Being Masterful

Ricky taken to submission

Had he been showing any signs of distress I would have paused at this point. It is always wise to be cautious. Even if the guy under training seems to be OK I usually wind up my first session long before I detect any reluctance to continue. Sometimes the guy never comes back - and that's fine because, arguably the fun is in seeing his initial shock and experiencing his momentary loss of control. Although he has not complained, when the guy goes home, calms down and thinks about things, he decides he has experienced enough embarrassment and uncontrolled adrenaline rush. I have to tell you, however, most do come back for more, and for a number of reasons. They want to re-run events to prove to themselves they can regain control of the situation - it's like a re-match to see if, forearmed, they can win. Often, the reason is, I think, they are so confused that they can't work out what just happened, so they figure if they play along some more, all will become clear. Rather like pilgrims, they are seeking the answers to all the unknowns.

On this occasion I was so hyped up - and so was he - and Ricky was such an impressive specimen of a young man - I decided to press on. He showed every indication of wanting more of the challenge.

My new office was still a work in progress. There were tools and materials scattered around the place. I had also prepared a few other bits and pieces on the off chance that this first training session would go the way I wanted. After all, that is half the fun: thinking about it and planning. I instructed Ricky to hold out his hands so that I could bind them with some high strength duct tape that was conveniently on the shelf behind him. Next I picked up a coil of thin nylon cord - also “coincidentally” to hand - and tied it around his wrists. My office was on the top floor of a two story timber and chipboard structure that was constructed in one corner of the metal clad warehouse. Above our heads the strip lights hung on chains from the exposed steel 'I' section beams supporting the corrugated roof. I tossed the cord over the suspended strip lights so that it looped back down.

“Lift your arms above your head,” I ordered, and Ricky complied without a murmur, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be told to do. As he did so, I yanked on the rope to make sure his arms were pulled up tight. I tied the free end to the leg of my desk. I instructed him to spread his legs wide which made him a couple of inches shorter. This brought him to my eye level and nicely tightened the rope, thus stretching his body taut.

Finally, I wrapped a rag around his head - actually a cut up old T-shirt of mine - to cover his eyes. After tying it as tight as I could, I wrapped some of the duct tape round his head, for good measure, to make absolutely sure he could not see anything. So far he had shown no emotion. That was about to change.

I stroked a finger down from his chin across his chest to his stomach. He exhaled audibly and squirmed at the shock of my touch. Being blindfolded and thus sightless, his sense of touch was enhanced. At this point my cock was rock hard in my pants. This was another first. Until now I had not had the location or the space to string up a naked man. There had been no room in my London flat. I stood back to take in the view - and what a scene it was: this powerful beast of a young man; legs spread wide, balls and cock dangling between; blindfolded, strung up so that his arms were stretched in the air and his upper body pulled so tight that his ribs were straining and his stomach pulled tight. There was no rush to do anything. It was still only mid morning. I had all day.

I stroked my fingers down the underside of his outstretched arms to his armpits and, of course, he involuntarily tried to wriggle away, my fingers easily following his limited movements so that he could not disengage. The panting became more urgent. I liked the fact he was giving in to the emotional charge of events. He was not pretending to act tougher than he was. In fact, I suspect it was because he was naturally tough that he felt the confidence to show his true emotions. I withdrew to let him recover. Also, I did not want him to become desensitised to my touch. If you slap a guy he soon regroups. Meanwhile a gentle caress can be so much more unnerving.

I positioned my right hand under his ball sack and, very gently, tapped my fingers upward. He let out a pained cry, both balls contracted, leaping in their sack, and his whole body convulsed. Any pain, of course, was minimal. All this was an exercise in psychological torture. He was tied, blind, spread, exposed. He was at another man's mercy. From two different perspectives we both registered the effect of all this. I was turned on like crazy. He was nervous, frightened, super-sensitized. He was fearful of what would come next, yet knowing he would be safe, he felt he could not complain because, after all, it was only a game. He was faced with the classic male dilemma: to chicken out would irrevocably damage his self esteem. He could not risk losing face. He would choose to endure anything rather than let that happen. I knew at this point I had free rein. I would be able to do anything to him; I would be able to make him do anything I wanted, as long as at the end of the session I said the magic phrase “well done, Ricky, you have passed your first test.”

I know the more I make him suffer, the more elated he will be at the end to have won first prize. In fact, as long as I give him a little encouragement as we go along, he will actually chomp at the bit to be worked harder. I have carried out this process many times and it works every time. Trust me.

So now I alternate a little; a stroke and tickle here and there followed by a gentle slap to the balls - a little harder each time. He soon realise each tap is a little harder than the last. He cries out at the slaps - louder each time. Now he knows what is coming so he gets to anticipate the pain as well as actually experiencing it. Double the torture. After a few minutes I stop to let him recover - and to worry about it beginning again. Beads of perspiration are trickling down from his chest, across his stomach and beginning to moisten his pubic hair. Standing behind him now, I slip off my belt and whip it hard across his wonderfully muscular buttocks with their misting of delicate golden hairs. He jerks forward shouting, “Jesus!” Walking round to the front of him I watch his chest and stomach rising and falling as he gasps for air. Then I walk back to stand behind him. He can hear my footsteps on the bare chipboard floor so he braces himself for the inevitable. This time I gently stroke the leather strap across his quivering white skin. Nevertheless, he jumps as though he had been struck. He is exhausting himself - and I am doing almost nothing to him. He will soon have worn himself down so that he capitulates unconditionally, and he will not be able to pinpoint any single thing of note that I have done to him, because his fight is with his own imagination. The value of this result is that he will know his surrender was entirely voluntary. His choice. His decision. I didn't make him. If the final decision to submit is his own he is more likely to abide by it, to accept it, to be settled in his own mind, than if forced upon him. That is the extra frisson: the willing slave.

I stroke the back of my hand on his left cheek and whisper, “I want you broken and fallen so that I can pick you up and remake you stronger.” Then I delicately cradle his balls in my hand again and finger each one individually. If I do this right I can make him associate having his balls stroked with a kind of manly encouragement and affection. I have achieved this outcome with guys before. All I have to do is hold out my upturned hand and they come running like a well-trained affectionate dog to slip me their crotch. Once I have fully moved the guy from his regular behaviour pattern I can make his new reality whatever I want it to be.

He has beautifully large balls that hang just the right amount in their sack, so I am looking forward to his fullest future compliance in terms of total control of these assets. Everything about him is nicely proportioned - almost a perfect specimen of a virile young man with just enough variation to make him interesting and worth exploring ever more.

He whispers almost inaudibly, “You have broken me.”

My cock twitches. It's like having a second brain at moments like these by drawing my attention to the important moments. “Tell me again,” I say.

“You've broken me. That's what you wanted, isn't it.” He is an astute young man. He is working through in his mind an understanding of what this is all about and what is required.

I can see a little dampness on his cheek under the blindfold. I lift it up an inch and a couple of tears roll down to his lips. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

Holding my face so that it almost touches his, very quietly I whisper, “Then you have to do exactly what I tell you from now on.”

There is no response so I add, “Say 'yes Sir',”

“Yes, Sir,” his voice is croaky with emotion.

“I will obey you without question from now on,” I prompt.

Voice breaking with emotion, Ricky dutifully repeats the words. It takes me a couple of weeks to realise it, but he is surprisingly emotional for a tough young man. It is a mistake to think a man is devoid of sensitivity just because he has muscles. In part I think it is because he is still coming to terms with the relatively new sensations generated by all the powerful hormones flowing though his body. The atmosphere in the room is electric. We are both inhaling each other's pheromones and getting high on them. I can sense he does not want to stop, tears or no tears. He is not crying because he is hurt or afraid, it is his way of summoning up the extra determination to press on, which is what he wants to do. I wanted to break him. He is broken so, in a perverse way, he can now feel good about complying.

As he has repeats the oath I just gave him, “I will obey you without question from now on,” I cup his balls in my hand again. They are an irresistible treasure. I can't help keep running my fingers over them. I'm not sure, but I may have just detected an almost imperceptible pelvic tremor, certainly not a forward thrust, more an involuntary tiny forward twitch of his groin into my hand. A dog cannot prevent its tail from wagging. Voluntary or involuntary, I'm pleased about that.

I am now so hard it hurts. There is no pulling back at this point, even though I know I probably should.

“So now, Ricky, I will give you a choice. Either you suck me or you bend over and take a fucking. Which is it?”

Without a split second's hesitation, and that surprises me, he replies simply, “suck you.” He can't bring himself to form a complete sentence. The words themselves cause too much embarrassment.

I can't believe my luck. There is not the slightest trace of resistance. I say, “Tell me again. Which is it? Answer properly.”

“I suck you.”

Nothing lasts forever - and who would want it to. There are so many other adventures in life. Ricky stays with me for about nine months during which time I train him thoroughly. More about that in the next episode.

Good news! After a short break due to pressure of work I am adding to my website - and all the reading is free. Most of the stories are of true events, and those that are fiction are based on true events. Knowing these things have really happened is more of a turn on than make believe. Check it out: Enslaver.uk