Solid Gone

They sat by the pool in the late afternoon sun, three of them. Iced tea on the table. This was the final planning session, and they were almost done. Their long military training and years of service brought an orderliness to their business. They’d worked together for years now as civilians and knew how the work was done. The details and particulars for tomorrow had all been rehearsed, all routes out carefully reviewed, the equipment, the transport, the radio frequencies verified and tested. This was a milk-run operation, done many times before; but there would be no fuckups tomorrow. This op was the signature product of their company, exactly why the market paid them top dollar.

Ganny, Meade & Price, LLC, provide, for a price, select individuals to a discerning market. Anyway, that was the company’s marketing push. By preference and canny business decisions, they have come to specialize in what is called the stallion trade. Simply put, their job is to provide wild-captured slaves, broken and made suitable for training. The business of training slaves comes next, and it is those companies that buy slaves from GM&P. The market today is as high in Wichita as it is in Manhattan, and GM&P are busy today as they are most days because for years, they have provided a reliable quality product. They meet their commitments and deliver on time. Today, their target capture is in Missoula, MT.

Missoula is a bicycle town and there are miles and miles of bicycle trails and roads everywhere in the area, some more isolated than others. The capture team came up behind the bicyclist on a pretty steep part of an all-weather road high above town, slowly. The road was steep, and the rider was working a cardio pace. He heard the vehicle behind him and moved to the right edge, keeping up his pace. The van pulled alongside, passing very slowly and very slowly edging rightward, forcing the rider toward the ditch at the edge of the road. “Hey, hey, heeeey,” the biker yelled.

The side door of the van slid open just as the rider would have tumbled into the ditch and two men seized him under his arms, dragging him into the van where a canvas bag was immediately put over his head and padlocked around his neck, handcuffs behind the back, and with the dexterity of a rodeo roper, one of the men had the boy’s ankles and knees securely tied up. The bicycle was brought on board, the doors were closed, and the van quietly motored on to the first viewpoint on the road where it turned around and then made for the freight and charter gate at MSO municipal, where their plane awaited them on the tarmac, jets idling, freight door open.

On return to headquarters, the handcuffs and head bag were removed, and the boy was put in an open cell, that is, a room of five stone surfaces and bars on the sixth side that formed one side of an interior hallway, empty at the moment. The light in the hallway stayed on day and night. Here the boy stayed. Here he sat or lay on the hard stone for hours and hours while he could think of nothing but why. Why? None of this made sense. And this was fucked up! He was getting pretty thirsty. He was already hungry, and all he could do was pee in the corner of the cell and then sit where it didn’t spread out over the floor. The smell wasn’t good.

After 12 hours of this, a man came to the bars and said in a clear voice, “Present, boy!” He waited a moment, and when the boy didn’t move, he said in a commanding voice, “Get on your knees and place your hands behind your head” The boy looked at the face behind the bars. The light was from behind and it was hard to tell who he was looking at. “Who the fuck are you? And where the fuck am I?” yelled the boy.

“Present, boy!” repeated the man. “Face me with your knees on the floor and your hands behind your head!” The boy sat dumbly staring at the bars for a long moment and then got up and approached the man. “Who are you? What do you want? Can you get me some water? I really need some water.”

The man on the other side of the bars made no reply except to leave. “Hey, hey! Wait! Wait a minute. Can you get me some water?” the boy cried. And that was the last he saw of the man. Or anyone else. For a long time. And he was really hungry now and the dryness in his throat was painful. And he was as afraid as he had ever been in his life. This was just fucked up. And it just went on, hour after hour, until finally, there he was again, the man at the bars.

“You, boy, present!” he bellowed out. Again, nothing happened. The boy just sat there looking every bit as stupid as a cow. “On your knees, boy! Hands behind the head.” He waited no more than a couple of seconds and then said, “Are you thirsty? I’ll ask you again in 12 hours.” He disappeared from the bars and left the boy to call out after him, “Hey, wait, wait, I’ll do what you want, I’ll present, come back, come back.” He was on his knees now, sobbing out tears he couldn’t afford to lose. He was so thirsty.

The following twelve hours were occupied by the boy practicing how he would present when the man returned. He would present when the man came back. He knew what that meant now. He knew what he had to do. Get on his knees and put his hands behind his head. He practiced spreading his elbows as far apart as he could. He wanted to do this right. He wanted to please the man when he said “Present!” Goddamn, he would present. That would finally get him some water. He could live a couple more days without food, but not without water. He had to have water. He would present. He would do what the man wanted.

And then he waited. And waited. And he was so hungry that it seemed like a lot longer than clock-long hours. Every hour went by slower than the one before and every hour the boy suffered the hardness of the stone floor and his growing thirst and hunger until at last he heard noises in the distance and the voice of the man talking to another as they approached the cell. “He should be ready now, I think,” said one to the other.

They came up to the window and the man spoke through the bars, “Boy, present!” He and the man with him looked through the bars to observe the boy instantly scramble to his knees, set his back straight as a board, and put his hands firmly at the back of his head. The man regarded him in detail for a long time, then said, “Good boy,” and tossed a water bottle through the bars that rolled right up to him. “Go ahead, but drink it slowly.”

Which was hard for the boy. He started out right. Just a sip to open up his parched and constricted throat. Then another sip, and another and then the gulping started. “Boy. Stop!” came the command. The boy took one more gulp and stopped, put the bottle down on the floor at his hip and then put his hands back behind his head. God, that is so, so much better.

“Boy, take off your clothes!” said the man through the bars. He waited maybe five seconds and then said in a commanding voice, “Now!”

The boy jumped to his feet, immediately, took off his shoes and socks, tossed them aside one after the other, peeled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it onto his shoes then hesitated only for a moment before taking off his riding shorts and jock, revealing everything the two men had expected. They were not disappointed. This was money.

“On your knees, boy!” came the command. “Take two gulps of water and put the bottle down.” The boy did that, gladly. O Jeez that was better. So much better. “You hungry boy?” the second man asked. The boy looked at him intently. This is where food comes from. His head was swimming from low blood sugar, from starvation, close to passing out, but food. The boy nodded. Shit yeah hungry. “There’s only one way you’re going to eat boy, so let’s get started.”

The boy returned a look of complete incomprehension. Get started? What? “Here’s how it works boy,” said the first man. “It’s simple. You cum, you eat. The more you cum, the more you eat. Best to get hydrated, though. Have another three gulps of water, and then put the bottle down.” The boy quickly turned his attention to the bottle, took three gulps from it and obediently put it back down, then looked blankly at the dim figures in the hall.

“Really? You’re going to wait another twelve hours before you get around to eating? Hmmm? I’d have thought you’d be getting pretty hungry by now. Were you thinking of waiting to eat?” That was the one on the left. He laid it on pretty thick, but then, the boy caught on, finally. Oh.

That and the serious gnawing pangs of hunger, the growing fear that filled his head, the unreal, unbelievable present situation all combined to move the boy’s right hand to his withdrawn cock and by pulling and squeezing and rubbing his balls for what seemed a long time giving no pleasure, he did finally get his cock mostly going. It got up, you know, not like really hard, but he could still pump it. Jesus, for a long time now and nothing is happening. It’s just the old up and down and he’s really trying, cuz he really really wants to get this done, but he’s just going up and down and nothing is happening.

“Boy, drink the rest of the water,” said the one on the right. “Rest for a few minutes. I will be back shortly to watch you go from flaccid to massive. Just wait here. I’ll be back.” And with that, the two shadowy figures disappeared. The boy sat back against the wall, trying to sort out what just happened. He finished the water and wished he had more. “Just fucking assholes,” the boy mused, not having ever met anyone quite like his captors before. He tried to calm himself, deep breaths, deep breaths. And this had a steadying effect and slowly brought his heart rate down.

And this brought his now quieted attention to come slowly to the dim but growing effects of the triple dose of Viagra he’d just ingested. It had an oddly settling effect on him just now, but it made him wonder why now of all the times in the world when things were about as fucked up as they could possibly get, he was getting horny. And actually, wow, if he thought about it for a second, he was getting really horny. What the hell? Is this what happens when you get kidnapped and starved? And then he was reminded of hungry. Boy howdy, he was hungry. And he was horny.

Not long after, the two shadowy figures returned to the bars, now accompanied by several others, all jockeying for position so they could see into the cell. One of them said, “Boy, present!” The boy knew exactly what this meant by now and complied quickly. Someone threw in another bottle through the bars and said, “Very good boy. Here’s more water. Take three pulls and put it down.” The boy obeyed exactly, then sat back on his heels with his hands behind his head, waiting.

“Alright boy, I’m sure you’ll want to eat, so let’s get busy. Just as you sit, pump out a load of cum on the floor in front of you.” This struck the boy as completely bizarre, but in light of the last two days, and the now noticeable lengthening of his cock unbidden, he felt as though he could do this and satisfy his jailors.

Slowly, slowly at first, both hands gripping his now fully extended shaft, he moved his hands up and down, up and down. God, that felt wonderful. This was so different from when he first tried. This is amazing. His cock was hard now, and he was really horny and he really wanted to cum, but he was still going slow, still paying attention to the instructions mixed with cat calls from the gallery. “Slow down boy, make it last,” called one. “Ride ‘em cowboy,” called another.

He kept up a pace, kept it for a while in a groove he wished he could live in forever. Up and down, up and down. His cock got harder, and even in the haze of his ecstasy, he was surprised. His cock had never been this hard before. At one point, his head flopped back and unbalanced him, and he had to let go one hand from his cock to steady himself. The crowd at the bars cheered and now urged him on to cum. Pick up the pace, pick up the pace.

Now the boy’s working it, one hand above the other gripping his long shaft and rocking. His head is about to explode as he watches the crowd watching him, their need for him to cum, his need to cum. And amid the continued cheering and jeering and his own frenzied need, at last, great ballistic gouts of cum splashed down in an archipelago of puddles on the flagstone floor. “Aaaaah,” and again, “Aaaaaah,” he wailed and shot again and again.

Breathing hard, back straight, a fine sweat covering his skin, eyes closed, hands resting on his thighs, the boy savored the moment. For one shining moment, everything felt right. He’d won, he’d done what he had to do and done it well. The accolades continued from the gallery. And then, a commanding voice, “Boy, time to clean up for dinner.” Oh God, yes, dinner! All of a sudden, the thought of dinner brought his full attention to his stomach. Fuck yeah hungry. Wait a minute, what? Clean up?

“Clean up that mess boy, and we’ll get you fed. Think of it as an appetizer before dinner, hmm? That’s the routine. You cum, you clean it up, you get fed. Straight forward.” This delighted the crowd. They cheered and began clapping and urging the boy on. “Suck it up,” shouted one. “Lick it. Lick it up” hollered another. “Come on, show us how it’s done.”

This, all at once, immobilized the boy. He froze. His brain stopped processing. He’d started with no fucking way Jose and got to hungry -- no, starving -- and right there, his brain just stopped. Which may have actually saved him. The next thing he felt, without thought, was a growing horniness in his loins, no, in his balls he was feeling something really yummy, something that needed expression in movement. And in that moment, his life was saved by that need, the need to be one with his man seed. And it happened naturally that his tongue made him so. He licked the flagstone clean one puddle and the next. In the crevices he got the very tip of his tongue in and teased out every last bit of the slimy goodness he’d dropped on the floor. One after another, every puddle, every glop of cum licked up and savored. He’d been made one with his cum. God that tasted good. God he was hungry.

The crowd in the hall had grown in the meantime -- friends, business associates, clients, agents, and especially, the firm’s partners and other horse traders all lined up at the bars, keen to see a preview of what would be on offer at Fahrenthold’s Auction House next week. Present with the others was a scout from the army who’d brought along an Octagon executive. With this slave, the bidding would be intense. This was going to be a good one. The boy was spirited, tough, just half smart, and very beautiful. It would take a lot of training to get it settled, but once in harness, wow! What a stallion!

Plates of little roasted potatoes and cooked meat cut into dice-sized cubes were brought into the gallery and placed on side tables away from the bars. It was Thimbleby Meade, the firm’s leading partner, who held up a hand and called for quiet among the assembled, and then addressed the boy. “You’ve been a good boy, so you’ll be fed. Martin, toss the boy something to eat.” Martin pitched a scrap of meat into the cell that landed on the floor in front of the boy. But before it could be grabbed up, “Wait boy!” said Meade. “You may pick that up with your lips.” The boy did so, and you could tell from the look on his face, he thought he’d just been saved from death. Another morsel and another followed. The crowd at the bars were lined up like children at a duck pond, tossing corn to the birds. And like the birds, the boy picked up the food with his beak, snapping it up as quick as he could.

The boy couldn’t have cared less what he was eating. It was food and that was all that mattered at the moment. One wag at the bars insistently called out to the boy, “Bark for it, bark, come on bark.” And after he’d cleaned up all the bits he could find on the floor, he did just that, and after several tries, managed to catch the tossed meat scraps in midair, snatching them with his teeth. This brought cheers and applause from the crowd and an additional volley of meat and potatoes. The boy put his nose to the floor and picked up every last scrap of food thrown in. But finally, there came an end to the food. The boy sat back on his heels, looked at the gallery, and whimpered.

Mr. Meade turned to the assembled with a broad smile and said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your interest in the present offering. It is wild caught, virgin, and untrained. Fahrenthold’s will provide complete details upon enquiry. I hope to see all of you there next week.”

The crowd slowly dispersed, returning to the great room where drinks were being refreshed, leaving Meade and another of the partners, Andrew Ganny, to regard their latest strike. “God, the bidding will start on his cock alone,” said Ganny.“

“That’s my point, Andy,” said Thimbleby Meade. “That’s why I think we want to concentrate on stirring the club and personal reps. The institutions may want him, but they don’t care about his cock really. they’re going to keep it in a cage most of the time anyway, so they’re not going head-to-head with the clubs.”

Ganny smiled. “Yeah, it’ll be the clubs. And they’ll keep it in a cage most of the time anyway, but they can pay for cocks and not use ‘em.” He looked at the boy sitting on his knees, watching them intently. “Ok boy, go to sleep now. You’ll have another opportunity to eat in the morning.” And with that, he and Thimbleby returned to their guests.

Twice a day the captive was fed in this manner. For five days the boy lived on a stone floor that was swept and hosed out once a day. Five days sleeping, eating, performing, eating, sleeping. He shit and pee’d in the same corner farthest from where he sat to perform for his supper and where he spent most of the time, leaned naked up against a stone wall, dully passing hour after hour of utter inactivity, only to be forced to cum on the floor and then to lick it up before every meal. It was odd, the boy thought, that he was so randy and ready to perform when mealtime came around. That wasn’t usual, but now that he had nothing else to do day after day but sit, lie, or stand on hard stone while waiting to cum and eat, he looked forward to the time the water bottle rolled in to the cell, about an hour before slices of sunlight showed up in the hallway outside the bars.

About an hour before the morning and evening performance, he’d get himself hydrated, drink plenty of water, stretch out his leg muscles two or three different ways, his thighs and hams, then lie flat on the floor and concentrate on his cock and how it felt, how it began almost imperceptibly to thicken while demanding more and more of his attention. The boy was adapting to his situation. This need he felt now, morning and night, was new for him, but he came to accept it as something within his ability to bring on. And which he did now. He didn’t even have to pull and stroke himself to get hard these days. He just had to think on how horny he was and how good this was going to be.

And so, the boy lay there of a morning, on the stone floor, hands behind the head to stretch out the arm and chest muscles for the coming presentation pose that would shortly be demanded of him, and especially he didn’t want to touch himself lest he cum before he was told to. But he was hard now, and it helped a little to wag his dick up and down flexing his hips. That felt good. If that was all there was in the world, he could just lie here and feel this good forever.

There came a light clattering noise in the distance and footsteps. This was the routine in the morning, but this time, two men came into the cell. Each lowered himself to his knees and each took one of the boy’s ankles and placed it on his thigh, carefully adjusting and locking an ankle cuff in place. Almost in unison, both men rose and approached the wrists where they did the same with locking wrist cuffs. The two men stood up; each took an arm under the shoulder and brought the boy to his feet. One man placed a thick leather collar around the boy’s neck. The lock came together with a business-like click. And then the man put a thin silver chain around the boy's neck that held the key to all five locks.

Two men led the boy out of the cell on a leash, down a long hallway and through a door onto a loading dock where a van was idling with the slide door open. Once settled in the only passenger seat, wrists and ankles were secured, the door slid shut, and the van drove away.

On delivery to the auction house, someone with a mustache took the silver chain from the boy’s neck. The boy was taken to a holding cell where he’d stay until called to the block. The cell had a toilet, and a sink, and a cot. The first thing the boy did was to stretch out on the cot. God, that was so much better than stone. So much better, that his mind actually blinked fitfully and momentarily into service and asked the question, “Where the fuck am I?” The door to the cell opened and a uniformed man reached in and put a bowl of food on the floor, then quickly closed the door. The boy was so overwhelmed by this act that all other thought was immediately extinguished. He seized the bowl with both hands and greedily devoured even the last thin film of grease at the bottom of the bowl. Then he fell back on the cot and went to sleep.

He'd been carried half off the bed by staff handlers before the boy even knew he was sleeping. He was out the door and down a maze of hallways before he could even focus his bleary eyes. Before he knew it, he had been backed up to a tall wooden post, his collar chained to it, wrists and ankles connected by a chain that ran behind the post. “Item #417,” called the auctioneer. “Wild caught, virgin, untrained, age and race are as you see, no representation made.” At this, there was a lot of hubbub from the crowd, and the boy ventured to look about him. Where indeed was he? A large hall, filled with men, mostly in suits, some in jackets, some more casual. Rich by the look of ‘em. The boy himself was on a low stage, and from where he stood, it was clear it was himself that was on sale here. This thought alone unhinged the boy and he heard no more of the proceedings until a loud, clear voice cut through the fog in his mind, “going once..., going twice..., no other bids..., sold to Fletcher House. Thank you, gentlemen. The next item #418...”

As quickly as he’d been chained up to the post, he’d been released and returned to the holding cell he’d been in before. One thing was different. He noticed now what had been true all along, that the handlers and the people he heard in the auction hall, and especially the man they called Fletcher House, all said “it” when they referred to him.

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Follow along to see what happens to our boy in the next installment of Solid Gone.