Guard Induction
The morning sun filtered through the cell's small window, pulling me from a restless sleep tangled in Kai's arms. His body heat lingered on my skin, a reminder of the night before—his cock sliding deep into me, thrusting until we both collapsed, spent and sticky. But comfort was short-lived. A sharp knock echoed, and the door swung open to reveal two guards, their faces impassive under the island's humidity.
'Ethan, up. Training duty. Get dressed.' One tossed a bundle of clothes at my feet: a plain white T-shirt, faded jeans, socks, sneakers, and a light jacket. It felt surreal—after days of nudity, being told to cover up. I pulled them on quickly, the fabric rough against my freshly showered skin, while Kai watched with a sympathetic grin. 'First-timer's hazing. Just breathe through it.'
They marched me across the compound, past slaves bent over in the gardens, their bare asses marked with fresh welts, to a low building labelled 'Training Annex.' Inside, the air was cooler, sterile like the med bay, with padded mats on the floor and walls lined with restraints and whips. Master Raymond stood at the front, flanked by four new guards—young guys, maybe mid-20s, built like athletes, their uniforms crisp and untested. They eyed me curiously as I was shoved into the centre.
'Gentlemen,' Raymond boomed, his voice cutting through the tension, 'welcome to the island. You'll learn to manage our assets here—keep them productive, obedient, and primed for service. This is Ethan, our newest acquisition. Fresh meat, like you. He'll be your practice dummy today. Officer Lane will guide you.'
Lane stepped forward, a grizzled vet in his 40s, scars crisscrossing his arms, his stance radiating authority. His eyes locked on me, cold and assessing. 'Strip protocols first. Sometimes new slaves arrive clothed. You rip it off them, make it clear who's in charge. Humiliate, intimidate. Break the spirit early.' He nodded at the first guard, a burly blond named Jax. 'You start.'
Jax grabbed my jacket collar without warning, yanking it down my arms so hard the seams strained. Buttons popped from the T-shirt as he tore it open, exposing my chest. 'On your knees, slave!' he barked, shoving me down. His hands roamed roughly, pinching my nipples until I yelped, twisting them to gauge my reaction. 'Look at this soft city boy. Bet he's never worked a real day.' The others chuckled, circling like wolves.
He unbuckled my jeans next, ripping the zipper down and hauling them to my ankles along with my boxers. My cock flopped out, semi-hard from the adrenaline, and Jax slapped it hard, making it swing. 'No hiding this. Inspect every inch.' He forced my legs apart, socks and shoes still on, and probed my balls, squeezing until pain shot up my gut. 'Spread those cheeks.' I hesitated a second too long; his boot nudged my thigh, and I complied, bending forward. His fingers invaded my ass, two at once, stretching and prodding deep, checking for... what? Resistance? Cleanliness? I bit my lip, humiliation burning as the room watched.
'Good aggression,' Lane grunted. 'But make him feel small. Verbal, too.' Jax pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, wiping them on my thigh. 'You're nothing here, Ethan. Just holes and hands for our use.' He kicked off my shoes and socks, leaving me fully bare, trembling on the mat.
Next was Marco, darker-haired and leaner, his turn more methodical. He circled me slowly, then lunged, pinning my arms behind my back with one hand while the other clawed at my exposed skin. 'Fight back if you want—makes it fun.' I didn't; I froze, remembering the whips. He slapped my face lightly, then harder across my ass, the crack echoing. 'Inspect means own it.' His palm cupped my cock, stroking roughly to force it erect, veins bulging as blood rushed in against my will. 'See? They get hard for punishment. Note that in reports—arousal without permission.' He bent me over, spreading my cheeks wide for the group, his thumb circling my hole before pushing in, twisting to hit that spot that made me gasp.
The third, Tyler, was eager, almost sloppy. He stripped me again—wait, I was already naked? No, Lane barked, 'Redo it. Practice the full takedown. Clothes simulate resistance.' They handed me the torn jeans and shirt back, forcing me to redress shakily. Tyler charged like a bull, tackling me to the mat. Fabric shredded under his grip; he bit my shoulder as he yanked the shirt away, drawing a thin line of blood. 'Feel that fear?' His inspection was invasive—fingers in my mouth, prying my jaw wide, then down to my throat, pressing to feel my swallow. He flipped me onto my stomach, knees pinning my calves, and spread my legs. His cock strained against his pants as he fingered my ass, three digits now, pumping in and out while his free hand jerked my hardening shaft. 'No cumming, slave. That's for us to decide.' Precum leaked onto the mat, my body betraying me under the scrutiny.
Last was Derek, the quiet one, but his eyes burned hottest. He made me stand, hands behind my head, then slowly peeled the jacket—wait, they'd given me a spare?—off, folding it neatly before turning vicious. He slapped my chest, my abs, each hit reddening skin. 'Body check: fit for labour?' His hands mapped me—tracing ribs, squeezing biceps, then down to my groin. He knelt, nose inches from my cock, inhaling deeply. 'Smell the submission.' Then he engulfed me, sucking hard for a humiliating inspection, teeth grazing the head before pulling off with a slurp. 'Responsive. Log it.' For my ass, he used a gloved hand, Lane handing him lube, probing deep, massaging my prostate until I whimpered, on the edge.
Lane stripped too for the 'hands-on' phase, his thick cock half-hard as he demonstrated. 'Sometimes you join in to show dominance. But remember: slaves naked always. No exceptions. Your job—oversee work: gardens, repairs, feasts. Punish infractions: whips for laziness, denial for disobedience. Full reports daily: behaviour, ethic, obedience levels. And this?' He gripped my balls, tugging sharply. 'Cocks are ours. No slave touches himself without orders. If they get off on handling, correct it—edging, cages, whatever breaks the habit.' The new guards nodded, taking turns again, now nude themselves, their erections bobbing as they groped and prodded me anew.
Jax fucked my mouth shallowly, 'teaching' throat control. Marco bent me over, sliding his dick along my crack without entering, just teasing. Tyler and Derek tag-teamed, one holding my arms while the other slapped and fingered, their bodies pressing hot against mine. Lane oversaw, occasionally joining to slap my ass or pinch my nipples. 'Humiliate: make them beg for mercy. Intimidate: show the power.' I was a ragdoll, passed around, cum from their premature leaks smearing my skin, my own cock throbbing untouched, denied release.
By the end, I lay sprawled on the mat, bruised and slick, breaths ragged. Raymond clapped once. 'Solid start.
The echoes of their laughter and my ragged breaths still hung in the air as Officer Lane stepped forward again, wiping sweat from his brow. I was still sprawled on the mat, naked and slick with their sweat and precum, my cock twitching from the denied ache, when Raymond nodded approvingly. 'Good foundation. Now, discipline. Can't have assets slacking.' Lane's voice cut in sharp, like a blade. 'You did well, but now we move on to slave punishment. Minor offenses—working slowly, forgetting to call you Sir, forgetting to lower their eyes when you address them—are punished with the cane on the palms of the slave's hands. Three strokes on each hand minimum, but at your discretion, raise it to six or even nine. Every instance gets recorded in the slave's file and reported to Master Raymond at day's end.'
He gestured to a rack on the wall, pulling down a thin, flexible rattan cane, about three feet long, its surface smooth and deadly. My stomach twisted as he swished it through the air, the whistle making my skin prickle. 'We'll practice hand caning with slave Ethan. Each of you delivers six strokes to each of his hands under my guidance. Technique matters—aim for the centre of the palm, snap the wrist at impact for sting without bruising or breaking fingers. Build pain, not just marks. Are we ready to start?'
The new guards murmured agreement, their eyes lighting up with that mix of eagerness and cruelty. Jax cracked his knuckles first, taking the cane from Lane. They hauled me to my feet, my legs shaky, and positioned me in the centre, arms extended palms up like an offering. 'Hold still, slave,' Lane barked. 'Flinch, and we add extras.' My heart pounded, palms already sweating, the vulnerability hitting hard—exposed, used, now to be marked for their lesson.
Jax gripped the cane loosely, his burly frame towering. 'First stroke—quick, firm.' He lined up, the cane hovering over my right palm. It cracked down, a fiery line exploding across my skin, the impact jolting up my arm. I gasped, fingers curling instinctively, but Lane snapped, 'Open it! Full extension.' Jax reset, delivering the second with a sharper flick, the pain layering deeper, like hot wires under my flesh. By the third, tears pricked my eyes, the sting radiating to my wrists. He powered through the remaining three, each snap louder, my palm swelling red, welts rising in parallel lines. 'Too much follow-through,' Lane critiqued, adjusting Jax's stance. 'Shorter arc—makes it bite more.' Jax nodded, switching to my left hand. The first hit there felt worse, fresh skin searing, and I bit my lip to stifle a cry as he laid on the six, my fingers trembling by the end, palms throbbing in unison.
Marco took over next, his lean build deceptive in its precision. He twirled the cane once, smirking down at me. 'Eyes down, slave. Practice that obedience.' I dropped my gaze, but the humiliation burned as hot as the impending pain. Lane hovered close. 'Angle it slightly—catches the meat of the palm.' Marco's first stroke whistled and landed true, a vicious whip that made my right hand jerk. 'Control it,' Lane growled, pressing my arm steady. Marco corrected, the next five building a rhythm—crack, burn, crack, throb—each one forcing a whimper from my throat. Sweat dripped down my back, my naked body on full display, cock softening under the agony. For the left, he varied the speed, slowing before the final three to draw out the anticipation, the cane slicing air then flesh, leaving my palms raw and pulsing. 'Better,' Lane approved. 'See how he tenses? That's the fear you want.'
Tyler was up, his sloppy energy from before channelled into wild swings. He grabbed the cane too tight, knuckles white. 'Easy, boy,' Lane warned. 'Grip like a whip, not a club.' Tyler's first attempt on my right palm went wide, glancing off my fingers, but the pain still flared. 'Centre it!' Lane demonstrated with a light tap, then stepped back. Tyler refocused, the second stroke landing solid, a deep ache blooming as the cane compressed my skin. He rushed the next four, each crack uneven but building heat, my palm blistering under the assault, tears spilling now. I clenched my jaw, tasting blood from biting my tongue. 'Slow down on the last—let it sink in,' Lane instructed, and Tyler's sixth was a deliberate lash, drawing a sharp yelp from me. My left hand fared no better; he overcompensated, swinging harder, the impacts thudding like hammers, welts overlapping into a fiery mess. By the end, my arms shook, holding position a battle against the urge to cradle my hands.
Derek went last, his quiet intensity making my gut clench. He took the cane with calm hands, eyes locked on mine until Lane reminded me to lower them. 'Build tension,' Lane said. 'Make him wait.' Derek held the cane poised over my right palm for seconds that stretched eternal, then brought it down in a clean arc—crack—the pain precise, slicing deep without excess force. It hurt more that way, controlled agony radiating up my forearm. He followed with five more, each stroke measured, the cane whistling softly before exploding on impact, my skin tightening into ridges of fire. I sobbed quietly, snot dripping, the humiliation complete as my body betrayed the pain with shudders. 'Perfect form,' Lane praised. 'Now the left—same pace.' Derek mirrored it, the six lashes methodical, each one layering torment until my palms felt like charred meat, swollen and unyielding. He finished with a final swish, not striking, just to remind me it could continue.
They stepped back, the room thick with the scent of sweat and rattan. My hands hung limp at my sides now, too sore to clench, red and striped, every pulse a reminder of their 'lessons.' Lane inspected, prodding my palms lightly, sending fresh jolts through me. 'Solid work. Report this as practice—six per hand from each. Ethan, log it in your mind: this is minor. Major offenses? We'll cover later.' I stood there, naked and aching, breaths hitching, awaiting whatever came next in their endless training, the island's grip tightening with every mark on my skin.
My palms throbbed like they'd been dipped in fire, swollen and striped from the caning, every twitch sending fresh stabs up my arms. I stood there in the centre of the training room, naked and dripping sweat, the new guards circling me with satisfied smirks while Officer Lane paced, cane still in hand. The air smelled of salt from my skin and the faint tang of rattan. My breath came in shallow hitches, eyes fixed on the floor as I'd been drilled, but inside, dread coiled tight—knowing this was just the warmup.
Lane set the cane aside with a clack, his boots thudding closer. 'Hands were minor, boys. Builds obedience without sidelining the asset. Now, for harsher—when a slave mouths off, steals a glance, or shirks real work. Beating the soles of the feet. It's agony that lingers, cripples’ movement for days, reminds them with every step. Used often here; slaves learn quick or they hobble.' He nodded to the side, where a low wooden frame waited, like a torture bench from some nightmare—padded at one end for the body, ropes and bars at the other to hoist feet high.
The guards grabbed me roughly, Jax and Marco hauling my arms while Tyler and Derek gripped my ankles. I didn't fight; the memory of their cocks in my mouth and ass still raw, resistance meant worse. They slammed me down on my back, the mat cool against my heated skin, head toward the padded rest. My wrists they bound to rings above my head, stretching me taut, cock and balls exposed and vulnerable. Then my legs—pulled straight, ankles lashed to the frame's crossbar. Lane cranked a lever, and the bar rose, lifting my feet until my soles faced up at waist level, toes pointed, heels locked. The position arched my back slightly, knees bent, ass clenching against the exposure. Every muscle strained, the pull on my thighs making my balls tighten.
'Perfect presentation,' Lane grunted, slapping my left sole lightly with his palm, the casual sting making me flinch. 'Bare soles—soft targets. Use a whip or rod, thin and flexible. Aim for the arch, the ball, avoid the heel to keep it walking-ready. Build strokes slow; they scream fast, but push till breaking point. Ethan here? He'll take it till he begs mercy—practice your limits.' My heart hammered, soles already prickling in the humid air, knowing the pain would eclipse the hands.
Jax stepped up first, selecting a short leather whip from the rack—braided tails, about two feet long, designed to bite. He flexed it, the leather creaking. 'Start light, feel the give,' Lane advised, standing beside him. 'Snap from the wrist, follow through to the meat.' Jax positioned himself, my right sole quivering in his shadow. The first lash whistled, tails cracking across the arch—a white-hot explosion that ripped a yelp from my throat. My foot jerked against the ropes, toes curling, the burn spreading like acid under the skin. 'Good entry,' Lane said. 'Now layer it—alternate sides.'
He brought the whip down again, harder, the tails fanning out to stripe my sole from heel to toes. I gasped, body bucking, the pain shooting up my leg to my hip. Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripping into my eyes. Third stroke targeted the ball of my foot, the impact thudding deep, making my calf spasm. 'He's tensing— that's your cue to hit quicker,' Lane instructed, and Jax obliged, fourth and fifth lashes blurring into a rhythm of fire, each crack echoing as welts rose, skin reddening fast. By the sixth, tears streamed down my face, my sole a throbbing mess, but Jax kept going, seventh on the left sole now, mirroring the agony—whip snapping, flesh yielding, a scream tearing out as the pain doubled, soles pulsing in sync.
I writhed, ropes biting my ankles, cock flopping uselessly with each jolt. 'Ease up on the angle—flatter for wider coverage,' Lane corrected mid-swing, guiding Jax's arm. The eighth lash spread the burn across both soles at once, tails wrapping slightly, stinging the sides. My voice cracked into sobs, feet dancing in their bonds, but they didn't stop. Ninth, tenth—relentless, soles swelling, the skin hot and tender, every nerve screaming. I begged then, 'Please, Sir—can't—' but Lane silenced me with a glare. Jax delivered three more, the whip blurring, until my soles felt like pulverized meat, breaths ragged, body limp from the overload. He stepped back, panting, as Lane prodded the welts with a finger, sending electric jolts. 'Eleven strokes total. Solid for a first go. He'll limp tomorrow.'
Marco took the whip next, wiping it on his thigh before starting. His strikes were precise, almost surgical. 'Vary the speed—let him anticipate,' Lane said, and Marco did, holding the whip high over my right sole, the pause twisting my gut. Then—crack—the tails landed square on the arch, reigniting the fire with surgical sharpness. I howled, foot flexing hard, the pain fresher on abused skin. Second stroke followed slow, deliberate, whipping the ball, forcing a guttural moan as toes splayed. 'See the welt pattern? That's control,' Lane praised.
He switched to the left, third lash whistling low and fast, catching the heel edge despite advice, the jolt buckling my knee. 'Higher arc next—pure sole,' Lane adjusted, and Marco's fourth sliced clean, the burn layering into blisters of agony. My screams turned hoarse, sweat pooling under me, ass clenching as the pain radiated to my groin. Fifth and sixth built tempo, whip cracking in quick succession, soles throbbing in unison, skin splitting slightly under the assault. I thrashed, head banging the mat, begging incoherently—'Stop, Sirs, mercy'—but they ignored it. Seventh on the right again, slower, drawing out the whistle before impact, the tails embedding deep. By the tenth, my feet were numb yet screaming, welts crisscrossing like a map of torment, body shuddering uncontrollably. Marco added two more, the final one a vicious snap that made me arch off the floor, vision blurring from tears. Lane nodded. 'Twelve. Technique's key—yours bites without excess.' He traced a welt, my sob echoing as fresh pain flared.
Tyler grabbed the whip eagerly, his swings wilder. 'Reel it in—short strokes, or you'll tire,' Lane warned right away. Tyler's first on my right sole went high, tails glancing off toes, but the sting still pierced. 'Centre it!' Lane barked, steadying his wrist. The second landed true, a messy crack that spread fire unevenly, my foot kicking futilely. I whimpered, soles already beyond endurance, every lash like grinding glass into the flesh. Third stroke overcompensated, whipping hard across the arch, drawing blood in a thin line—pain exploding white-hot, scream ripping raw from my chest.
'Wipe the blood—keep it clean,' Lane ordered, but Tyler pressed on, fourth and fifth lashes sloppy but forceful, tails flailing to cover the whole sole, the burn turning to a deep ache that cramped my calves. My body convulsed, cock leaking pre-cum from the sheer overload, humiliation mixing with agony. Left sole next, sixth stroke thudding heavy, seventh lighter but stinging the raw spots. 'Balance the power—don't swing like a bat,' Lane coached, demonstrating a flick that Tyler mimicked on the eighth, the precision making it worse, pain pinpointed and unrelenting. I babbled pleas, 'No more—please,' snot and tears mixing on my face, but he hit ninth, tenth, eleventh—each building the blaze until my soles were swollen balloons of torment, skin broken and pulsing. Twelfth was a frenzy, Tyler ignoring form, the whip cracking wild until Lane pulled him back. 'Enough—thirteen's your limit here. Raw, but effective.' My feet hung limp, breaths sobs, the world narrowing to the fiery hell at my soles.
Derek last, his calm terrifying. He coiled the whip loosely, eyes on my battered feet. 'Psych it out—make him dread,' Lane suggested. Derek waited, letting silence stretch, my sobs the only sound, anticipation knotting my stomach. Then the first lash—measured, tails snapping across the right arch with surgical bite, reigniting every nerve in a fresh inferno. I shrieked, body seizing, the pain sharper for its control. Second followed seamlessly, targeting the ball, forcing my toes to claw air. 'Excellent flow,' Lane murmured.
Left sole third, the whip whistling soft before exploding, welts overlapping into a seamless burn. My screams devolved to whimpers, exhaustion setting in, but the agony persisted—fourth on right, fifth left, alternating to keep both soles alive with torment. Sweat slicked my body, ass grinding the mat involuntarily. Sixth and seventh built slow, each crack deliberate, skin tearing further, blood trickling warm down my heels. I begged hoarsely, 'Can't take it—Sirs, stop,' voice breaking, but Derek's eighth was unflinching, ninth a pause then strike, drawing a guttural cry. By the tenth, eleventh, twelfth—methodical lashes that pushed me to the edge, soles unrecognizable, swollen and lacerated, every pulse a knife twist. He added a thirteenth, the final crack echoing as I blacked out for a second, body collapsing in the ropes, world fading to throbbing darkness.
They lowered the frame slowly, untying me as I lay there, feet screaming with every shift. Lane inspected, slapping my soles lightly—fresh hell making me scream again. 'Falconer soles—extreme pain, full submission. Report: each guard pushed to breaking. Ethan, you're marked for the day.' The guards chuckled, wiping whips, while I curled, naked and broken, awaiting whatever hell followed, the island's cruelty etched into my very steps. Officer Lane told the new intake of guards that they would need some pre training before they would practice the final punishment on me.
The guards finally cut me loose from that damn frame, my soles screaming with every inch they lowered it. I collapsed onto the mat, curling into a ball as the world spun in a haze of agony—palms red, pain pounding through my feet, welted ruin that throbbed like they'd been branded. Tyler and Derek hauled me up by the arms, my naked body limp between them, cock dangling uselessly, ass still sore from earlier violations. 'Move, slave,' Jax barked, shoving me toward the door. I hobbled out, each step a fresh explosion of fire shooting up my legs, tears blurring the corridor lights. Officer Lane followed, logging something on his tablet—my file growing thicker with every torment inflicted.
They marched me back through the humid island paths, the tropical sun dipping low, casting long shadows over the whip-scarred workers in the fields. My feet slapped the gravel raw, small drops of blood seeping from splits, but I bit down screams, knowing complaints earned worse. The cell block loomed, a squat concrete bunker amid palms, and they dumped me at the door. 'Clean up and rest—tomorrow's more,' Lane said flatly, the lock clicking behind me.
Inside, the air was cooler, fans whirring softly over the two bunks, the faint hum of the radio playing some distant jazz. Kai was there, lounging on his bed his lean, tanned body marked with faded scars—proof of years surviving this hell. He looked up from a worn book, his dark eyes sharpening as I staggered in, collapsing against the wall. 'Fuck, Ethan... what'd they do to you?' He was up in a flash, guiding me to my bunk, his hands gentle on my shoulders.
I sank onto the thin mattress, wincing as my ass hit the fabric, feet dangling off the edge like useless weights. 'Training... for the new guards. Caned my hands, then... soles.' My voice cracked, sobs bubbling up as I cradled my palms, the welts pulsing hot. Kai knelt, inspecting without touching, his face grim. 'Bastards. Lie back—I'll get the salve.' He fetched a jar from the shelf, the cell's small perks courtesy of good behaviour, and dabbed cool ointment on my feet, the relief sharp but fleeting against the deeper burn.
As he worked, silence stretched, broken only by my hitched breaths. Finally, he capped the jar and sat beside me, the bunk dipping under his weight. 'Sit up a bit, Ethan. Take some advice from someone who's made it this far.' His tone was steady, almost fatherly, but edged with the island's hardness. I shifted, biting my lip against the pain, propping on elbows to face him. His eyes locked on mine, serious. 'To survive here, minimize the beatings—you gotta accept what you are now. A slave. Full stop. Fight it in your head, and it'll chew you up.'
I nodded weakly, the weight of it sinking in, my nakedness feeling more exposed under his gaze, skin still sticky from sweat and cum residue. 'The humiliation... being stripped, used like that—'
'Yeah, the nudity. Get over it fast. It's your uniform—nothing more. Guards, masters, even other slaves see everything. No hiding. And the sex? At any moment, they can bend you over, shove in, take what they want for fun or stress relief. Accept it. Hell, embrace it if you can—makes the invasions less soul-crushing. Means you're useful, not disposable.' He paused, rubbing his jaw, memories flickering in his eyes. 'Your five years? Own it. Clock's ticking from the day you stepped off that boat. Resent it, and every day drags like chains.'
A chill ran through me despite the warmth, visions of Master Raymond's cold smile flashing—his cock down my throat, the debt verdict sealing my fate. 'But the Master... he's—'
'Ruthless doesn't cover it,' Kai cut in, voice low. 'Even his own nephew's out there, chained in the fields, no mercy, no favouritism. Blood means shit here. If you don't bend to your role, it'll break you—brutal days piling up till you're begging for the end. Execution's real; I've seen it. Slaves crucified on the beach, bodies twisting in the sun for days, crows picking at 'em. Or worse—tied to stakes, flames licking slow, screams echoing till dawn. Disobedience, sure, but sometimes just for the Master's entertainment. A show to keep the rest in line.'
My stomach twisted, bile rising at the images—naked forms writhing in fire, the island's paradise twisted into pyre. I'd die here if I pushed back, five years stretching to a grave. 'How... how do I not crack?'
'Stay quiet. Obey every order, no backtalk, no eye contact unless demanded. And the sexual stuff—take it all without tears, without complaint. Suck, fuck, whatever they demand—blank face, steady body. Don't stand out as trouble. Blend into the routine, do your labour, service without fuss. That's the path through. Five years feels eternal, but it ends if you play smart.' Kai's hand squeezed my knee, a rare warmth in this cold world, his touch stirring faint comfort amid the ache.
I swallowed hard, the advice burrowing deep, a lifeline in the despair. 'What about tomorrow? They said more training...'
Kai's expression darkened. 'Whipping, probably. New guards need practice on live meat—you're fresh, unmarked. Back, ass, thighs—light lashes to learn control, but it'll sting like hell after today.' He leaned closer, voice dropping to a coach's murmur. 'Prep your mind tonight. When they tie you, breathe deep—focus on the rhythm, not the pain. Arch into it if you can; shows submission, might earn lighter strokes. Count them silent, let endorphins kick in after the first few—body adapts if you don't tense. And after? Thank them. 'Yes, Sir, grateful for correction.' Strokes your ego down, but keeps you safe.'
His words hung heavy, a blueprint for endurance. Kai suggested that I make use of the cell shower, said it would help my soles. I did as he suggested and after enjoying a hot drink I lay back as Kai dimmed the light, feet elevated on a pillow to ease the swelling, mind racing with tomorrow's lash. After spending some time massaging my caned soles, Kai settled on his bunk, the cell quiet save for distant waves crashing. Acceptance—naked, used, enslaved. It was my reality now, or the flames waited. Sleep came fitful, dreams of whips and fire, but Kai's voice echoed: survive, obey, endure.
The morning light filtered through the narrow slit window, a hazy glow that did nothing to ease the dull throb in my feet or the sting in my palms. I woke with a groan, every muscle protesting as I shifted on the bunk, the thin sheet tangled around my naked hips. Kai was already up, showered and ready to go.
The door buzzed open with a harsh clang, and two guards stood there—Jax and Tyler from yesterday's hell, their uniforms crisp, batons at their belts. 'Beach duty, Kai,' Jax barked, eyes scanning us like we were inventory. Kai nodded without a word, grabbing a small pack from the shelf—tools for scraping seaweed, maybe, or bagging trash. He shot me a quick glance, his expression tight but encouraging. 'Hang in there, Ethan.
Tyler turned to me, his gaze lingering on my exposed body, cock soft against my thigh in the morning chill. 'You—free morning. Guards are drilling on whips today, no practice meat needed till tomorrow. Stay in bounds, no trouble.' He smirked, adjusting his crotch like the thought of yesterday's caning still amused him. 'Afternoon gym session's on the docket. Be ready—Officer Lane's overseeing. Don't make him wait.'
The door locked again, leaving me alone in the sudden quiet. Free morning? On this island, that meant pacing the cell or the attached yard, a chain-link pen with a bench and shower head, all under camera eyes. I swung my legs over the bunk's edge, wincing as my soles hit the cool tile—swollen pads cracked and tender, each step a reminder of the whip's kiss. Hobbling to the sink, I splashed water on my face, the mirror showing a ghost: dark circles under my eyes, cane lines fading to light bruises on my hands, body lean but marked—faint red lines from the medics' grips, ass cheeks still pink from probes.
Kai's words echoed as I dried off, staring at my reflection. Accept it. The nudity, the waiting. No clothes, no dignity—just skin and submission. I tested my feet, padding to the yard door, which clicked open on a sensor. Outside, the tropical heat hit like a wall, palms rustling overhead, distant waves crashing. The yard was small, maybe ten paces square, but it felt like freedom after the frame's restraints. I lowered onto the bench, elevating my feet on the edge, the sun warming my balls and chest as I leaned back.
Time stretched lazy. Birds called from the trees, a breeze carrying salt and flowers, mocking the paradise's cruelty. I thought of Kai out there, bent over raking debris—shells, driftwood, maybe jellyfish washed up—his muscles flexing under the sun, guards patrolling to ensure no slacking. Master Raymond's beaches pristine, a showpiece for his yacht guests, slaves like us scrubbing away the ocean's mess. My cock twitched at the image, unbidden—Kai's strong back, sweat tracing his scars—but I pushed it down. Survival first, not fantasies.
By noon, hunger gnawed, but the cell had rations: fruit from a bowl, protein bars stocked weekly for 'peak performance.' I ate mechanically, juice dripping down my chin, then showered under the yard's spigot—cold water sluicing over my body, soothing the aches without mercy. Soaping up, I rinsed the residue of yesterday, fingers tracing my hole, still sensitive from the nurse's intrusion. Clean, at least, for whatever the gym held.
The afternoon buzzer jolted me from a doze on the bunk. Door opened, and there was Officer Lane himself, tablet in hand, flanked by a junior guard I didn't recognize. 'Gym time, slave. On your feet.' His voice was all business, eyes appraising my naked form like equipment to tune. I stood, suppressing a yelp as weight hit my soles, and followed them out—hobbling down the path, past fields where workers toiled chained at ankles, whips cracking sporadically.
The gym was a concrete annex near the barracks, open-air with weights, mats, and pull-up bars under a tin roof. No frills, but mirrors lined one wall, forcing you to watch your own strain. Lane pointed to a treadmill. 'Warm-up: thirty minutes, steady pace. Build endurance—slaves who tire fast earn extras.' I stepped on, gripping the rails with bruised palms, the belt humming to life. Pain shot through my feet with each stride, but I pushed, sweat beading fast in the humidity, cock swinging free, balls tightening against the motion.
He watched, logging vitals—heart rate from a wrist cuff they snapped on, noting my form. 'Posture straight, no slouching. You're property; maintain it.' After, he had me on mats for core work: planks that burned my abs, legs trembling from the foot damage. Then weights—curls, presses—light loads to start, but my arms shook. The junior guard circled, towel ready, but his eyes hungry, like he itched to test more than my reps.
Lane barked corrections: 'Deeper squat—feel it in your thighs, ass out.' I obeyed, muscles quivering, the exposure total—mirrors showing every flex, every drip of sweat tracing my crack. By the end, I was drenched, chest heaving, cock half-hard from the exertion and the constant vulnerability. 'Good baseline,' Lane grunted, dismissing me with a nod. 'Tomorrow's whip practice—rest those feet, or it'll be worse.'
Back in the cell as dusk fell, I collapsed, body spent but alive. Kai returned later, sand-dusted and weary, collapsing beside me with a shared water bottle. 'How'd the gym go?' he murmured, his hand brushing my thigh in quiet solidarity. I recounted it, voice hoarse, the day's reprieve a thin mercy before the lashes loomed. Night settled, the island's hum lulling us, but sleep brought no peace—dreams of whips cracking and bodies straining under unyielding command.
The morning sun pierced the cell's slit window like a blade, pulling me from a fitful sleep where dreams of cracking leather haunted my soles and palms. My body ached from the gym's grind—muscles sore, feet still tender—but the real dread hit when the door buzzed open. Kai stirred beside me, his naked form stretching as he sat up, cock dangling heavy between his thighs from the night's warmth. Jax and Tyler loomed in the doorway again, their eyes raking over us with that familiar mix of boredom and appetite.
'Beach for you, Kai,' Tyler grunted. Kai squeezed my arm briefly, a silent 'endure' passing between us, before stepping out into the humid air. The door sealed, leaving me alone for a heartbeat—until it buzzed again. This time, it was Officer Lane with two fresh-faced guards I hadn't seen before, their uniforms starched but grips tight on coiled whips at their hips.
'Training room, slave,' Lane said flatly, his tablet glowing with my file. No time to eat, no water—just the shuffle of my bare feet on the path, each step jarring the swelling in my soles. We passed the yard where Kai had vanished toward the shore, distant shouts of overseers carrying on the breeze. The training room squatted behind the barracks, a stark concrete box with drains in the floor and hooks bolted to walls. Whipping frames stood like iron skeletons in the centre—two upright posts connected by a crossbar, padded cuffs dangling from chains.
They marched me to one frame, my heart pounding as rough hands yanked my arms up and out, wrists locked into the cuffs. The metal bit cold against my skin, stretching my chest taut, back exposed and arched slightly from the pull. My cock hung limp between my legs, balls swaying in the draft from a high vent, the room's chill raising gooseflesh on my ass and thighs. I tested the bonds—solid, unyielding—my toes curling against the gritty floor, feet protesting the stance.
Lane circled me once, prodding my ribs with a gloved finger. 'New batch today. Four rookies. You'll take their warm-up lashes—eight each, back only. Hold still; squirming drops your grade.' He nodded to the dummies in the corner: stuffed torsos on stands, scarred from prior sessions, whips laid out on a nearby table like surgical tools.
The guards—Reyes, Harlan, Voss, and the quiet one, Mills—filed in, uncoiling their whips with snaps that echoed off the walls. Each was a tawse-style, braided leather with a weighted tip, about four feet long, designed to bite without killing. Lane set a timer. 'Fifteen minutes. Crack 'em loud, aim true on the dummies. Build rhythm—overhead swing, wrist snap at the end. No half-measures.'
The air filled with the first whoosh-crack, Reyes stepping up to a dummy, his whip slicing the space before landing with a thud that split the padding. Harlan followed, his strikes wilder at first, leather whistling too high, then adjusting under Lane's bark: 'Lower arc—catch the meat, not the air.' Voss was methodical, each crack building tempo, the dummy's fabric fraying under repeated hits. Mills hesitated, his first lash a limp flick that barely marked, earning Lane's scoff: 'Like you're swatting flies? Put your hips in it—full body, or it'll feel like a tickle on flesh.'
I hung there, sweat beading on my spine, watching the warm-up through the chains' limits. The sounds drilled into me—leather singing, impacts thudding, Lane's voice dissecting each: 'Good follow-through, Reyes. Harlan, tighten that grip or it'll wrap and bruise uneven.' Fifteen minutes dragged like hours, the room thickening with the scent of oiled hides and male exertion, my pulse racing as they rotated dummies, building sweat on their brows.
Timer beeped. Lane stepped forward, chalking a line on the floor behind me. 'Live target now. Back's fair game—shoulders to waist. Eight each, start with Reyes. Grade on contact, sting, no blood yet. Begin.'
Reyes moved in, his breath hot on my neck as he positioned. The whip hummed through the air—first lash landed across my upper back, a fiery stripe that exploded pain like hot wire. I gasped, body jerking against the frame, but the cuffs held firm. Lane leaned in close, inspecting the rising welt. 'Solid hit—clean line, good depth. Advice: angle down next for overlap, build the heat without crossing.'
Second lash followed fast, overlapping the first, leather slapping skin with a wet smack that drew a grunt from my throat. My back burned, muscles clenching involuntarily. 'Better,' Lane noted, tracing the mark with a finger—cold against the fire. 'Even pressure. Keep the rhythm; slaves feel the pattern, breaks their fight.'
By Reyes' fifth, tears stung my eyes, each strike layering agony—sixth a vicious cross that made my knees buckle, seventh drawing a thin bead of blood where the tip nicked. 'Watch the edge,' Lane critiqued mildly. 'Eighth clean—passable warm-up. Next.'
Harlan took over, his style sloppier, first lash whipping high and glancing off my shoulder blade, more sting than bite. I hissed, the incomplete pain worse somehow. Lane shook his head. 'Too loose—commit or it's wasted. Full swing.' Harlan adjusted, second lashing deep into my mid-back, skin splitting under the force, a raw throb radiating out. He built from there, third and fourth overlapping sloppily, welts swelling uneven, my breaths coming in ragged bursts.
'Examine the spread,' Lane instructed, parting my skin with gloved hands—probing the inflamed lines, ignoring my whimpers. 'See the gaps? Tighten your aim, or it'll take twice the lashes for effect.' Fifth through eighth hammered down, Harlan's confidence growing, the final one curling around my side to kiss my ribs, leaving me trembling, back a lattice of fire.
Voss was precise, almost surgical—his first lash a measured crack across my lower back, right above my ass crack, pain blooming sharp and contained. I bit my lip bloody, the frame rattling faintly from my strain. 'Excellent placement,' Lane praised, kneeling to check. 'No wrap, pure impact. Vary height next—keep him guessing.'
He did: second high on the shoulders, third mid-spine, each a calculated burn that layered without mercy. By the fourth, my vision blurred, sweat dripping down my face to mix with the salt on my lashes. Lane advised mid-set: 'Slight wrist flick on the downswing—amplifies the sting without breaking skin.' Fifth seared like acid, sixth drew a cry I couldn't stifle, seventh and eighth finishing strong, my back now a swollen map of red and purple, thin trickles of blood tracing the deepest cuts.
Mills last, nervous energy in his stance. His opening lash was tentative, leather thudding soft against my upper back—more thud than crack, pain dull but promising worse. 'Pathetic,' Lane snapped. 'You're not petting a dog. Full force—slaves thrive on fear.' Mills reared back for the second, overcompensating; it landed wild, tip snapping my flank, a sharp tear that buckled my legs fully.
He settled into a brutal rhythm after Lane's glare—third lashing deep, fourth overlapping Voss's work, skin protesting with fresh fire. 'Better angle,' Lane murmured during inspection, smearing antiseptic on a split welt mid-way. 'But breathe with it—control your exhale for consistency.' Fifth through eighth poured on, Mills finding his groove, the final strike a vicious one that left me sobbing quietly, body sagging in the cuffs, back a throbbing ruin of welts and shallow gashes.
Total thirty-two—each etched into me, the cumulative burn turning my spine to liquid heat. Lane logged it all on his tablet, voice detached: 'Baseline endurance noted. Rest it; tomorrow's frontals.' They uncuffed me, my arms numb and dropping like lead, guards steadying me as I crumpled to knees, vision spotting.
The medic arrived then—a stern woman in scrubs, kit in hand. She guided me to a low bench, face down, ass up slightly as she cleaned the mess. Cold saline stung first, flushing the blood and sweat, then antibiotic cream slathered thick over the welts, her fingers clinical but firm, kneading into the swollen flesh. 'No infection risk if you don't pick,' she muttered, bandaging the deeper cuts with gauze tape that pulled tight across my back. Pain meds via injection—numbing the edges without dulling the lesson—then she was done, signing off to Lane.
They hauled me up, one guard under each arm, and marched me back—naked, stumbling, the tropical heat baking the fresh dressings. The cell door hissed open, and I collapsed onto my bunk, face buried in the thin pillow, back elevated on a rolled sheet to avoid pressure. Hours blurred in a haze of hurt, the island's distant waves a mocking lullaby.
Dusk brought Kai's return—door buzzing, his body slamming the frame as he entered, naked and spent, skin caked in sand and salt from the beach scrub. His muscles gleamed with drying sweat, cock soft and heavy from the day's labour, feet blistered. He dropped his pack, eyes widening at my state—the bandages peeking from under the sheet, my muffled groan as I shifted.
Before he could speak, Tyler sauntered in behind him, baton tapping his palm, shift-end smirk twisting his lips. 'Entertainment time, boys. Kai—suck him off. Make it good; I've had a long day watching you lot break.' Kai froze, glance flicking to me—tired eyes hardening with resignation—but he nodded, crawling onto my bunk without a word.
Tyler leaned against the wall, unzipping his fly, hand already stroking his thickening cock as he watched. Kai positioned between my legs, his breath warm on my thighs, fingers gentle as he parted them. My own cock lay soft against my belly, untouched since morning, but the vulnerability stirred it half-hard under his gaze. He leaned in, lips brushing the tip first—soft, tentative—then engulfing the head, tongue swirling slow to coax blood flow.
I gasped, the pull on my raw back secondary to the sudden heat, his mouth working deeper, sucking with practiced ease. Saliva slicked my shaft as he bobbed, cheeks hollowing, one hand cupping my balls to massage gently. Tyler groaned approval, pumping his fist faster. 'Deeper, beach boy—take it all. Show the newbie how slaves’ bond.'
Kai obeyed, throat relaxing to swallow me whole, nose pressing into my pubes, the wet suction building pressure fast. His free hand braced on my thigh, avoiding my back, but the motion rocked me slightly, pain flaring anew—mingled now with unwanted pleasure, cock throbbing full in his mouth. He hummed low, vibrations teasing, tongue pressing the underside as he pulled back, only to plunge again, pace quickening under Tyler's grunts.
It built swift—humiliation twisting with the relief, my hips bucking involuntarily into his face. Kai's eyes met mine, steady and knowing, urging release. I came with a choked cry, spurting thick ropes down his throat, his swallow audible, milking every drop until I softened. He pulled off with a pop, lips shiny, wiping his mouth as Tyler finished himself—cum splattering the floor near our bunk, a final mark of his amusement.
'Good shift-ender,' Tyler zipped up, slapping Kai's ass hard enough to echo. 'Clean up tomorrow.' Door locked, leaving us in the dim light—Kai curling beside me carefully, his hand on my uninjured hip. 'Survived the whips?' he whispered, voice rough. I nodded weakly, the day's cruelties binding us tighter in the cell's shadows.
