Solid Gone

The Slave’s Restraint 

What would normally have been a private lesson for an errant slave, reinforcing the House standards for comportment and behavior, somehow spontaneously turned into a workplace event and circus maximus, attracting a number of members and staff. As it turned out, the gamekeeper had scheduled a seminar for his junior trainers today, another in the course titled “On Beatings and Restraint,” the third in the series. Today’s lecture, originally intended only for staff, would cover standing pipe bondage and the paddle. Although the head trainer had ordered 1134 bent over a bondage bench, the gamekeeper took the opportunity to use the boy as a demonstration model for the restrained slave, even addressing some of his remarks directly to the members watching. The equipment for the lecture was laid out on the floor, the trainers gathered in a semi-circle as a handler held onto the leash of our newest slave, and quite a number of members stood about the edges, not interfering, but definitely watching everything.

The gamekeeper began his lecture pointing out the proper order for assembling the pipe structure. Two strong, vertical pipes are the base and center of the structure. A horizontal pipe just below waist height, now bring the boy over and bend it over the horizontal pipe. The rest of the structure is assembled around the boy, ankle locks for the feet are wrenched into place, strappado wrist locks placed just so, and finally an elaborate set of braces for a collar that locks the head and neck slightly stretched forward and immobile.

“This is one variation that’s been much copied,” the gamekeeper explained. “It prevents the knees from flexing toward each other owing to the vertical pipes, and keeps the knees bent with most of the subject’s weight on the quadriceps, adductors, and hamstrings. This adds a level of discomfort that merely grows with time and eventually spreads to every part of the legs and the back muscle complex.”

The gamekeeper walked around the structure over to the boy’s head and brushed the hair with his palm. “Gags are normal for this exercise, but today we’re going to give the boy something to think about and give it some practice with restraint. If the boy cries out or screams before the first 50 paddles, we’ll add another 20 for each time it cries out. Do you hear that boy? 50 paddles and you won’t make a sound. You will learn in this way a bit of self-control over your body and your mind. You will do as you are told. This is the way.”

The gamekeeper nodded to the head trainer who went over to a workbench and selected an innocuous-looking black paddle with a business end no bigger than a cell phone, made of stiff, layered leather sheets bonded together and weighty. The trainer engaged the growing crowd and began as a performer might, with a stylish windup and a flourish that landed squarely on the left buttock. Pow! The boy’s head jerked up and his neck rattled the collar. It looked surprised. Another blow to the other cheek and almost no reaction beyond squeezing its eyes shut momentarily.

Even now, after only one smack to each side, there were two distinct red rectangles showing on the boy’s butt, placed exactly right, and the trainer lingered, appreciating the red spreading glow, then rapidly, two blows more and more rattling of the neck collar. Another two hard blows and another pair, and more rattling where anything in the contraption that could rattle, did. The trainer had got to the boy, had found its sweet spot, that place to lay on with the paddle, the place that short-circuited the brain signals and made the slave buck in its confinement.

Ah, but the question for the trainer is whether he can work that spot to make the boy scream; he’s got that in mind as he labors its butt with a methodical repetition of strikes. Every muscle in the boy’s body seizes up with every blow now, the neck muscles flex, the eyes bulge, the mouth, shut tight in determination, expels a spray with each brutal stroke, yet the boy strains to contain even the noise this makes. Not one sound, not a grunt, as the boy calculates that one more lash would be too many, twenty would be way too many. This hurts.

It’s early innings and already the boy is thinking it’s had enough. But the blows continue, and each one feels like a scream in his head and the boy’s lost count by now. It seemed like the first ten hits took a long time, every blow a shock, every shock something to experience as new, the pain that travelled down his legs, into his intestines, crawled through his groin, nothing was outside the reach of this pain, and it just went on, smack after deliberate smack, consuming his conscious world.

And then dimly, distantly, the boy could hear a growing noise from the crowd, cat calls and jeering and scattered applause. Its mind was so consumed by those few square inches of its butt, that sound and sight had melted away, time and the smell of his bondage combined with the ever- repeated blistering of his butt and reduced his world to a singularity, where every stroke was a blinding hurt. And what was that noise? Applause? Oh! Here was something to get his attention. He’d done it. He’d got through 50 smacks on his ass and not made a sound. The boy was weak with pain and relief and heaved a huge sigh. By God, he’d won through!

“And now for the next fifty strokes,” said the head trainer, “the subject may make as much protest as it likes.” He then began slowly and severely to beat the boy’s butt with his paddle, one stroke at a time, deliberately, intentionally, purposefully. And the boy responded in kind. It screamed, not just in pain, but in outrage, in fury, in a growing fear for its life -- this could go on, he thought. And on. And there was nothing he could do but absorb the pain, and as he was feeling the pain, one blinding stroke after another, and over and over, it came to him that he had now no agency, no ability to do anything but feel the pain. This recognition somehow set him free, and he pissed himself screaming and crying as the beating continued.

__________

Jeremiah Montgomery Clark made his thanks and farewell at the 18th green. He’d done well this afternoon, very well, and won against a capable opponent. It was a Friday afternoon and Jerry was feeling spry; he didn’t have an appointment until 10:30 on Monday in St. Louis. In the meantime, he meant to take advantage of The Stable on his way back to his rooms at Fletcher House. He’d got here unexpectedly late last night at the request of another member who wanted to discuss a business deal, and so he hadn’t arranged with the concierge to have his favorite slave locked in bondage awaiting him in his suite, oiled up and sweaty. He’d have to make do with Hobson’s Choice, that is, after the livery stable owner who offered his customers a choice of taking the horse in the stall nearest the door, or taking none at all. This simplified business considerably and quickly resulted in Jerry leading 1094 at the end of a rough leather leash, up the path from the livery stable to the members’ quarters.

Jeremiah quivered with anticipation as he walked his rental slave back to his rooms. He had this evening, all day tomorrow, and most of Sunday. If he could exhaust the boy, it would be replaced. First on the agenda was a soak in the tub. He unhooked the leash and said, “Boy, draw me a bath and see that i am made clean and fair smelling.”

The boy set about its business, filled the tub with water just hot enough and then with soap suds and shampoo, began to clean his master top to bottom and made his pecker stand up. Jerry lay back in the tub, soaking up the heat, and considered his place in the universe and how right it was that he, in thrall to his own corporate masters, was here delighting in the attentions of a slave of his own.

Here he was, on no notice at all, off to the airport and many hours of travel to report to his own master. And like the slave who’d just now stuck its head under water to suck his balls, Jerry showed up pronto when called upon by his betters. He looked at his slave from his point of view as he lay in the hot soapy water, so perfect for the moment, now cleaning between his toes with its tongue. It made him squirm a little bit.

‘94 got his master dried off and onto a massage table where he began with the feet and then worked his way up, applying astringents and salves, oils and ointments to cover every inch of skin. And as he treated the skin with his powerful hands, working the oils in, the slave worked the muscles too as he went, watching for sore spots and treating them to his gentler ministrations. As he got to the thighs, he brought to bear a greater force with his fingers when it came to the large muscles, deep strokes with his fingers and an artful use of fingernails. Master Jerry had been half hard since he’d got out of the bath, now he was fully hard, and the slave went to work with his mouth and tongue as well as his fingers.

Here, 1094 brought all his training and skill to bear on his master’s cock. With a master as important as this one, perfection was required of him, anything less would be punished -- not here and now, but at the choosing of the gamekeeper, who certainly would not overlook poor performance. And that would mean the strap. But not today. This slave was highly skilled at sucking cock and proved it slowly and lovingly, transporting his master to another world where he lay in clouds and sunshine and the muscles in his hips repeatedly thrust his cock down and down the throat of this fuck slave again and again until the boy pulled off, sensing his master was close. For most of an hour the slave toyed with his master in this manner, always aware of his state, his moans of pleasure and grunts guiding his intensity.

A pool of saliva and snot gathered on Master’s abdomen and as quickly was wiped away with a towel; nothing must disturb the serenity of the master; all sensations must contribute to his pleasure. The slave was thus reviewing his catechism when Master ordered, “Keep your head down boy,” and began pumping at an increased speed until with one final thrust, he shot his load deep into the boy’s throat, and the boy stayed on him through the long series of shots that coated its throat with cum all the way down.

The boy wrung out a hand towel soaked in hot water and carefully cleaned up his master; a washcloth soaked in cold water was applied to Master’s forehead and cheeks, restoring his balance and serenity and soothing his heated brow. He went next to the bar and brought back scotch on the rocks, helped Master into his robe and then made a place for him on the couch, arranging pillows just so. Jerry made himself comfortable and then ordered the boy into the utility room. “Lie on the floor and do nothing.” It’s how the maid dealt with the Roomba in his condo. It seemed to work well here. The boy disappeared and he could catch up on some phone calls and messaging before getting down to the real business of the weekend.

An hour or so later, Jerry finished up one last call and, while getting dressed for the evening, found himself just a bit peckish. It didn’t take a second between thought and action. “Boy, bring charcuterie and cheese, bring crackers and roe and fetch a bottle of Salon Blanc de Blancs 2008. Bring enough food for three.” 1094 quickly rose from the floor, slipped out the butler’s passage, down the hall, down the stairs, across a court yard, through a side door into a hallway that led to stairs, and finally into the kitchens for the south terrace.

The boy put in his order at the takeout window and then went to find the sommelier in his cellar. This was one of ‘94’s favorite places in Fletcher House, the feel of the limestone stairs on his bare feet, the atmosphere musty and cool and smelling of oak and old stone and the subtle fragrance of vintage wines. “Salon, you say?” the sommelier queried the boy. He knew the slave somewhat and was pretty sure he hadn’t made a mistake. “Room 3010?” he asked. “Very well, wait here.” The sommelier disappeared into the racks for a couple of minutes and emerged with a bottle he was dusting off with a rag. “There is one more where this came from. After that, suggest the Salon le Mesnil 1995.”

The boy cradled the bottle in his arm and climbed the stairs from the cellar, one step at a time, again, slowly delighting in the worn-smooth feel of the stone on his soles, then back to the kitchen where he scooped up the assembled food order, already in his mind laying out the cut meats and sliced cheese, pickles and olives. He’d look in the cupboards for scallop shells or someway to serve the caviar. The crystal is in the bar, silver in the butler’s pantry, the ice bucket would be there too. ‘94 set to work in the small kitchen unpacking the grocery basket and putting out dishes, chopping onions. He could hear a low buzz of conversation in the parlor beyond the dining room, beyond the foyer.

The gentleman in 3010 requested the assistance of a wrangler. Two appeared at his service entrance with a cartload of piping and fittings and tools. Jerry outlined to the wranglers what he wanted to do with his slave over the next two days and then left the details to the wranglers, who quickly screwed together Jerry’s very own jungle gym, strong enough for elephants.

The doorbell rang, and ‘94 came quickly from the kitchen to answer it but was waved off by his master and told to finish preparing food for his guests. Jerry opened the door to his friend Hideki and his guest for the evening Takashi; introductions were made and formalities exchanged. They each had brought a carryall with devices and equipment they’d want to use this evening. “Just put your things on the table there, the boy’ll lay it out while we prepare ourselves with some champagne in the parlor. Gentlemen?” he said, leading the way.

1094 had laid out a spread of caviar in shells floating on crushed ice, crème fraîche, blinis, and deviled quail eggs, plates of meat and cheese, bread, lemons, and stuffed olives. The boy scurried about attending to Jerry’s guests, pampering them as he did his own master. He sank beautifully to his knees as he poured more champagne into proffered glasses, offered small plates and popped bites into his master’s mouth. The men talked the while, of this and that, largely ignoring the boy until the conversation came around to the matter of this evening’s activities. Hideki was ready for this. “How shall we begin?” he asked, clapping his hands together.

Takashi, who had been mostly quiet during the discussion, excused himself for being forward, but wondered if he might be allowed to make the boy cum while locked in his spiked cage by beating on its balls with willow sticks. “Oh,” said Jerry. “You could do that?”

“Oh yes,” said Takashi laughing. ”Standing or suspended.”

“Hmm,” mused Jerry. “I think that’s a good start. We’ll do that, and then send the boy off for another bottle of bubbles. How’s that, huh? And how will you start?”

“I think it’s best if we use a spreader bar,” suggested Hideki.

“Ah, yes. Handcuffs behind. Make it stand for the ordeal,” ordered Jerry. “Let’s clip its collar to the center post,” he said, more collegially. And this was done. With the three of them working together, the boy had been frog marched from the kitchen and now had his neck collar chained to a hook about a foot above his head, feet spread wide apart, wrists cuffed behind. And now exercising his every power of mind and body to prevent his cock from trying to get hard, ‘94 knew this would be his test, and if he was honest with himself, even given his long and strenuous training, he was not sure he could pull this off. If he could not, it would be an exquisitely painful orgasm awaiting him. Or would he prevail and keep himself under an iron control and find a path to cumming while he kept his cock from swelling into the spikes in his cage?

The man with the sticks came at the boy whipping the willows through the air so they whistled as a rapier blade does. Takashi took a stance much like a taiko drummer awaiting his cue. Jerry looked to Hideki, who nodded assent, then to Takashi and said, “Please.” At which, Takashi began twirling his two sticks like a swordsman, whipping them through the air in intersecting circles making them sing like a rasty flute and then raining down twenty consecutive blows on the boy’s balls rata tat rata tat, like that, all in two seconds. Takashi spun about on his heel and repeated this tattoo on the slave’s balls and then, stepping in, he applied the sticks in a gentle march rhythm from underneath. rata tat tat rata tat tat tat, consistently, irresistibly, maddeningly.

‘94 instantly forgot all about his struggle to avoid the spikes in his cage and cried out in surprise and very real pain, which, when he tried to contain, eluded his grasp and his understanding. This hurt and attracted him in a way he’d never experienced in all the years with all the trainers and all the masters who had pushed his limits. This was new. But, he reasoned, what was life for if not to experience new ways to please his masters. And from the look of it, his masters all three seemed at the very least, to be pleased. The boy took it in the balls and could do nothing but stand and experience the sensation that simultaneously hurt all the way into his abdomen, flexed his hips uncontrollably, weakened his legs, and yet, pushed him, urged him, slowly, ineluctably toward climax.

The boy cried tears of pain that streamed down his face. Snot dripping from his chin went unnoticed as drool and tears mixed with it and slid down the chest, the abs, and down to the balls, only to be splashed up in some measure as the sticks beat relentlessly on his tight-stretched scrotum. Clouds of blackness like great swarms of flies covered his vision and the boy thought he maybe would fail, that he would fall and hang by his collar. How could he endure this? And yet, it continued, and still he continued, and the blows to his balls continued rata tat tat tat like a machine.

And then there it was, like the clouds opening and the sunshine peeking in, just a glimmer, but more than a possibility, more like a promise, something solid if he could just hang on, this could build to something, he could cum if he could just hold on. And the beating continued unabated, and the boy felt himself getting closer and closer and finally he got so close his mind and body released control and his cock head instantly shoved itself like a piston into the complex of spikes and the boy screamed as cum shot out the hole in his dragon spike cage.

__________

Slaves at Fletcher House are fed pretty well, indeed, in the eyes of some members and some staff, fed rather too well. But training staff are clear that slaves will not build strong, resilient, and flexible muscle tissue, nor is their semen made to taste sweet on a strict diet of dog food, whether Purina Pro Plan or Iams Proactive, nor can slaves be so easily attracted to dog food as to a breaded veal cutlet. And while that particular prospect is rare (and effective), a varied and balanced diet is essential for proper development. When slaves are on call or in active service or, as the House’s newest slave, our own 1134, is assigned to a waiting room, regular meals are not usually convenient, so, slaves in such condition are fed what everyone, staff and slaves alike, calls paste.

Busboys in the dining rooms and bars, room service and clubroom stewards, cleaning staff and barmen, dishwashers and kitchen workers all place food scraps in a common tub. That’s literally everything from beet greens and mushroom stems to chicken bones. It is the residual of what the House has on offer to members and staff. What was served in the members’ dining room and left uneaten went the same place as the leftover guacamole and half-eaten toast left on a tray in the hallway. Everything goes into the tub, and then into a machine that grinds the mess into a slurry that’s cooked down to a fine paste and wrapped up in wax paper like sticks of butter.

This was paste. Each brick constituted a single meal and half of a slave’s daily food requirement. Just what 1034 needed right now as he stood in the middle of a waiting room with his legs spread apart and his wrists bound together high above his head. He’d wait here until the gamekeeper had him released to his cell. A handler held the food to the boy’s mouth so he could gnaw off chunks, a bite at a time. It tasted greasy and vegetal and had the consistency of cold peanut butter. The boy didn’t care about the taste, he was hungry, and he went after the stuff with a purpose.

While he’d waited here for what seemed hours, the pain in his shoulders contended with his hunger for which hurt more, but once he’d got the paste gobbled down and his belly settled, and a few gulps of water, the discomfort in his arms and back, his shoulders and neck only got more and more intensely painful, and coming in a close second to having his butt smacked. This fucking hurt. And this is when the handler brushed the hair from the boy’s face and spoke with his lips an inch from his ear. “This is your first time boy, so you’ve had it easy. Easy peasy, right?” The handler cupped the boy’s butt and then slapped it hard, making him cry out. “You just needed reminding, right? So, what do you need to remember, huh? When your betters open your cell door, you snap to attention as quick as you can, huh? I’m sure you can remember that. I’m counting on it, because the next time it won’t be easy.” The handler patted the boy’s face gently before leaving.

Including all the days and nights he’d spent on the stone floor in his first captivity, nothing about it was as awful as his present circumstance. He was in pain, everything hurt and he saw no relief, just hours and hours of more pain. Yes, for fuck sake, he’d remember what was required of him when his cell door was opened. Jesus fuck, they could have just asked. Anyway, that’s two things he knows today he didn’t know ten days ago: the pose to take when ordered to present, and what to do when the cell door opens. And for the first time in his captivity it occurred to the boy that in addition to these hard-won lessons, he still had much to learn. And he by God did not want to pay this tuition for every lesson he had to learn. He’d never make it if he had to do this even one more time. And the man said next time would be worse.

He could see that now, could see dimly what the slave had told him the last time he was in a fucking waiting room. That time was bad and this time is much worse. Slowly, the picture emerged: give them what they want. This is the way. That’s what the slave had told him. That’s what the gamekeeper had said. Christ! Could he do that? Could he just give up and be a slave? No, that was the wrong question. Not give up, but could he affirmatively choose slavery? Or did he want to die by slow repeated torture? He was close to wanting to die right now. This was so fucked, even more fucked than before. And the hours crawled by.

The pain in ‘34’s arm pits was almost white hot by now. There was no position for his head that was not painful in his neck and shoulders. And even though his legs were cramping, the pain in his legs distracted him from the pain in his arms only now and then, but brought further cause for a growing panic. Waves of heat came over the boy that covered him in sweat, streaming down his face burning his eyes and blinding him. And then amid his moans and sobs, he heard the sound of the door opening. He immediately wrestled to get a grip on himself and made his best effort to be at attention, never mind his wrists were tied to the ceiling and his feet were spread. He blew the snot from his nose, shook his head and held it as straight up as he could, then braced himself for what came next.

To be continued...