Solid Gone

This is the Way

The slave was led in through the anteroom by a handler and left to stand at ease before the gamekeeper’s desk, a strapping young lad, slave naked, neck collar, cock harness. The man behind the desk looked up from his work and regarded the boy for a moment. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“Sir! I am ignorant, Sir!” replied the slave, lowering its head. The gamekeeper looked questioningly to his secretary, sitting at his elbow. “Ah, yes sir, you read the report yesterday... This is 1094...” The gamekeeper nodded and got up from his chair and came over to the boy, looking him up and down and then reaching in and lightly touching a muscle on his leg on the inside and just above the knee.

“What’s this?” the gamekeeper demanded.

“Sir, vastus medialis, Sir!

“What’s this muscle?”

“Sir, adductor longus, Sir!”

“And here?”

“Sir, serratus anterior, Sir!”

The gamekeeper slowly walked back to his desk with his head down, lost in thought. He sat down and continued to think, until, looking up he said, “You notice things, I’m told.” This was not a question, so the slave remained quiet. “You are an able student. I intend that your learning will be as well defined and finely shaped as your muscles. You will have to work hard, but you know what hard work and good performance will get you. There are more good things to come.” The gamekeeper leaned back in his chair and looked at the slave. “From now, half your training schedule will be with our partners in the army. You will learn some intelligence and signals tradecraft. Our betters have plans for you. Work hard and pay attention to your trainers.”

“Sir, yes Sir!”

The gamekeeper got up and went over to the boy again so he could examine its chastity cage more closely. "That is a devious device,” he said to the boy, confidentially. “I’ll bet that really hurts when you don’t have control of yourself, hmm? You’ve had that on for quite a while now.” Again, the boy didn’t think he needed to answer. “If your new trainers tell me you’re a good boy and doing well, I’ll have it off you, and for a whole day you can play with yourself as much as you like. And when we lock you back up, we’ll put you in something a little more comfortable. So, do well.”

“Sir, yes Sir! Thank you Sir!”

“You’ll have noticed,” said the gamekeeper with a smile, “that there’s a new boy on D-level. He’s a bit skittish, whinnies and shies from the handlers. Get the boy settled.”

“Sir, yes Sir!”

As the handler led the boy to the door, the gamekeeper said, “Boy, show me. Tell me something you noticed.”

The boy thought for a moment, then said simply, “Sir, the lace on your left shoe has been replaced, Sir!”

The gamekeeper smiled to himself and dismissed the handler with a nod.

__________

After dinner, ‘94 found himself off leash and able to navigate through to the watch officer’s station. The duty officer listened to the slave explain its orders from the gamekeeper, and then dispatched a handler to escort the boy in carrying out its orders. The handler led ‘94 to one of the D-level waiting rooms and unlocked the door. “Rap on the window when you want out,” the handler said, closing and locking the door.

‘94 looked about the waiting room uncertainly, saw that the new boy had its collar chained to a ring in the wall, hands locked behind the back, was clearly frightened, and looked to be high strung. “HI,” he said simply, and sat on the bench next to him. The boy looked at 1094’s eyes and made desperate grunting noises that were muffled by the strapped-in gag. “Yes, yes, I know.” There was a pause as the two looked at each other, one pleadingly, the other in sympathy. “It’s a pretty big surprise. It takes time to come around.

“I went through it,” said ‘94, “almost three years ago now; I know what the first days are like. It’s a lot of changes all at once, and, well, for me, every single change was hard. Just like you, I’d lost everything in that one moment when I was grabbed from behind. Everything, lover, family, career. It’s like surviving a fire where everything burns up all at once.” 1094 got up and found a rag, rinsed it out at a tap on the wall and then sat down, and started mopping up the slobber on the boy’s chin, wiping his neck and chest and abs and down to his dick. “Yeah, I know, you’ll just start drooling again. You’ll survive it.” The boy couldn’t smile with the gag in, but his eyes were bright and crinkled at the edges as he looked meaningfully up at ‘94.

“There’s so much for you to know, and I wish I had all day to tell you all of it; I’ve got just a few minutes to sit with you and try to help ease you into your new life. Oh, you shake your head. Listen to me. Getting loose and escaping your fate is a useless fantasy. It is impossible that your daddy will find you and take you home. This is the hard part. This is the loss of hope for the old life. That hope has to go before you can decide to live here. The important shit is going to come at you pretty fast. You’ve already come through the slave portal, so you’ve pledged yourself a slave and you are now in service. That is set in stone.

“What can change is the mind you bring to your new life. This is the life you will live. Or else die. That is the choice you will make, and the sooner you choose, the better all around. If you refuse to be a slave, be clear. Of course, they’ll kill you, but it’s a relatively gentle suffocation and you’ll die with a hardon, just as you start to cum.

Otherwise, you’ll choose to be a slave, because that’s what you are now. And since you are a slave, you’ll do best to be the very best slave you can be. That is how you will prosper here in your new life. I’m guessing you’re one of the GM&P or Richfield snatches, and of all the places you might have been sold a slave, this is among the best of places. Here, you will work hard every day. Some of it will hurt, you will be tired before you sleep, but the more you work and train, the more you develop your skills, the better life becomes. Fletcher House can be a good life if you will make it so.

“Much will come to you later, but I can tell you this right now: the gag in your mouth is to remind you, to accustom you, to remain silent. That is the one thing you must observe. And believe me, you will hate to be corrected. You have just come into the serai. For a year you will be a weanling, a suckling, a baby horse who knows nothing but its training. For a year you will be silent.” ‘94 moved closer to the boy, reached out and ran his fingernails down the back of the boy’s head. “Anyone who does this, means to tell you without words, ‘I am here with you.’ In time, you will come to know us all, one by one. Be brave. In a year, you will live your life among us. We are a select few and much prized.”

‘94 regarded the newest Fletcher House slave with a certain sympatico, brought in like himself, snatched; he noticed the number on the new boy’s collar showed that he’d been brought in as 1134. “Your first year will be hard,” he went on, trying to encourage the boy. “Just be ready for that and keep your resolve to survive. The isolation is key and will be the hardest part. It’s how they get control of your mind. And the more willingly you give them your mind and body, the better life becomes for you.

Your anger is useless here. You maybe think your anger and outrage will fuel your will to escape or something like that. It will just tire you out and make you useless to the House. And your life depends on being useful to the House.” 1094 slid over and pushed his hip against the boy, put an arm around his back and squeezed his shoulder. “I hope you’ll make it, I really do. You have such beautiful eyes.” Jesus, thought ‘94. Did I just say that out loud?

‘94 walked over to the little window in the door and rapped his knuckles on the glass. “Watch and listen to what they want, and give it to them. This is the way. Good things will come to you. You’ll be in boot for a couple of months. I’ll check on you when I can, to see how you’re doing. Oh, and the cock gag, that’s only for a little while. Once they’re sure you’ve got the idea, you’ll get a ‘chewable’ one that you can spit out when you have to. Like I said, it gets easier if you go along.” The door opened and ‘94 gave a theatrical wink to the boy and left.

Oh shit! ‘94 hadn’t got halfway back to quarters when he had to crouch down against the wall and breathe, breathe slowly and exert control over his cock. Shit, shit, shit, his cock was getting happy, was going to try and get hard. Oh God why now? It hurt so much when his cock swelled up into the dragon’s teeth. That usually happened at night in the middle of a sound sleep. It woke the slave right up. It meant jumping off the cot and learning night after night how to alleviate the blinding pain, all his mental control, leg lifts, knee bends, thinking about boiled asparagus and litter boxes, pulling on his balls. Anything to keep his cock down. This was calling on all of his control, and as much as ‘94 was skilled in controlling his cock, strangely, he had been overmastered by the boy’s eyes. There was something there that connected, deep, something that just made his dick want to stand up and wave.

__________

Early morning in the stalls is a noisy, crowded, busy, steamy, smelly, wet, and to a first-timer, chaotic and somewhat frightening experience. The predominant smell is bay and peppermint mixed with the sweat and steam coming from two dozen stalls. Our boy, whom we’ve followed from the hills above Missoula, into the horse stalls at Fletcher House’s slavery, we’ll call him ‘34. Yes, it’s a slave, and so it’s a nobody, undeserving of a name. But it saves time. ‘34 was led to a stall in the midst of other stalls, a Deco mix of tiles and mahogany, pipes and cleats, rings and poles horizontal and vertical, taps and hoses, sinks and drains.

To start, the boy had his arms stretched out to the side at shoulder level and fastened to a horizontal pipe, his feet were secured and a team of three began methodically to shave his face and then to remove every hair on his body below his chin. It is a tribute to the barbers that they have only ever used strop-sharpened straight razors for shaving slaves and members alike. In 125 years, that hasn’t changed, except possibly the quality of the steel.

Nor do the barbers refrain from terrorizing initiate slaves as they dramatically demonstrate their dexterity with blades. It’s breathtaking to see for the first time in one’s life, a straight razor whisk around the nipple and take hairs from the areole as though by a sword fighter. The gleam off the blade as it comes to the throat reflects off the eye and makes the boy still, afraid to move any part of a muscle. The handling of his cock and balls makes him very nervous, since he doesn’t know what’s going on beyond what he can feel and see of the blades now working around in his arm pits. Twice he’s unlatched and repositioned. At one point, even while being shaved, someone has wedged his jaw open and is cleaning his teeth with a water jet sort of thing. His asshole is shaved, the face is shaved, the hair on his head is trimmed, nails on hands and feet are clipped, the skin is oiled and rubbed and finally, the boy now smelling of lime and coconut is smooth and hairless and made ready to meet his first day of training at Fletcher House.

Despite his somewhat jangled nerves, ‘34 was feeling as good as he had in many days. He’d had hot black coffee and breakfast, taken a dump in a toilet, and gotten all gussied up. The collar felt much better now that his neck had been shaved. And OMG his teeth had been cleaned, his crotch had been cleaned. As bad as things were, his life was lighter and more bearable for getting washed up. They hadn’t put a gag in after breakfast and not when they’d finished in the stalls. No one but the other slave had said anything to him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything to anyone until he was sure about what to do. He knew he wasn’t really ready for what was to come. The slave had told him to be brave. He felt that he was pretty tough, but he wasn’t sure that he was brave -- he’d never had to be before.

Interrupting its reverie, a handler came to take the boy to its next appointment, wrists clipped together behind, led by a leash. What they call the Wrangler’s Barn is really less a barn than an old-time tackle and harness shop. The place is huge with racks and shelves surrounding work tables, tool benches, machinery, and cases with drawers and cupboards everywhere. On entering the barn, the boy was led up to a middle-aged man who sat at a bench doing tool work on a piece of leather. The handler waited for the man to look up and then said in response to his questioning look, “Noob. Needs a ring.”

It was Fletcher House’s wrangler himself who looked the boy up and down, and then slowly got off his stool and went up to him. He gently seized his junk with one hand and with the other, encircled the boy’s root with his thumb and forefinger. “Huh, it’ll need a 3D,” he grumbled, and went off to search through some drawers. “Have it sit on the rig over here, please,” he called to the handler. The rig, as he called it, was a mechanical device with a tiny seat on a pedestal, bent forward somewhat, so that once ‘34 put his ass on the seat, his cock and balls swung free and his legs were spread apart.

The wrangler pressed buttons on a console and amid whirring and clicks the rig raised a wide thick steel arm with a hole in it. The boy’s junk was pulled through the hole, pulled tight by the handler who was then asked, “All set?”

The wrangler pushed the Enter button on the console and the rig forced together with a loud snap two halves of a steel compression-joint ring around the boy’s root. Air hissed from a valve and the mechanical arm slowly pulled away. “This ring will be with you until this machine takes it off,” said the wrangler to the boy. “It’s smooth and heavy and now as much a part of you as your teeth. It carries today’s date and your number and has connection points top and bottom for cage attachments and electronic controls.” The wrangler helped the boy out of the rig and gave him a pat on the butt. “You may get used to it, but it might be a bit snug when you get hard. It’s a big ring, but you’re a big horse.”

__________

It took very little time to test the wrangler’s prediction. ‘34 was led next to the equipment room on D-level where every sort of contraption was arranged in a gymnasium-like setting. The place was busy and noisy and smelled like a gym -- sweat and leather. The various activities in different parts of the gym distracted the boy’s attention until he’d been marched up to an iron stanchion with a receiver for his cock ring. This was maneuvered into place and a semi-circular clamp hinged over to capture the boy’s ring completely. ‘34 was now, feet apart, wrists linked behind, standing at parade rest with his cock and balls captured by a ring on a post bolted to the floor.

This was new. But right now, new was something that was coming at the boy like birdshot. His attention ricochets from his cock to his mouth, now that it’s being stuffed with a ball gag strapped behind his head. And then his attention is wrenched back to the far end of his cock, now that it’s being squeezed and rubbed with something slimy and warm and all of a sudden there is nothing his cock wants to do more than leap up, and right away it does. He can see his cock rise in real time, can feel the blood coursing through his loins into his cock, and then he starts to feel the ring just as it’s getting snug. And it starts squeezing pretty good. It makes his cock harder and his balls swell up as big as they’ve ever been.

And while he’s at it, he’s liking how the inside of his thighs feel as he’s rocking up against the immovable iron ring, trying to push his cock out farther, just a half inch farther to reach that elusive warm sucking feeling out there that he just can’t quite seem to reach.

The trainers watched the boy closely and kept him hard, not touching him much, now and then catching up some precum drool and sliding it over the top of the glans, rarely on the underside. They made sure he didn’t cum. This went on and on. The boy clearly wanted to cum. It jerked and twitched and moaned and drooled. Sometimes a trainer would leave off with his cock and put precum on his nipples and tease them. This forced a reserve of drool to erupt from around the gag along with moans that were muffled translations of oh fuck stop stop stop. It made the abdominals bulge and the hips flex; the balls bounced rhythmically and the cock sought contact it couldn’t find.

The boy didn’t know how long he’d have to endure this. He’d never needed to cum this bad. Never. And he was torn between his urgent need to cum and his furious anger at being denied, and both were in equal measure preventing him from seeing the obvious lesson of his first training session: This was not about his gratification. He was not here to be satisfied, he was being denied. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet and his anger only increased as he vainly struggled to push himself into the hand that could squeeze his cock and make him cum. But the harder he struggled, the harder he was denied. And at the end of a long hour and a half, the boy, now covered in sweat and shaking from rage and exhaustion, did not cum.

The boy was finally released from the pose and made to lie down face up on a training table, wrists and ankles clipped to the sides of the table. He had a raging hardon and the ring helped him keep it. He fumed and shook and rattled his bonds and uselessly pumped his hips and yearned to cum. But with time passing and lower blood pressure, slow, even breathing and exhaustion, his rage slowly subsided at about the same rate his cock did. If his mind had cleared at all, it may have helped him just then, but he’d struggled too hard against the current and was too tired to think. In and out of dozing, he thought only of how he’d like to cum if he could only get his hands free.

And as his handlers and trainers could see from their vantage behind him, his cock rose and fell as his thoughts came and went on ways he would make himself shoot cum and bring himself the peace he could not find without his hands on his cock. He must have had several scenarios that he ran all the way through in his mind.

The lead trainer observed this periodicity in ‘34’s pecker size and seized on the moment it was least inflated to slip on a tight little cock cage that trapped the boy at a real disadvantage. The trainer snicked the lock shut and threw up his arms in victory like a rodeo roper who’d just broken the arena record. The other trainers and handlers applauded and jeered their colleague who rejoined them to finish his lunch and then clear up the debris. Time to get back to work. ‘34 was unhooked from the training table and led back to his cell on D-level’s left bank, now firmly secured in a cock cage that will distress him during all the hours of the days to come.

__________

Sitting cross-legged on his cot, ‘34 carefully examined his ring and his cage. No question, the ring wasn’t coming off, and neither was the cage, without a key. And the goddam ball gag is locked too. This was infuriating. Those fuckheads! The “cage” trapped his cock in a small cock-shaped steel tube that bent down over his balls, disallowing his cock to get any bigger than it was at present. That was obvious. What he wanted to know right now was what happens when he had to get hard? He had only to lean his head back and revisit any minute of his last training session to stir up those feelings.

Savoring the memory of the trainer’s hand on his glans, gently, slowly inciting him to fury, he leaned his head against the wall and felt the blood rush to his groin, felt his balls begin to stir and swell up and that felt good, that made him even hotter. And his dick was..., well, he couldn’t see it, because it’s inside a steel cage, but when he flexed his kegel, it was clearly just soft tissue, he could feel that. There was no way that shaking the cage would get him off, no amount of flexing or thrusting or wiggling was going to make him cum. And just as he’d arrived at this conclusion, a long, thick drool of precum flowed from the hole in his cage, just to remind him how much he needed to cum.

There just had to be a way to get around this fucking cage. And he put his right hand to the device and began shaking it like he was beating off, and that was useless and stupid. He finally broke off from this attempt and rested a minute, massaging his balls slowly while he thought of ways he could make himself cum with this device on. And slowly over time, each idea after another tested and rejected, his anger and frustration grew. Had there been a similar cage for his rage, he may have been alright, but as it was, when the handlers came for him, he was not properly mindful of his circumstances or his handlers and he did not behave with the decorum expected of Fletcher House slaves.

On being informed of this lapse, the trainer elected to add a further training session to this, the boy’s first day of training, with the expectation that earliest is best when making an impression. He ordered the boy bent over a fuck bench and paddled. “Make an impression. I want the boy to get the connection. See that it rues its bad behavior.”

to be continued...