Caleb stood nervously outside the gates of the compound, the cool breeze tussling his blonde hair. In the moonlight he was just about able to read the sign - 'ambassador's residence'. It wasn't cold yet but he was shivering. There was still time to change his mind. But his friend's words echoed in his head. 'Please help me'. He couldn't let them down.
In the dark the crickets chirped, and strange, invisible creatures shuffled and moved in the long grass. The residence was at the end of one of those long, rutted tracks which criss-crossed the island. No other properties could be seen anywhere near, but the lights of the port could be seen glowing off in the distance. He had walked the two miles up the road in darkness, and had not seen another human being.
Several times he had lost heart, and turned back, on one occasion he had walked almost half a mile back the way he had come, forcing himself to repeat, over and over 'it's not my fault. It's not my fault'. But the other voice had taken over. The one that chewed at his mind. The helpless cry of Tate, as he was bundled, handcuffed, into the back of the land rover
'Help me. Please help me...'
Caleb had come to a halt, cursing and swearing. He turned, and headed back on his journey. He had run the last mile or so, and was sweating lightly from the exertion. He got to the gates about ten minutes ago, and he had been standing here ever since, building up courage, checking and re-checking his watch. It was now just a couple of minutes before eight. He could not put off the inevitable any longer. He had to make his decision now.
The security guard, a short, unshaven, out of shape thug, was watching Caleb on the CCTV from a small guard house inside the gates. He was wearing a peaked cap and a green military uniform at least one size too small for his ample stomach and He scratched lazily at his crotch as he waited for the boy to pluck up courage.
The first few drops of rain patted down into the dust outside the building. Another one of those crazy tropical rainstorms were coming, the guard thought, the ones that seemed to strike this island every day or two, rain and lighting pounding down for a whole night like the torrents of hell, before stopping as suddenly as it started. He looked up at the screen, and saws the boy as he took two steps towards the gates. The guard smiled. They all broke in the end. He pushed the door release and, with a click, the electric gates swung open.
After a moment, Caleb walked inside.
The security guard came out of the guardhouse and walked slowly towards Caleb, swinging his torch like a truncheon. He had slipped on a clear plastic hooded raincover to protect himself from the coming storm. He raised the torch, and pointed the beam directly into Caleb's eyes. Caleb squinted in the bright light. Behind him, the gates softly closed. He cleared his throat to talk, and his soft Australian voice rang out.
'I'm... I'm Caleb. I'm here to... I mean, I've been told...'
The security guard interrupted, sharply
'I know what you're here for', he said.
The guard moved the beam of the torch down to Caleb's feet, and then moved it slowly up his body, taking in his full six foot muscular frame. Caleb was dressed lightly, in a white t-shirt and blue beach shorts, his small travel bag slung over his shoulder. The rain was getting heavier now, saturating the material of the shirt, which was going transparent, revealing a tantalising outline of a young muscular frame.
The security guard snorted in derision, and brought the beam of the torch back to Caleb's face
'You haven't followed instructions'
Caleb blinked. 'I... I was told to be here by eight...'
'You were told to turn up dressed just like you were on the beach'
Caleb shook his head. 'But I had to walk from the village. I couldn't walk all that way...'
The guard snarled. 'Don't answer back to me. You were given specific instructions. Now strip. Do it now'
Caleb took a step back, nervous at the anger in the man's voice. 'I... I can't...'
With a swift movement, the guard pulled a short leather strap from his back pocket. In a sharp, vicious movement, he slapped Caleb across the face. Caleb cried out in shock.
'You do not answer me back' He yelled. 'Strip'
The rain was really pounding down now, turning the earthy drive of the house into a river of mud. Caleb, frightened, started to undress. He pulled off the white shirt, revealing a beautifully muscled torso, clean skinned and toned, narrow waist and broad chest, ad muscular arms to match. He held out the shirt towards the guard, who smacked it from his hand, onto the ground. Caleb shook as the cold rain water battered against his naked skin. The security guard licked his lips as he played the torch over the boy's quivering form.
'Those too'. He pointed at the beach shorts. Caleb quickly undid the string and pulled the shorts to the floor, revealing only a pair of red Speedos. Cold, embarrassed, he held his hands in front of his crotch and shivered.
Caleb slipped the trainers off his feet and stepped onto the muddy earth. The guard picked up Caleb's clothes, shoes and bag, and dismissively threw them across the drive into a muddy pool which was forming in front of the guardhouse.
'Put your feet apart. Hands behind your head' he ordered. Caleb, reluctantly, obliged.
'Now. Wait there; do not move until I come back'. The guard slowly sauntered back into the guardhouse, and picked up a phone. Caleb shivered, his hair now plastered across his forehead and face by the force of the torrential downpour, his body shaking from the cold. Although the guardhouse was barely ten paces away, the noise of the downpour made it impossible to hear what the guard was saying, but it was obvious, from the glances in his direction, that Caleb was the subject of the conversation. After a few minutes, the phone returned to its cradle.
The guard reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He stood up and walked over to where Caleb was still obediently waiting.
'Turn around. Put your hands behind your back'
Caleb half turned, not wanting to turn his back on the violent man, afraid of what he might do.
'Please... please tell me what you want from me...' Caleb spluttered. The guard shook his head, and grabbed Caleb's right wrist, pulling it up and behind his back, sharply, causing a lightning bolt of pain to arch through Caleb's upper back. Caleb yelped, and turned, unable to do anything else by the stinging pain in his shoulder. The guard expertly applied the cuffs to the boy's wrist, and then pulled the other arm behind him too, handcuffing the wrists together. He then grabbed a good handful of the boy's hair, and forced him to his knees on the muddy ground. Bending over, the guard put his mouth up close to the boy's head, and barked out the instructions.
'This is how it's going to work, boy. The master is not ready to see you yet, so you will go to the main lawn and wait there, on your knees, until he is ready to see you. The master will teach you most of what you need to know, but first, some ground rules. Number one. You look at the ground or your feet, at all times. You do not look the master in the eye, unless you are instructed to. You do not speak. You call the master 'master' and you call me Sir. When he lets you talk, you will begin every sentence with one of those words. If not you will be punished. Do I make myself clear?'
He tugged sharply on the boy's mane. Tyler bit back the humiliation that was pumping through his veins. 'OOOWW yes sir'
The guard smiled, and reached for the leather strap with his free hand. He held it out so the boy could see it. Caleb tried to pull away, but the guard had a solid handful of Caleb's scalp. He was not going anywhere.
'Just to make sure we understand each other' the guard muttered, an evil grin forming on his face. He raised the strap, slowly and deliberately. Caleb's eyes, wide with terror, watched the strap being raised, ready to strike. The guard held it aloft, poised to strike, the bully drinking in his helpless opponent's tension and fear.
And then, the guard let loose three short sharp strikes to Caleb's torso, whipping across the rain-soaked right chest, two strikes landing on to the firm skin, no fat to cushion the blows, one strike landing firmly on the exposed nipple. Caleb cried out miserably. The guard repeated the strikes on the other side of the chest, and then one, two, three, four blows across that perfect washboard stomach, each blow lower than the first, the last one cracking home just above the waistband of the Speedos, just millimetres from the crotch. Caleb wailed in pain.
The guard released his grip on the boy's hair and he dropped to the floor, rolling into a ball on the muddy ground and rocking from side to side in pain. Red welts were already appearing on his skin.
Caleb was in agony. The blows had been precisely aimed, and his skin felt like hot fire was burning through the flesh. 'Why?' he thought, trying to hold back tears. 'Why would someone do that to me? I never did anything to him. Why would he hurt me like that?' The thoughts were childish, immature. But, at that moment, the swaggering, arrogant 21 year old boy reverted to a naughty schoolboy, sobbing and crying after being disciplined.
The guard laughed at the sight of the young stud, lying in the mud, muscles tensing, groaning in pain. On a whim, he raised his right root and pressed it firmly into the boy's crotch, not with any real pressure, but enough for the boy to feel it. He rubbed his army boot up and down against the material a few times, feeling the shape and outline of the cock and balls beneath the Speedos. The boy whimpered.
No, he thought. The master was very specific. He has given me an order. I will get my chance later. Reluctantly, he lifted to boot free. He reached down and grabbed the boy's hair again, and pulled him to his feet. Holding his head at a three quarter height position, forcing the sobbing boy to bend over awkwardly as he walked, the guard began marching him up the drive to the main house.
The master peered through a gap in the dining room curtains and out of the French windows. He smiled. The other diners were starting the third course of the banquet, and he was keen to rejoin them, but he couldn't resist getting a preview of tonight's main course. He flicked a switch by the window and powerful floodlights illuminated the main lawn of the house, the rain shining like white darts as it passed in front of the 1000w bulbs. The boy's flesh lit up, white as snow in the powerful glow, as his manservant forced him into the middle of the lawn. Behind him, Lady Margaret called out to him.
'Rejoin us, Sir Harold, please. We are just about to begin this excellent duck that Marco has prepared for us and Colonel Stewart was going to tell us all about the Philippines situation. Please come, It would be a shame for it to go cold...'
The master smiled. 'Where are my manners. Coming, my dear'. He let the curtain flop back into position.
To be continued...