her run things, but for the most part she knew what she was doing and she was a woman not to be fooled with.

I had always been polite to her, and been careful, and I was over there a lot because Michael and I were best friends. On the day I saw her strap my best friend it was all over his chores; when we went hunting together he had skipped out on his chores to do it, and so when we got back his mom was less than pleased. I watched him get strapped right in front of me, and I’ll never forget that because he was sixteen and I remember that I was staring and watching him as his mom took care of business.

Now, she didn’t exactly strap him herself, but she might as well have. For the deed itself she went and got one of the hired hands, and this big guy about twenty-five with forearms the size of hams came in and did the job. Yeah, that hired hand burned my best friend’s naked bottom. She had Michael toss his school jacket over a hog fence in their barn, then lay down over it, in about the same way my own dad did it to my brothers. The hired hand secured his wrists together too, just like my dad did, and then he secured them to the bottom rail.

It was all eerily similar to what my brothers got at home, except that when that guy started on my best friend’s naked ass he did it while his mom was yelling and cussing, and he worked that strap right across his cheeks, and into the recess of his crack as well. I’ll never forget watching that, watching Mike’s teenage balls swing as he struggled, and it wasn’t long before he was begging. I tried to leave, but she had insisted I stay, and so while I watched that man burned his naked bottom with that strap with a vengeance. Mike was totally at his mercy, and with his hands tied to that lower rail he was exposed and there was nothing left to my imagination. In a lot of ways his body was the body of a young man, but even so at sixteen he was crying by the time it was done like a ten year old, and I’ll never forget the way his ass bobbed up and down, almost as if he was fucking that fence rail right in front of his mom and me. That hired hand knew exactly what he was doing, and at the end he flicked the tip of the strap right against his hole about six times in a row, and I think that caused Mike’s entire body to jerk and shake, and then he tossed his head back and his eyes went really wide. His hole started to wink at all of us, and as it did he started grunting then, and when he did that she just laughed, and then right after that the hired hand just tossed the strap over my friend’s ass and walked out of the barn. What they knew and what I soon discovered is that Mike had shot his spunk at the end, and I’d never seen a punishment like that, never in my life, and compared to what my brother’s got Mike’s punishment was in a entirely different league. When I went to untie him that’s when I saw it, that he had ejaculated onto his jacket during his punishment. He was so humiliated, and his face was as red as his ass. I didn’t say anything but we both knew what he had done and I got him a rag to wipe up the goo.

When I went home I jacked off just thinking about it. I didn’t see him for a couple of weeks except at school, but the next time I was over at his place he mentioned it, and then we were just staring at each other in a strange sort of way. I’m still not sure what happened next but I told him that I didn’t mind that he had cum, and I admitted that I had jacked off afterwards after I had watched him shoot his spunk. I don’t know why I shared that with him, but then after I did the next thing I knew he asked me if I liked guys, and I hesitated, and then nodded very slowly. That’s when he said: “I figured you did.”

Then he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down to my knees. Things just happened then, and he unsnapped his jeans and his cock sprang out and then without any hesitation I just sucked him off until he spurted his jism and I swallowed his teenage seed.

He didn’t return the favor, so I jacked off while he watched. I went home and didn’t know what to say then, but after that he was on my mind constantly. At school he didn’t say anything, and so I wasn’t sure where things stood. I knew it was one sided, and he had a girlfriend at school and they seemed to get more serious right after that, and soon he was dating her whenever he could so I wasn’t sure where we were going.

Finally, after a couple of weeks I invited him over and he came, and when we got together in my barn and were finally alone I asked him if he was mad at me. He said: “Mad? Nope…not at all.” Then, sure as shit, he asked me to suck him again, and I did, and after that it was soon my favorite game. I begged him to suck me, and he licked me once, for a few minutes, but then all I could get him to do was to jerk me off after I had sucked him dry.

Still, it was something. He was always talking of his girlfriend, and how he was going to fuck her soon, and yet whenever we would get together he wanted me to suck him off. Sometimes he would close his eyes and pretend I was her, calling me by her name. That always pissed me off.

I would be sucking him, and he would roll his head back, and with his eyes closed he would say: “Yeah…that’s it Kathy. Yeah…that’s it. Suck it…yeah…just like that. Oh yeah baby….suck my cock. Suck my cock and make me cum!”

I didn’t like him pretending I was his girlfriend, and I almost stopped sucking him because of it. But, I liked the feeling of his dick when he shot, and I loved the taste of his jism even if I was just playing out his girl fantasy as he was enjoying his blowjobs.

He didn’t acknowledge our game, and at school or everywhere else he just acted like nothing special was going on between us. Now, this wasn’t something we did all that often, mostly because we were both too damn busy with our farm chores and didn’t live all that close together. Now, we both knew it was wrong of course, I mean, guys just don’t do stuff with guys, but that didn’t stop either of us from wanting to do stuff whenever we were together, and by the time we were seventeen we had the game pretty much figured out. I would suck him dry, and he would pretend I was his girlfriend. Now, I had this weird idea that I wanted to fuck him. I had never fucked anyone, and didn’t have a girlfriend, but as a farm boy I was constantly aware of all the animals and their fucking, and doing “IT” was certainly on my mind, probably the way it is on the mind of every seventeen year old teenage boy who has ever lived. But he wasn’t into that, and so it was just this fantasy, this need that could not be truly satisfied by jacking my cock with my fist.

Then, when he was seventeen and a half he ask me if he could borrow two hundred dollars from me. He was working on a set of wheels, and I figured if he got a pickup I’d have a chance to see more of him, not less, and I had the money saved so I loaned it. But when I did I said to him, “I’ll give you the money, but you gotta pay it back to me by my birthday. If you don’t, then you bend over and I get to fuck you.”

He had laughed, but agreed, and after that it was sort of this unsaid thing we both shared, and I would kid him about it. He was working chores to pay me back, and he had the full intention to do so, and so I didn’t honestly believe I’d ever mount his hole. But I wanted to, and I fantasized about it. Well, a week before I turned eighteen he had the money, but then he wrecked the farm tractor and his mom was really pissed. She took his money to get it fixed, all of it, and his dream for his pickup went into the trash. And, with only a week before my birthday things were looking up for my fantasy to become reality.

Now, he and I were both teenage boys, but we were as different as night and day. For one thing, he liked girls, and I liked guys. For another, he was growing the beginnings of a beard, with hair on his chest and a thick patch above his groin. His thick pubic hair accentuated a fat cock, and he was well into manhood. His nuts were always tight and pulled up in his sack. In contrast, I was still going through puberty, and I wasn’t shaving yet and except for a sparse bit of hair above my cock and two little patches under my arms I was as smooth as a much younger boy. My cock wasn’t all that big either, although it was long enough. But even at six inches, it was thin, like a boy’s pole instead of a man’s and I just hoped it would get thicker eventually. But I did have a good set of low hanging balls, that would swing beneath my legs like a bulls nuts swing, and I was proud of them. But except for my big set of nuts, I was somewhat embarrassed about looking like a younger teen, but still I had sex on my mind and I liked jacking off a lot and my bullocks seemed to produce a lot of seed. When I came I would always shoot a big load, and I loved grunting it out.

As for fucking my friend, of course he tried to beg his way out of it, saying he would get me the money but needed a little more time, but I wanted him bad, and I wasn’t into letting him off. I looked him right in the eye and said: “Michael, you made the deal, and a deal is a deal. I want the money, or you. I’m coming over next Saturday, on my 18th birthday, and you pay up one way or the other.”

Now, farm boys have a creed, and paying your debts is one of the rules, even if it means bending over a bail of hay and letting your best friend mount your ass. Yeah, even that. And so, on my eighteenth birthday, I got to do what I had wanted to do since I could remember thinking about it. Now, before he took off his pants Michael made a big deal to tell me that he had just fucked Kathy the previous weekend, and so this didn’t mean anything. But I could have cared less how many girls he had fucked. His ass was mine, and I wanted it. He looked at me, and bit his lip, but then he said: “OK…OK. I’m gonna let you do it, because you’ve been wanting it for so long. It’s just because of the money I owe, and I’m not a welcher. But this is a one time deal. Just go slow—I don’t want it to hurt.”

OH FUCK. God I got hard. Rock hard. It was just him and me in his barn, and I was smart enough to know that if he was getting it with his girlfriend I figured he wasn’t gonna need my lips on his cock much longer. So, this was a real treat and opportunity, and as I stood there looking at him I was rock hard and more eager than I had ever been. He surprised me even more because he sucked me for a few minutes until I got even harder; yeah, I’ll never forget that either, and then I literally jerked off his jeans and within a few minutes I had him over a bail of hay. I used a lot of udder cream for lube, as it was handy, and then I slowly pushed my slicked up cock into my best friend’s ass. Soon I was slowly sliding in and out of his oh-so-tight ass, my big teenage nuts slapping against my best friend’s hole. He had his head arched back, grunting as he took my thin six inch pole all the way to the hilt.

I don’t now how long we fucked, but not all that long, and I just didn’t have a lot of control as it was my first fuck of my life. I wanted it to last, but I was unprepared for how tight he was or how hot he was, and so suddenly I just shot my wad, filling up his ass with my jism, and as I pumped it out I savored the feeling. He too ejaculated, and we came together he and I, my load shooting into him as I felt the rhythmic contractions of his groin as his own nuts spewed out his seed and squirted into the bale of hay he was laying over.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, we both heard the distinct sound of a shell being chambered in a pump 12 gauge. I spun around, still buried to my balls in his ass, and the same hired hand that had strapped my friend at sixteen was staring down the barrel. For a second I was certain he was going to blow my head right off. I screamed “Don’t Shoot!” and pulled out, and he took in my dripping cock and my best friend’s just-just fucked hole. I knew right then I was dead meat.

I tried to talk, but she said “SHUT THE FUCK UP QUEER BOY!”

Time seemed to stand still, and I had no idea what to do. I raised my hands up high, hoping like hell he woudn’t pull the trigger. Michael stood up and started yelling: “He fucked me! I didn’t want him to…but I owed him. I owed him money and he made me! He made me!”

I was so stunned I didn’t know what to say!

Then Michael went for his jeans, but the hired hand said: “Don’t bother Michael. You’ve earned a strapping, as has your friend. You can put them back on after I’ve burned your bottom.”

I tried to turn, I think to run, but he yelled “DON’T MOVE YOU PERVERT—YOU MOVE AND I’LL KILL YOU!”

I tried to talk then, even if I didn’t know what to say, but he told me to shut the fuck up. Then, he looked at my friend, and said: “You OK Michael?”

He nodded, and said: “Yeah….it was a bet. I didn’t have any choice! It’s not what you think! I owed him two hundred dollars, and, and I had to pay or let him.”

He looked at him, and then at me. Then he said: “I don’t think your mom would be too pleased bet or no bet. “Get the rope…tie his writs together, and then he’s gong over the fence, cause he’s got a strapping coming. I’m gonna strap the skin right off of his ass. And your’re getting it too, unless you want me to call your mom instead.”

I was scared shitless. I didn’t know what do! I hadn’t been strapped in a damn long time….but at the same time I figured that if my dad found out I’d for sure be getting the strap, and so the idea of being strapped for fucking my friend for sure didn’t seem all that out of line. And, while I knew it was going to be a strapping to be remembered, I figured maybe, yeah maybe, if I was really lucky my dad might not hear about it, especially if the hired hand didn’t call Michael’s mom. So, I let my best friend tie my hands, while the hired hand watched and made sure he did it tight, and then he bent me over the hog fence, so that my hands were down near my ankles and that’s where he tied them, to the bottom rail. After that I didn’t have many options.

Then, the hired hand said to Mike: “OK…you too. Over there, in the corner. Over the fence, and get your ass perched up nice and high. You’ve got a strapping coming that you’re not ever gonna forget!”

I couldn’t see all that much of Michael as the fence he was leaning over was across the barn, but I could hear him as he bent over the fence, and the man who was going to punish him tied him in place. With my head near my knees I could just make out the top of the fence, and I had a view of Mike’s upturned bottom, totally exposed and now, like mine, just waiting for the strap. But there was a bail of hay in the way, so I couldn’t see all that much. But it didn’t matter. We were both gonna get our ass’s blistered, and that was pretty fucking obvious.

Then, the hired hand came back to me, with two shorter ropes in his hands, and he put one loop around each ankle, and tied my legs out so that they were in an inverted “V”, spread apart, which exposed everything of course and made it crystal clear that I was totally exposed for a very thorough strapping. I had never seen that done before, and it was not a good feeling, but at that point there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I said: “Please mister…please man. It’s not what you think. I swear.”

Then he said: “Shut the fuck up. I know what I saw. I’m gonna burn your fag ass, and I’m not gonna listen to you beg like a wimp.” Then, he reached down and pulled my right sock off, and shoved it in my mouth. Then he ripped off a long piece of duct tape, and wrapped it around my mouth, and after that I was pretty much gagged and the only sound I could make was a mumble. After he had gagged me he stood back and looked at me, and that’s when he said: “There. Damn. Look at those balls. Fuck, your hung, just like a bull calf. I’ll have to give you that, you’ve got an impressive set of balls. Well, too bad you don’t know what there for. Enjoy the gag–I don’t want to hear you yelling when I’m strapping you.”

From across the barn I heard Michael: “Thomas…listen. IT was just a bet….I lost. I…I mean…I don’t think that you…”

“SHUT UP MICHAEL. GUYS DON’T FUCK GUYS! I either handle this, or I get your mom. You got that? Do you want your mom to know her son opened his hole for a faggot?”

I heard Mike say “No…oh God. Please man…just don’t tell mom. Please don’t tell mom!”

Then the hired hand went back to where Mike was tied over the fence, and he said: “OK Michael, I think you are right. Cause if I tell her what I saw today I think it would kill her. I thought you had a girlfriend? You queer too?”

He shook his head. “No man…I’m not. Kathy’s my girl…you’ve met her man! I’ve fucked her twice man! I swear! Hell, I just fucked her last Saturday! Oh please…OH GOD. It was just a bet. It was his idea man, and I had to let him…I had to! I’m not a queer!”

“Well, OK. But I know what I saw. I’m going to strap you, and I’m gonna strap him and I owe your mom enough to teach both of you a lesson. You’re gonna get burned boy, and so is your friend. I know what I saw, and he fucked you…he fucked you like a girl and you had your legs spread!”

Then, he said: “You’re getting your socks stuffed in your mouth too. I don’t want you guys yelling…your mom might hear and I don’t think we want her in the middle of this mess. I’m gonna strap you hard, and you need to keep quiet. Some things just need to be handled by a man.”

He gagged Michael then, and I could tell it had been done because Mike was mumbling and it was clear he was eating his socks just like I was. Then, that having been taken care of, the big man picked up the leather strap, and whipped it through the air, and it seemed to sing. Suddenly, he brought it down onto Mike’s upturned ass, and as he did it literally lit him on fire.

CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

“URGHHHHHHHHH!” Mike yelled into his gag, and after that the blows just started raining down, one after the other. I could hear the fence shaking, and Mike begging, his cries muffled and yet it was clear he was begging even so. His strapping went on and on and on. I couldn’t see it, but I could tell my friend’s bottom was getting redder and redder, and there was no mercy at all in his strapping. By the time it was over Michael was whimpering like a baby, a well spanked little boy and totally defeated.

Now, it was my turn.

The hired hand came to me, and his face was painted in anger. I was gagged, spread and tied down, bent over the fence and with my ass exposed and ready to be punished. It was not a good position to be in when you have just turned eighteen. It is not a good position to be in at all.

He didn’t keep me waiting.

CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

I’ll never forget that strap, and the way he slammed it into me. He struck every single inch of exposed skin, and I jerked and thrashed and twisted and turned while that red neck ranch hand burned my bottom. It just went on and on and on, and eventually the tears came and even so there was no let up. He strapped my buttocks, and he strapped my inner legs. He strapped my entire ass until it was cherry red, and he finally strapped my hole, again and again and again, until it too was puffed up and thoroughly punished. He knew just how to flick the tip into that spot, with a well-practiced motion, and I think if I hadn’t just shot my wad into my best friend’s ass I might have even ejaculated again. But thankfully, I didn’t. Finally, it was done. I just lay there with my eyes closed, the tears flowing out, sobbing and with the snot dripping from my nose. I was well spanked, and my entire ass was on fire.

Suddenly, I felt him fondling my big sack of nuts, and before I even knew what was happening my scrotum was in his fist and for a second I had no idea what the fuck was going on. I opened my eyes, and because the way I was bent over I was staring right between my legs, and there, in his fist, was my set of balls. Hanging from his wrist was an EZY Livestock Castration Tool, and his fist was holding my scrotum and I could see he had already slipped the loop of rubber up and over my scrotum as he had grabbed it. OH GOD HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING AND HE WAS GONNA BAND ME! I tried to scream, but my socks were still stuffed in my mouth, and I started shaking and jerking and pulling against the ropes that held me spread-eagled. He was going to geld me like a bull calf! OH GOD!

He laughed, and then he winked at me, and as he did he moved his wrist and there was this SNAP, and suddenly the band was free of the jaws of the banding pliers, and as it snapped closed above my balls it cinched off the blood supply in that single instant just exactly like it was designed to do! HE HAD BANDED ME! OH FUCK! He was really doing it! He was castrating me! I had banded my share of animals of course, and I knew exactly what was happening. I could see the little rubber donut there, all cinched down now and literally killing my balls, just as I had seen it kill so many animal scrotums over the years I had been on the farm. It was designed to kill the balls on a bull calf up to 350 pounds, and there was no doubt at all that it if stayed around my nuts then it was definitely going to do my own balls in and that was a certainty. OH FUCK! NO! NO! I was surprised, as it didn’t hurt all that much, but I KNEW what it was doing, and I fought with every single muscle in my body. I tried to scream, and I shook my head side to side, but he just patted my rear and said “It’s ok little guy…don’t worry….you’ll be better off without your balls and by morning you’ll be a steer. Your days of boy fucking are over.”

I jerked to get free with every single muscle in my body, but the ropes around my ankles were tight, and my legs were spread and there was nothing I could do to get them free. Likewise, my wrists were secured well to the bottom rail of the fence, and I was bent over, my flame red ass up in the air, and now my banded nuts were hanging down between my legs and were literally being strangled. OH FUCK I WAS BEING CASTRATED JUST LIKE A BULL CALF AND THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO ABOU IT!

Then, he stood up behind me, and slowly started to run his right hand over my naked ass. He felt the skin, ran his hand up between the crack of my cheeks, and then hefted my banded balls and I could feel him there, fondling the individual testicles like plumbs ripe for the picking, which were now being starved of blood. He picked up my cock, and as hard as it is to believe I had a full boner. For some stupid reason my cock had gone hard as soon as the band has snapped around my balls. I don’t know why really, but my cock was as hard as a piece of steel, almost as if it sensed the need to get hard while it still could. OH FUCK I WAS HARD AND MY BALLS WERE DYING!

Then he said: “Wow…for a new steer, you sure have an eager dick! The end of it is slick with sperm—you’re dripping. Hell, I think you like being castrated.” Then he licked his lips, and then he said: “You know little fella, that little hole of yours seems pretty tight. Did your pencil dick like fucking Michael’s ass?”

As he said the word “ass” he shoved his finger into my hole, and I arched my back and grunted. Fuck! I had never had anything up my ass, ever, and when I shuddered it made him laugh. Suddenly he was unbuckling his jeans, and before I knew it his big cock, a monster cock really, sprang up and eager. Next to his massive rod, my cock looked like a boy’s pole. OH GOD. HE WAS GOING TO FUCK ME!

Then he said: “You know…I could never fuck a guy. Never in a million years. But you aren’t a guy anymore really; no…you’re well on your way to becoming a steer; and your hole sure looks eager for it. In fact, with your balls banded, it kind of reminds me of a pussy. I think you ought to at least learn what Michael had to suffer through, don’t you?”

I shook my head and screamed, but it didn’t make any difference. There was nothing I could do, and then, without really any warning, he just pushed the big head of his cock right up against the entrance to my bowels. And, a few seconds after that, he leaned forward, and then he slowly slid into me until he was buried to his balls.

I felt like he was gonna split me in two. God he hurt! He didn’t care of course, and then once he was all the way in then he fucked me, with long hard strokes, ramming his cock deep into me with each thrust. He fucked me like an animal, hard and fast, and as he was doing the feeling in my nuts was a mixture of pleasure and a deep primal ache. He fucked me deep and hard, and he was slamming me up against the fence as he penetrated the depths of my soul. Suddenly I was cumming, the sperm shooting out of my stiff cock with a vengeance, in what was probably one of the biggest orgasms of my entire life. I was coming from a man’s cock in my ass, and without anything touching my own dick! God! I wasn’t in control of anything, and my body seemed to just jet out sperm, in spurt after spurt after spurt, almost as though my cock was trying to fertilize something, while my balls were still half alive and able to produce a load of semen. My cock was so stiff and it was pointed right at my face as I was staring at it, so I ended up shooting my wad onto my own face, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I didn’t want to cum, but I came anyway, and I shot the biggest load of my life, perhaps as if my balls knew that it was their last. Whatever the reason, I came and came and came, and as I was coming he felt the rhythmic contractions of my sexual muscles and they in turn stimulated his own cock and so as much as I wished it wasn’t so the reality was that it was my own orgasm that put him over the edge.

He tossed his head back and yelled “OH FUCK YEAH….GOD YOU ARE TIGHT! I’m CUMMING STEER BOY!” Then he opened his eyes and starting jetting his sperm into my hole even as I too continued to ejaculate. I felt so defeated, like a concurred enemy, my tormentor’s seed deposited into the depths of my being like my hole was nothing more than a cheap whore’s pussy, there only for his pleasure. He savored every single moment of his orgasm, his nuts feeling maximum pleasure as he shot his wad, while my own balls ached in a way I cannot describe, noosed off from my body and literally dying on the vine.

He stayed inside of my rectum for probably a good five minutes, until his cock softened and slid out on his own. He clearly had enjoyed every single second of fucking me, and it was so damn unfair! He laughed, and as he zipped up his jeans I could feel his sperm literally running out of my hole. He had filled me with his jism!

Michael couldn’t see what had happened, but he could tell something had, and he was grunting and mumbling in his gag.

The hired hand then said: “Shut the fuck up over there, unless you want another round with the strap. I mean it. You say one more word, and I’ll strap your ass all over again.”

Then he slapped me on my ass, and hefted my banded balls one last time. Then he said: “I’m gonna go do some errands, as I need to gather up some stuff. You boys just sit tight, and enjoy yourselves. Somebody will be around in a little while. For now, I think you need to savor the lesson I have taught you two.”

He left then, and after that I hoped for a miracle. I had the thought he would might come back and cut off the band, and so I just waited and hoped like hell he wouldn’t wait too long. It was something to hope for, that he had only wanted me to think he was going to really castrated me. But pretty soon my nuts started to go numb, and I knew time was running out, and so I jerked against the ropes and struggled as hard as I could to get free, but I couldn’t get loose and there was nothing I could do to stop my castration.

I kept hoping, while my own spunk dried on my face, but nobody came to rescue me, and so I stayed there over that fence, my legs spread wide and that rubber donut cinching off my nuts. With the socks in my mouth I couldn’t call out to Mike, and apparently he couldn’t get free either. The tears came, and I knew it was for real. I was being castrated, and I was powerless to stop it. It was a long night. Finally, I heard the roosters start to crow at the crack of dawn, and felt the chill of the morning air. My nuts quit aching long before that, and as I stared at them I slowly watched them turn a darker color, and by the time the sun was up it was clear they were dead. The band had done its job, just like it was designed to do, and it was clear to me that I had been nutted, just like all of those animals I had nutted over the years I had grown through adolescence. The truth was that as a new 18 year old, I’d never have the chance to be a man. Yeah, the sad truth was that there was no doctor on earth that could save my balls now.

I cried and felt sorry for myself, but there wasn’t anything that I could do. I was tied out and banded, and so I waited, like a young steer waits, his dead nuts hanging down like useless orbs, dark and dead and just waiting to fall off. It was a horrible feeling, and laying there knowing you’ve been castrated was a terrible feeling that really can’t be described. My dead nuts were right in front of my face, and I had seen enough banded animals in my lifetime that I knew it was hopeless.

Michael’s mom came into the barn around 8am and found both of us, and she screamed and started cussing, and then she untied Mike and then me from the fence. She was clueless, but she wasn’t stupid, and could tell we had both been thoroughly strapped. Of course she saw the band right away as well, and she knew I had been nutted and it was crystal clear to her that my balls were already dead. I wanted to cut the band right off, but she stopped me, knowing that I needed to go to the hospital and let the doctors do it. Of course she had a lot of questions. When I told her the farm hand had done it to me she called the police. I didn’t tell her why; I mean, I didn’t see any point in telling her that I had fucked her son, and as it turned out I never told anyone. I mean, what good would it have done, and Mike sure didn’t want her to know.

The other thought I had was that it was still possible if my dad found out then I’d probably get strapped all over again, even though I had up and got myself castrated. So, yeah, some things are better left unsaid. I ended up in the hospital, but they couldn’t give me back my nuts of course, and in fact they ended up removing the entire scrotum to prevent gangrene from setting in. And of course the local sheriff never found the hired hand. All his stuff was gone, and he wasn’t stupid and hadn’t stuck around after he had had his fun and banded me.

The weird part of all of this is that Michael and I stayed friends. And what’s even weirder I suppose, is that I still suck him off on occasion. I guess his girl isn’t into oral, and so when he gets really horny I will suck him dry, and when I do he calls me by his girlfriend’s name and pretends my lips are hers. Sometimes, if he is really horny, and she hasn’t been spreading her legs for him, he will mount me instead. I don’t know, but I guess as a ball-less eunuch my perspectives have changed somewhat, and suddenly that doesn’t seem all that wrong anymore. Just before he cums in my ass he usually yells out her name, and then he tosses his head back and fills me with his seed.