Solid Gone

Beautiful Day

Every year there are slaves in the world who come by twos and threes, sent to the Fletcher House training program to complete the standard course for new House slaves. Many apply for the two or three slots available. This year, the House accepted two slaves to the program who had recently passed to a new owner. The new owner’s father had bought the boys as a pair when they were seven and kept them at his hunting lodge where they grew up tending to a stable of horses, working a kitchen garden, and cleaning house.

Their owner wished to convert the boys from house-and-yard servants to sex slaves, since they had grown up to be fine strapping lads and handsome. Within two days of their arrival at Fletcher House, the pair had joined a group of five other slaves who had just been bought at auction the week before, and thereby formed a company of seven that would train together for a year. That two of the company were long-time slaves and accepting of their lot, and five were still psychologically panicked at their situation, mattered not at all. The program would bring them all into line, drill them all in the same skills and teach them all the proper service, devotion, and reverence for their masters.

The course is rigorous and meets every day. On the first day of combined company training, seven handlers stood behind seven slaves on their knees. It was a stunning image. The early morning sun beamed down upon every slave alike, back straight, hands upon the back of the head, elbows out, eyes down, each on a square bright blue mat on the smooth stone floor of the great east terrace, all in a row, handlers with leashes snug in hand. There were photographers swirling around and a small crowd of staff and administrators and even some members up with the sun, all looking on admiringly.

The Head of Training for Fletcher House stood chatting with a clutch of staff and members before getting started with the day’s program. Absalom van der Hoek was an imposing figure and seemed taller than his five-eleven when in command, but charming and warm in social situations. Just now, he touched someone’s shoulder with a smile as he left the group and walked over to face his new class of slaves-in-training. He thanked the photographers and asked them and the PR people to withdraw, and had porters bring folding chairs for the members who wished to remain.

He took a moment to take in the before-picture: slaves without training, raw, afraid, unsure of themselves, trying to look brave. He would remember this image on graduation day as he stood before the class of finished yearlings ready for service, just as he’d done so many times before. He knew how the bricklayer felt on starting a new project -- knowing how little each brick contributed to the whole yet knowing that every single one was necessary.

“Eyes on me!” the man barked out to the line of slaves. “Put your hands on the top of your thighs.” He paused to see this done and then continued. “You will learn three things today. One: you may not speak. The next words out of your mouths will be one year from now, when you graduate, when you will all shout in unison from your knees, ‘Sir, thank you, sir!’ I won’t belabor the point; it’s enough to say, if you speak in the meantime, any word at all, I promise to make you very, very unhappy. This concludes lesson number one.

“Now for lesson number two: Why am I here?” Ab paused for a moment as he looked up at the sky to gather his thoughts. “This is perhaps your most important lesson of all. You must burn this into your brain and keep it with you always to cherish and adore. You must never forget. You are here for one purpose only and only for one purpose, and that is to please your master in every way he demands of you. That is your one and only job. It is my job to see that you are equipped to do that to the best of your physical ability. With that in mind, we now move on to lesson number three for the day.

“The lesson for the next hour is on human anatomy. Listen carefully to your instructor and do exactly as he says.” Absalom gave the floor to his first trainer, a bantam rooster of a fellow who literally bounced with excitement as he began his lecture. The subject at first seemed to the slaves abstruse, the words unfamiliar, the topic strange. The man went on throwing out foreign-sounding names of things that would have been impossible to pronounce even if the slaves had been allowed to try.

Just as the trainer might have lost his audience completely, he came to the hands-on part. “Your handlers will give you each a toothbrush. Put your back straight, head back as far as you can. Begin to brush the middle part of your tongue lightly, slowly working your way back on your tongue until you produce a gag response.” There was a general look of confusion among the slaves, as if just being here on their knees wasn’t confusing enough, now they were supposed to choke themselves with a toothbrush? Oh well, whatever.

Within a couple of minutes, all the slaves had produced the desired effect. “Alright, very good. Now, place one hand here,” he said, putting a hand on the middle of his six-pack. “Again, with the toothbrush. This time, feel the connection between your gag response and the constriction of the rectus abdominus. Now, do this a dozen times and see how much you can calm this response each time. This is your first practice in controlling involuntary reflexes. Take it slowly and deliberately. And while you practice this, be sure your head is bent as far back as you can and keep your mouth wide open.”

For the next hour, the trainer went up and down the line, from one slave to the next, observing for a time, making adjustments to posture. “Wide open jaw. That’s it,” he said, passing on to the next. “That’s right. Now, put your butt on your heels, back straight.” The sound of gagging was heard here and there as the slaves experimented with the brushes on the back of the tongue and the tonsils. The trainer crouched down next to 1134 and put one hand on the boy’s six-pack and one at the back of his head. “Here, I’ll support your head. You work the brush. Show me how you make your abs jump, easy now... Try to coordinate the pulse on the brush with the pulse it produces in your abs, gently now.”

Apart from all the other observers, at the far end of the terrace, were a lone slave and a handler holding its leash. 1094 was here officially, paying particular attention to 1134. The handler was along because the gamekeeper knew that an unaccompanied slave hanging around a training session would arouse curiosity -- someone would confront him, and the gamekeeper wanted the slave’s presence to be relatively invisible. Even before Head of Training had begun his speech, ‘94 was on his knees, head down, eyes everywhere. It made him smile inside to think that he’d brought the handler along as his aid. He settled in to watch how ‘34 was getting along.

Coughing, gagging, even a little bit of puke is typical on the first day, and there was enough of that, but ‘34 took to the work with a purpose. He’d started out as he meant to go on. Maybe it was his first encounter with a butt beating that motivated him, maybe it was just his nature, but even a casual look at the boy told the whole story. In his mind, this was a competition, and he was determined to be the best. From the look of it, he was determined to get the whole toothbrush down his throat. And God knows, he might have done it if the trainer hadn’t called a halt to the session and sent everyone off to their next appointment.

Absalom had been standing out of the sun with a couple of others talking shop and watching the slaves intently. It was only day one, and way too soon to say anything yet, but after all his years of training slaves, he could usually spot the one slave the rest would look up to -- the good boy example, the one to show the rest how it should be done. That was obviously 1134. Harris had reported right away that the boy was exceptional. Ab wondered why the house had sold off something so obviously trainable and valuable, something so innately tough and posh. Definitely a mystery, but Ab didn’t get this close to retirement by stirring up shit. He’d train the boy like all the rest, maybe even a little harder sometimes -- it was made of strong stuff. But he’d let this mystery lie. No doubt there was money at the bottom of it, like a piece of cheese at the bottom of Pooh’s honey pot.

__________

During the rest of the day, and for the next 13 weeks, the company of seven was kept busy. Training focused on the deliberate process of breaking down the slaves’ individuality and building a foundation for the grueling training ahead. Every day saw two intense exercise sessions designed to push the slaves to their limits. Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, and core work in the morning, weight work in the afternoons, followed by miles of running and an hour of stretching. Evenings after the meal were taken up by familiarization with equipment and harness, with gags and plugs and dildos and every way to use them. And then into the night, an hour or so in the standing racks, and then to bed to be up soon after to do it all over again. The first week of training is designed to break down resistance and to establish ownership and the rigid structure and expectations of Fletcher House.

On day two, it was too early in training for any slave to know what was part of the usual daily business and what constituted a momentous occasion. Everything must seem extraordinary to a slave, just days after being taken. But this was not a hard call for the members who wanted to take part in what was, in fact, a momentous occasion, that is, the ceremony of the deflowering of virgin slaves.

Throughout the year there are slaves who come into Fletcher House, young, scrapping, and virgin who are brought into one or another service program. This includes those acquired for the Harvest Festival games, the hotel trade, private tuition, and the resale market. When virgins are brought through the slave portal and into a House program, the maître d’ displays a small slate near the main entrance to the members’ dining room, announcing the time and place of such ceremonies of introduction. Members may reserve a chair or a table, as suits them. The menu and drinks list varies. There is a small box with a slot in the top sitting on the counter at the concierge’s desk. Members who wish actively to participate in the ceremonies will put their name in the box. Names are drawn at dinner the following evening.

J. Stanford Smith liked winning, at golf, at business, in pylon races -- which he did as a much younger man. But these were matches all won by skill and will. Tonight, his name had been drawn and he’d won, but by mere chance, and it felt wonderful, like he felt as a small boy when he found his first bicycle by the Christmas tree. It made him all warm inside and grateful to the great oddsmaker above. And it made him hard, just the prospect of slipping his dick into that sumptuous complex of boy muscle was almost too much to bear quietly. For the rest of dinner, he was voluble with his tablemates, antsy and jumpy. He was ready to go now.

The slaves were being made ready on the floor of the round theater stage in the central annex, work lights were still on, wranglers, trainers, and handlers milled about. All seven of the company were now on their knees in a great circle that included “The Rack” at its center -- a modified fuck-bench that required the slave to stand with legs apart and bend at the waist to 45 degrees, wrists pulled forward and locked, ankles secured to posts in the floor.

The wrangler and his assistant went from one slave to the next, checking collars and cuffs and putting in a suppressor face banger to guarantee no word would escape the slave’s mouth. The silicone cock was just long enough to force down the tongue, but just miss the tonsils. The slaves would be ready for the gag response and so hopefully wouldn’t panic. But they would be wordless in any case.

The stage crew, the handlers, the lighting techs and the wranglers now all moved off the stage as the work lights went off, the house lights came up, and the doors were opened to admit the audience to a “Celebration and Matriculation.” The announcement on the invitation for each in attendance, went on, “Join with members and friends of Fletcher House to celebrate the addition of seven new slaves to its international, award-winning program for training.” Ushers smoothly seated a couple of hundred people in a short time, waiters served drinks and cigars. A small band played in the pit in front of the stage. The house lights blinked twice, the band finished its number with a flourish, and then darkness.

A moment later, once the house was silent, a spotlight streaked onto a single slave on his knees. From outside the spot, a voice barked out. “Stand!” And the slave stood, awkwardly, uncomfortably, working out the kinks in its knees. “Hands behind your head.” The slave complied and a wrangler appeared in the light to fasten on a cock cage. “Let this device serve our House and proclaim to all the world, ownership.” The wrangler then forced the slave back to its knees and the light went out. Another spotlight lit up a slave across the circle and the ritual continued until six of the slaves were acknowledged and caged. The seventh, 1134, had already a highly restrictive cage on and was not yet entirely comfortable with it. He was made to stand, as the others had been, but in his case, by the master of ceremonies, who now stepped into the spotlight with the slave.

“Gentlemen, I present to you one of seven, the first tonight to be officially inducted into the program. Handlers, will you please secure this virgin to the rack where it may be relieved of its burden and made whole in slavery.” Whole banks of lights came on to illuminate the center of the stage. 1134 was guided onto the rack, wrists and ankles secured. A short chain from the collar to the frame completed a conventional five-point restraint. The slave’s ass was perfectly exposed, its quivering limbs immobile, its voice silenced. Only its eyes offered any protest, only tears could express its fear and humiliation.

John Smith, as we’ve seen, won the prize of first access to 1134’s sweet, puckered virgin hole, and he wanted to enjoy every minute of it unencumbered by clothing. He handed his shoes and socks, his pants and undershorts and his oxford pinpoint to a porter who stood by. His undershirt remained, covering most of his thick salt and pepper chest fur. Mr. Smith approached the slave amid general applause and his dick straight out hard, hardly bouncing at all as he walked.

The emcee called for quiet with a raised hand, and after waiting a moment said, “We thank you for your contribution, thank you for participating, we are in your debt.” There was more applause and scattered cheering. “You will have 20 minutes to relieve the virgin of its burden. It is expected that in completing the rite, you will leave a quantity of cum in the slave’s fundament so that it may leak out over the course of the evening proclaiming its initiation into slavery.” There were shouts from the house of “Hear, hear!” and “Go get it!”

Quietly, Mr. Smith set to work with a reverent intent. And so did the band, following Smith’s progress and leading or following as circumstance dictated. It began smooth and slow, melodically. With his palms pressed together and his fingers on his lips, Smith walked slowly around the rack and its bound and quivering prize, still leaking from its eyes. Smith reached out and brushed his palm over the slave’s butt, then ever so lightly traced the tip of his finger around its rosy hole. The legs jerked even at this light touch.

Then fingernails on the inside of the boy’s thighs and more jerking that now involved the hips and hams and shaking of the arms. It was as though the boy wanted to get off the rack and leave. There came a low groan from the boy, inaudible to anyone but Smith. He reached over into a slime port and brought back a hand covered in Astroglide. This, he applied liberally to his cock and one finger at a time to the boy’s ass, smearing the slime around and into its hole. The hole squeezed his finger, and Mr. Smith nearly lost his senses.

For their next number, the band took up “Please, Please Me,” heavy on the two-part harmony, and Mr. Smith found himself having to catch up to the music. Time to dig in. He had a plan. The boy would remember this night, and in particular, these twenty minutes of its ritual initiation. Between its ring and the cage, the boy's balls were somewhat constricted, but Smith pulled on them, stretching them out enough that he could massage the balls and roll them between his fingers. The boy’s moans were so much suppressed by his gag that only Smith could hear the protest, and only as a dull vibration beneath the band slamming out “All Shook Up.” The link between the ankle cuff and the post ring rattled in accord with the drummer’s time, not clear who was leading whom.

Even from behind, Smith could see the pressures contained by the slave’s ring and cage. The slave’s cock was no part of the swelling forces at work, but everything else was. With the work Smith had done so far, the boy was very excited, and everything was flowing at volume -- especially the slobber, but precum too -- there was a continuous thin thread of precum running from his cage right down to the floor. And now, as a kind of invitation, the band began a long introduction to “Working in a Coal Mine” and stretching it out as Smith now entered the boy’s oh so slippery little hole to the band’s driving rhythmic baseline and soaring harmonies.

The boy’s head snapped back as far as it could when Smith went in; spray shot out from the sides of the gag; great ropey veins stood out on the sides of its neck; the face briefly turned purple, then faded to dark red. Every limb was engaged in protest and all the chain links that bound it rattled as the slave tried in vain to evade its purpose, to reject its fate. Smith pushed in all the way and then lay his torso on the boy’s back and lightly tweaked its nipples and kissed its neck and shoulders.

The band began its final number in the set, signaling the last two and half minutes of the ceremony. Smith was there. He felt the boy was there too. He could tell from the way the slave moved under him. And he moved on the slave, slowly, almost pulling out, and then in one long, smooth, thrust, all the way back in, slowly building tempo to meet the time of the band -- now energetically playing the Sam & Dave hit, “Hold On, I’m Coming.”

Smith could feel the boy meet his cock every time he slipped over the boy’s eager prostate. The music was building to a crescendo and so were the boy and Smith. And just as Smith took one final plunge and blew his load deep inside, the boy’s ass grabbed the base of his cock in pulses as a great load of cum dribbled from its cage.

The band finished with a flourish to vigorous applause from the audience, the lights on stage dimmed to black and a spot lit up the emcee. “Thank you, Mr. Smith, for a master class in the rituals of introduction. Certainly, this sets the bar for our next volunteer, Hideki Kaminaga, who will introduce slave T2-3 to one of its important responsibilities. Will you please welcome both.” The audience’s enthusiastic welcome was equally directed to one of their own more colorful members, and to a promising suntanned Apollo in shackles. The evening was just getting under way and the show promised only masterful play.

1134 was led back to his place in the circle but made to stand with a spreader bar at its ankles and a single cable for its wrists fastened straight up. Cum leaked from its cage, cum leaked from its ass. It was still very strange and unnerving to the boy to stand naked in front of an audience and be ritually humiliated, but he wasn’t any longer terrified or at the edge of panic. It had been days and days going on maybe weeks now, and this wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him.

Being raped in public was just one more degrading humiliation that wore on his sense of worth and self-esteem, but it wasn’t the worst thing so far. And yes, it had hurt. A lot. And it lasted for, what, minutes? It didn’t hurt so much right now. It felt like something strong, but the boy didn’t know quite what words to use. He was being fucked, and he’d got so excited he’d cummed without anyone ever touching his dick. That was new. Well, everything was new these days.

And now that he thought about it, he remembered what his sphincter had felt like, seizing the dick in his ass as it pulsed out cum, as his own imprisoned dick pulsed out cum. The boy was lost in his thoughts as the show went on and slowly settled into a comfortable glow, riding the occasional aches that reminded him who owned his hole and what his owners would use it for. And so, by little and little, the slave’s view of the future was beginning to form.

__________

It was after second meal when the handler came for him. 1094 was taken to the gamekeeper’s office and made to stand in front of the man’s desk. There were others in the office. The slave kept his eyes down. “We’ve been discussing 1134,” said the gamekeeper, without preamble. “I would like your observations on the boy.”

‘94 looked up at the gamekeeper and said, “Sir, the boy comes from money, Sir!” The gamekeeper sat back in his chair and looked sideways to one of the men in the office, a sly smile on his face. The slave thought for a moment and continued. “Sir, permission to speak freely, Sir?” The gamekeeper nodded, and the boy went on, “Sir, the day before ‘34 was taken to the stalls, this one noticed the fingernails on its left hand -- on the ring finger and thumb. Maybe they were used to put a point on colored pencils. There is still a faded ink stain on its left index finger. Sir, ‘34 may be able to draw, Sir!”

The gamekeeper said, “Thank you ‘94. You are a good boy. Go see the wrangler, he’ll take your cage off. I’ll leave you alone with ‘34 tomorrow. While you’re getting the boy settled, why don’t you ask if it can draw?”

“Sir. Yes Sir! Thank you, Sir!”