As you wind down Benedict Canyon Drive, just before it meets Sunset Boulevard, there’s a coffee shop that’s on the way to my office. I stop in there often enough that I don’t pay much attention to the place or the people in it. This day, I had my nose in my phone, checking texts. At first, the guy ahead of me in line was remarkable only because he was being a loud, public asshole. “Oh for fuck sake,” I thought. “First thing in the morning, go be a jerk to a pregnant barista that looks sick even before you decide to treat her like something on your shoe?” And he kept at the woman, berating her for things she could... Never mind, never mind I told myself. Not my problem. Let it go.
I smiled my biggest smile when it was my turn to order coffee. The tag on her uniform said Brenda. I said something mild and friendly, and she was surprised by the contrast with the last customer. She was trying not to cry and smiled back shyly. I put in my order and went to wait by the takeout counter. The place was busy; there were a lot of people crowded into the shop. I wasn’t on the job, I wasn’t on the lookout for anyone, and I wasn’t thinking about work. I was crouched on a bench focused on my messages and personal matters and waiting for my name to be called out. I was minding my own business.
But the guy was an asshole, and as such, he took up a lot of space -- and then he started encroaching on my space. I yielded some and for the first time turned to give the man my full attention. Oh, I thought. This is something rare. He was just a boy really, maybe 18 or 19. But so barbered and dressed as though he were someone’s own very special pet. One look around was enough to find who held the leash. She was standing just outside the shop window by a double-parked car, well put together, beautifully tailored, impatient. Asshole got his order and carried it out to the car just as the woman got in the back seat. He handed her a coffee cup and a small bag through the open window, exchanged a few words and then stepped away as the window rolled up and the car drove off.
I had my coffee in hand and stepped out of the shop. I looked up the street to my car, I looked the other way toward Asshole ambling down the sidewalk. I’m not sure what clicked in my head just then, but I set out to follow him. Something began to take shape in my imagination and by the time we’d got another two blocks along I was sure he wasn’t just another Hollywood gym rat. He was beautifully muscled and perfectly proportioned. His butt rolled as he walked and the summer linen of his pleated and creased trousers hung perfectly from the top of his glutes. He was a clothes horse and fine for the job. Just tall enough to give proper scope to his shoulders and chest and his powerful legs; he had a light graceful gait and a carelessness that bespoke money and belonging.
We walked the broad concourse through Will Rogers Memorial Park’s manicured gardens and out into the Flats for a few blocks until Asshole stopped in front of a wicket gate beside the main entrance to a large estate. Security waiting on the other side opened the gate for him and he was quickly inside; the latch on the iron gate shut with a clang.
I walked past on the other side of the street, noting the address, watching Asshole through the main gate saunter up a brick pathway to a side entrance. Twenty minutes later I was at my car and back to my life. I did not once think of Asshole for the next two days.
My day job is running a small firm with three associates and a secretary bookkeeper; together we offer a discrete turnkey personnel acquisition and delivery service anywhere in the lower 48. There are all sorts of reasons clients want people acquired, but my company has for the most part stuck to acquiring young men for the sex and slave trade -- in recent years, often for the burgeoning catch and release clubs. I rarely concern myself with the client’s business. For most jobs, I have an agent that handles the clients, provides me with the details, and pays out half up front and the rest on completion. It’s rare that I even meet the client.
Two days after encountering Mr. Asshole, I had a meeting with my agent; after an exchange of pleasantries, I was told to find a fish for a “card game” to take place in Bullhead City, Arizona, two weeks hence. This one should be just a bit under six feet, white, 18 to 20, must have washboard abs and well-developed pecs, arms, legs and glutes.
On my way back from the meeting, I stopped in at the usual place to grab a cup of coffee. Asshole was the first thing that came to mind when I opened the shop door. I made nice with Brenda at the cash register, gave her my order, paid for it, and then slipped my card and a $100 bill across the counter. “You remember the unpleasant fellow from the other day?” I asked her. She winced at the memory, and I smiled reassuringly. “If you see him here again, it would be a big help to me if you could read his name off his credit card and give me a call. You’d be comfortable doing that?”
Brenda glanced down at the hundred-dollar bill and then up at me for a long moment and then gave me a sarcastic look that suggested she’d be comfortable sticking a fork in his kidney. She held up a finger and said, “This won’t take a minute,” and disappeared into the back of the shop. Two minutes later she reappeared with a slip of paper. “I handle the cash register receipts,” she explained. “Two days ago, right? At 08:37, a cappuccino, a reg. coffee, two croissants. Name’s Cameron Matthews.” She handed me the slip. I smiled my thanks and put down another hundred.
And once home, I began to weigh my options. On the one hand, we’d usually spend a day or two traveling, scouting junior college athletic fields and college bars looking for candidates. On the other hand, there was Asshole, in some ways made to order; but this would mean poaching wild caught on our home turf, and that was generally frowned upon. This required a meeting of the minds, so the staff were called together for the following day.
Once at the office I gave in the name to our digital investigator. By lunchtime we had a profile on the subject and before dinner we’d installed a small remote camera that covered the front of the house where he was staying -- he also had an address in Toluca Lake and we put a camera on that house as well. Over the next two days we found his car and put in a high fidelity bug connected to his hands-free call system and installed a tracking device in the engine compartment. All which made possible, several days later, the smooth transition of Asshole from his comfortable life into the back of a panel truck where it was strapped down to a padded gurney and made to feel very woozy and sleepy and disoriented. The boy’s car disappeared into a chop shop in Long Beach.
Obeying all traffic laws, we made it into Bullhead City on Friday at 08:00 hours to make delivery at the freight dock of a large foundry and machine shop. The gurney was unracked from the van and wheeled through a service door at the back of the dock. Technically, our work here was done. We did have to pick the subject up when the client was done with it and remove it from the scene, but that was still two days away. My associate flew back to Hawthorn that afternoon while I accepted an invitation to breakfast from the client himself.
And this was unusual. As I said, I rarely saw or spoke to clients, but somehow, this one struck me differently. I felt a certain curiosity and the client, Charlie, was friendly and generous. He was a talker and every once in a while said something worth hanging on to. If you put all those separate pieces together it looks like the machine shop and foundry complex were all his. There was a large underground complex of rooms beneath one of his warehouses where the boy was being kept and where tonight and tomorrow night Charlie would amuse a select group of friends. Tonight would be ‘An Introduction and Part One.’ He described in brief the nature of the show and its five acts tonight and four acts tomorrow. “Bring all your appetites,” he told me. “The bar’s open from 6:30 and dinner’s served at 8:00.”
I checked into one of the city’s casino-hotel complexes to clean up, get some rest and a change of clothes. Back at the main gate to the machine shop, I was directed to follow the driveway along the fence and make a left turn when I came to the end. There was a fair number of cars parked near a long blank wall with a single security light and a fire door beneath it. The door was not locked and led to a concrete and steel stairway down. At the bottom there was only one door and that opened into a noisy hum in what appeared to be an uptown, sportsman’s watering hole, complete with a maître d’, wait staff and busy bartenders.
I made my way over to the bar, observing on the way that there was a theater to one side and a large room to the other with work lights and tech people working. Present for this evening’s event were 45 or 50 souls who, for the most part, were crowded around a horseshoe bar talking among themselves. I ordered a drink and listened to scraps of conversation around me as I watched the bartenders deftly do their job.
“Rhys, hi, I’m Larry Gilbert.” Mr. Gilbert put out his right hand and as I clasped it, he took my forearm with his left. “Charlie’ll be along in a little while. He’s asked me to look after you. He is very impressed with your work and very pleased to have you here. C’mon over to my table. I’d like you to meet the director of tonight’s presentation.”
There were half a dozen people at Larry’s table, all of whom were apparently delighted to meet me. One -- his name was, I remember, Sigismundo -- asked me point blank, “Where did you find this golden boy?” I smiled at him, accepting the implied compliment.
“Well, you know,” I said, “gold is where you find it.”
Another, a silver-haired fellow named Snyder appeared to agree. “And a very fine specimen it is. Had you noticed its toenails are clear lacquered?”
That stalled me for a full second. “That is a detail I confess I have missed. However it does not much surprise me. The rest of it is equally buffed and shiny. I believe it has money. In my experience, it’s the sort that will offer you any sum of cash if only you will let it go.”
“Oh,” said another, “that will be delightful. I look forward to that.” He turned to the director and asked pointedly, “Will that be part of the program?”
“Tut tut Malcolm,” said the director. “Don’t you worry. You’ll have everything you want and more.”
“Was it you who had it shaved?” asked a 60-something fellow in fine Harris tweed.
“Oh,” I said. “It was buffed and shiny when I found it; and nor would I think to shave anything wild caught. It’s your canvass to paint.”
“Yes,” said the man introduced as Harrington. He turned to the director, ”It was wearing alligator shoes. I know they were alligator because I put my nose in them both. I’m going to keep the shoes. We can return the boy barefoot I think.”
“Barefoot?!” said another. “We’ve arranged for it to be left at the Greyhound station in Kingman, Arizona, wearing nothing but a speedo with three $100 bills stuffed in under its balls. That’s part of the contract, right?” he said, looking at me.
“I’m clear on the terms, sir. We deliver.”
“Damned right!” he said. “And we’ll have you back for the next production.” Several of the men slammed their glasses down on the table and repeated in a jagged chorus, “Damned right!”
All this forceful approval from the leaders of the club, as I deduced they were, suggested that their previous supplier of performance subjects was less than satisfactory and that even as yet unused in performance, the boy was still seen as an improvement over what had come before.
Just then, a small noisy crowd surrounding Charlie entered the dining room and slowly made its way toward our table, gladhanding and smooching friends as they came. Charlie signaled to the maître d’ that it was time for dinner and then put a hand on the director’s shoulder and turning toward me said, “I’m glad you and Merryweather have met. You should talk business before the evenings out.” And then he moved on with his posse to his table.
I didn’t know what business Charlie had in mind, but I started the conversation by asking Merryweather about the performance tonight. “Tonight’s production,” he replied, “is called Shock Table. This is the third production in this year’s dinner theater season and the theme tonight is Samba. This year is our 27th season.” Merryweather looked around the table and said, “Everyone at this table was at our first production. I think no one here’s been to every production since then, but we’ve all been involved one way and another in almost all of ‘em.
“Originally, the shows we put on were strictly for our own private entertainment,” Merryweather continued. “But it didn’t take long for the membership to grow and soon other clubs came to know of us. Over time, we came to a sharing arrangement with one and then another of the more active clubs in Nevada and Arizona. Pretty soon a network of clubs developed and our members were welcome at all the network clubs as they are welcome at ours.
“And, as for the wild-caught boys, we only wanted ‘em for two or three days. In the early days, when we were done with ‘em, we had to relocate ‘em -- usually to interstate rest stops -- but after a while, we could pass ‘em on to any of the clubs that asked for ‘em.”
While Merryweather busied himself with his knife and fork, Harrington took up the narrative. “The business side developed pretty quickly. After just a few years, the Network was formed and took up scheduling the boys’ performances within the circuit and worked as a clearinghouse for managing balance of payments among the member clubs, and certification of ownership when clubs opted to keep any particular wild-caught boy.” Harrington signaled to have his wine glass filled.
“One other important service the Network serves is that it rates every boy that’s put on the circuit,” he explained, “and sets their performance rate, sets the number of their performances per week. We’ve invited a pair of evaluators from the Network to be here tonight and tomorrow night. The boy you’ve provided will be evaluated according to the Network’s standards and requirements. The boy will be measured and tested and graded in a number of categories. All that will be analyzed and finally cooked down to three discrete scores, the first indicating the subject’s overall erotic potential -- in short, how hot the whole package is. The second score indicates psychological suitability for performing on the circuit -- which boils down to: can it be trained to be led about on a leash and put to work three or four nights a week? And the third score states the boy’s overall skill level and so, its willingness to learn new work.”
Malcom put his fork down, taking over from Harrington. “As you’ve heard, our chief purpose in all of this is to provide for our own entertainment. But oddly, and unexpectedly, we’ve made good money from it over the years. For example, let’s say your boy is graded well, even as a rookie wild-caught, and the Network auditors score it at 08/06/06, you’re talking income to the club of potentially $50,000/month for five years. That’s more than enough to cover our bar bill. And then, any additional wild-caught contributions we make to the Network circuit are just money to keep the lights on and the staff paid. So, you see, there’s the potential for a substantial increase in the monthly cash flow from the Network were there an increase in the number of new, high scoring wild-caught, and I think that’s the business Merryweather wants to talk to you about.” Malcolm looked across the room for a moment and said, “Gentlemen, I believe we are starting now.”
From the far end of the room came a man dressed theatrically in gold shoes, blue tights, a red vest and yellow jacket stepping slowly and deliberately, leading this evening’s performance subject naked on a leash attached to its leather neck collar. The boy was led up onto a low stage in the middle of the dining room where stagehands chained up its ankle cuffs to rings in the floor. A shiny vertical steel pole ran up behind the boy; its hands were cuffed together behind the pole.
The boy was furiously looking in every direction, turning its head almost wildly, saliva drooling from the edges of the bright red ball gag strapped around the back of its head. Looking at the boy now, taking in all the features in detail that made up its beautiful face, I was struck by how frightened it was. And not just the face, but the spine, the shoulders, the neck, all showed submission in defeat, anything to appease its master. And this was sublime, that the director should start with the boy here, already in defeat.
The master of ceremonies pirouetted around the boy, examining its bonds and measuring the distance between the ankles. From the wings, a stagehand brought out a nice thick and bumpy eight-inch dildo mounted on an adjustable tripod that he placed just in front of the boy. There was scattered applause from the dining room. If the boy had been frightened before, it was even more so now, now that it understood what was to come next. The emcee whispered in the boy’s ear and stroked its cheek lightly with the back of his finger.
The boy shook its head violently and made noises behind its ball gag that certainly meant only “No. No. Let me go!” The master of ceremonies danced in front of the boy and made much of the dildo, moving his head all round it and touching the tip with his tongue and smiling up at the boy. “No, no, no,” it grunted and shook its head. “Yes, yes, yes,” sang the emcee. One of the diners threw the emcee a butter pat wrapped in foil which he ostentatiously unwrapped, then smeared with his palm over the entire silicone cock, slowly and just in front of the boy’s face.
“Yes,” said the emcee to the boy. “You’ll slide this in all the way, and then just go up and down and up and down until I tell you to stop. Now bend your knees. Show me how you can go up and down.” The emcee smacked the back of one knee with his riding crop and unbalanced the boy. “If you do as you’re told,” he rumbled in the boy’s ear, “and work to give the audience some measure of joy, I’ll let you go back to your hearth and home.” The emcee took out a red rope and tied it snugly about the boy’s junk. “But if you disappoint them... if you disappoint me... Well, you will leave here in plastic bags. This will be your only warning. See if you can’t bring us some joy.”
And with that, he placed the dildo so it just pressed into the boy’s soft hole. “Now then,” said the emcee, “Up and down, up and down.” The boy continued to shake its head as though denying what was happening even as it tested the dildo a quarter inch at a time, bending its knees just slightly, feeling its way, figuring out how.
It was a delightful scene. I unwrapped my own pat of butter and rubbed it over my mouth, then slid in a piece of lobster between my lips as I watched the dildo slide ever more into the boy’s virgin hole. Its grunts and moans and the thrashing of its head and neck stirred my groin as I delighted my pallet now with oysters and pieces of warm, buttery meat.
One of the most pleasing sights to my mind is a beautiful boy with a cock all the way up its ass, its head thrown back, eyes rolled back, the abs relaxed and that long low gurgling that bubbles up saliva past the ball gag. The boy’s skin shined brightly, covered in sweat. The light from the spots and footlights made its skin silver and red; darkness picked out the neat rows of its abs and the alluring curve of its pecs. Its face, twisted in agony and regret, told the whole story of Merryweather’s accomplishment. The boy had deflowered itself, had fucked itself out of its own virginity, all because a dancing clown in blue tights told it to.
After a while, the boy was allowed to sit still on the dildo and rest; it panted and groaned for a long while and drooled on itself while the diners finished up their meal and staff began to clear the dining room. The diners, in pairs and small groups, slowly moved into the bar and after a while, into a theater with club chairs and small side tables looking down on the stage.
The boy was brought in to the theater, again led on a leash by the emcee, this time with its hands free. Centered in the proscenium stage was a slightly raised carrousel with two posts; mounted on the top of each were leather ankle cuffs, angled slightly upward. Set back from the posts was a low padded bench. The boy was made to lay its back and head on the bench; the neck collar was fastened to the bench, the ball gag removed, the wrists drawn under the bench and clipped together, and the ankles buckled in to the cuffs on the posts.
The emcee opened the second act praising the boy for its good behavior and ready cooperation. He patted the boy’s face and drew across its cheek the business end of an oil-slicked vibrating e-stim prostate plug. “You’ve done well with your first assignment; good behavior gets its reward.” He inserted the plug into the boy’s butt with practiced ease as he continued to address the audience and the boy as well, saying, “But rewards create obligations. Since you’ve been given a reward, you must now show your appreciation and obedience and you must cum. That is your job now. He then held up the remote control and said simply, “Let us begin.”
It was clear from its continuous jerks and twitching and the contortions of its face, that this was unexpected and new and not yet entirely to its liking. Every one of its parts moved at once, from the curling and uncurling of its toes to the flexing of its hips and large leg and abdominal muscles. “Oh God! Oh God!” it repeated again and again in muffled tones. After some time, the boy heaved in a great breath and shook like a dog, barking out “Ungh, ungh, ungh...” and appeared near to losing its mind.
The emcee held up the remote to the audience and made an exaggerated motion indicating he was turning down the intensity of the e-stim plug. The effect on the boy was immediate. For one thing, it stopped spastically jerking its neck into its collar, stopped contracting its glutes and thrusting its hips wildly. Though the control was set lower, the plug still vibrated, still delivered rhythmic shocks to the boy’s prostate. The boy continued to groan in a slow measured way that matched its movements, liquid and delicious. And finally, now calmed down somewhat, its cock had grown to its full potential. And this is how they left the boy under warm surrounding light to the delight of the audience. It was a good boy and this was its reward.
Wait staff worked the little tables in the theater, clearing glassware and setting drinks as the boy squirmed and moaned, bucked and strained. Conversation among the audience was general, people came and went. The stagehands were working during this time, setting up for the next act. Now and then, members of the audience would approach the boy. One fellow put his mouth over the tip of the boy’s cock. “Oh, oh,” he said to his companion after only a moment of savoring engorged cock. “I can definitely feel the pulsing shocks.”
The boy lay tight and excited, riding the low vibration and twitching at the repeating shocks to its prostate. Now that the stage was set up and near ready, very gradually the emcee bumped up the vibration’s amplitude and frequency and the boy responded. Its hips moved with some determination, its cock jumped more frequently, its fingers curled as though searching for purchase and finding none. Its breathing gained force and then the grunting. The emcee timed the boy’s climb to climax perfectly and shut off the plug just before the boy expected to cum, provoking an animal cry of despair that came out as, “No! Noooooo...” and a bubbling cloudy little stream of precum ran down its tall, hard, twitching cock.
The emcee removed the prostate plug from the boy’s ass amid scattered applause while stagehands got the boy loose from its bondage and up on its feet with its wrists locked behind. The emcee put his hand behind the boy’s head, rubbing the short hairs and then taking hold of its collar. “What do you say?” he asked the audience. “Shall we give it another chance?”
There was an immediate loud and mixed response. Some in the audience called for summary punishment, others, equally loudly for leniency and another round. The emcee encouraged the audience for some time until one side seemed to prevail. He put his face just in front of the boy’s and said, “It’s settled. You shall try again. Cum or be punished.” Loud approbation and loud protest erupted from the audience and went on for some time.
The boy was led to another pair of vertical posts about waist high and maybe three feet apart, also mounted on a rotating platform. Its wrists were buckled into cuffs that hung by a single chain link on the outside of each post and its ankle cuffs were linked to the floor of the platform, drawn back from the posts so that the bonded one must bend forward and support itself awkwardly on its wrists, its back more or less parallel to the floor. It could bend its knees but the emcee made sure with the leash and crop that it wouldn’t get its knees to the floor. He walked around the boy, gentling and stroking it, patting and rubbing its skin and talking smooth and quiet words as its terror increased. “It’s simple, child. Do what you’re told.”
The boy looked at the emcee in confusion and fear. The emcee called out to the audience, “What should it do?”
The audience roared in rough unison, “Cum!” And then from every corner, one over another, everyone had his own suggestion for the hapless rooky and everyone shouted at once. During this hubbub from the audience, a stagehand slipped on a vibrating cock ring about half way down the boy’s cock and then having secured that, strapped in a tongue depressor gag, buckling it snuggly at the back of its head.
“You puzzle me child,” said the emcee, seizing hold of the boy’s hair and raising its face near his own. “Just how virgin are you? Hmmm? I’ve seen your cock get hard. But just look at it now,” he sympathized. “Have you ever been lying in the dark by yourself and laid hands on your soft cock and squeezed it and rubbed it up and down and stroked it and made it feel oh so good and after a while it got hard? Have you ever done that?” The boy made the smallest possible nod of its bound head and without making any sound.
“And when your cock got hard, did you ever stroke it faster and faster and then shoot cum out of your cock?” The boy looked at the man who held him and grunted. “Well very good,” said the emcee. “Then you’ll know what it means when I tell you to cum. You have one hour, and before that time is expired, you need to shoot cum.” And with that, the emcee released his hold on the boy’s hair and held up the remote, making an exaggerated motion to the audience that indicated the vibrator was being turned on. And it must have been turned on to High, as the boy responded immediately by trying desperately to shake the thing off its cock. Nor did it take long for the boy’s cock to respond.
The hips and abs were active, and the hams were just so nice to look at. The boy was stressed and uncomfortable and its legs were doing a lot of work. Its shoulders glistened with sweat and showed in the lights the cultured beauty of its muscles in shadowed relief, probably each one individually crafted. And they strove, all of them together, to get free -- a disorganized concert of the muscles that involved the whole body in changing combinations and repetitions of movement and flexing, jerking and thrusting and shaking. And then the emcee turned the cock vibrator down to Low.
The effect on the boy was immediate. It stopped its awkward thrusting and heaved a great sigh through its nose, in, then out, but continued bouncing its glutes left and right, bouncing up and down on the balls of its feet. The boy was taking stock, trying to relieve the muscles that were overused. The wrist chains rattled at the posts. The emcee watched for a while in silence and then came up, caressing its butt, its back, its flanks. “Keep going and you’ll get there. You have one job now. Concentrate on that. Cum or be punished! Now get to work!”
This was meant to be hard for the boy. Where before, it let the cock ring do the work, let it make it hard and ready to cum, now, it had to cum with only a minimal stimulation and nothing else, and in less than an hour; Jeezus! how much less than an hour? And punishment? This must also have weighed on the boy’s mind, for it began after a short pause to rock its hips slowly, rhythmically, as though fucking something that would after a while bring it to climax. And it kept at it this way for quite a while. The emcee toyed with its nipples now and then, but this seemed to disturb the boy more than help it. From time to time, the emcee turned up the vibrating cock ring a notch higher, and the boy responded by increasing its fucking rhythm, increasing its breathing. The sweat increased too and the grunting began after about the third or fourth increase in the vibration intensity.
It was clear after a while that the boy had found its groove, blocked out everything that wasn’t its cock and was now completely deaf and blind to all but its dedication to an eruption of cum just ahead. The boy was now sweating profusely, panting and frantically pumping its hips, grunting out muffled shouts, building to a crescendo. A loud buzzer sounded, the emcee turned off the cock ring and announced, “Oh no, time’s up.” The emcee put the back of his hand to his forehead and leaned back. “Quelle catastrophe!” he gasped. “Take the boy down and bring it to me!” he demanded of the stagehands.
The boy was removed from its bonds and taken down from the carousel and walked to the center of the stage where the emcee stood. Ropes descended from the flies and were attached to its wrist cuffs. Short chains clipped the ankle cuffs to the floor leaving the boy’s backside facing the audience, stretched out in a great X. “We now address the affront to our authority. The boy was told to cum and given the wherewithal to do that. It did not cum. There is but one answer to defiance. I call upon the Punisher to extract our ‘pound of flesh.’”
There was a solid round of applause as the Punisher entered from the wings, waving to the audience. He crossed to the boy and roughly held its chin in his hand. “For your open defiance, for your refusal to obey, you will be punished. You have failed an order and that is unacceptable.” The Punisher was handed a wooden paddle with holes in it. He touched it gently to the boy’s butt and said, “When I see your soul leave your body, I will stop.” He took the gag from the boy’s mouth. “Let us hear from your screams how serious we are.”
Although, that’s not how the boy started. It stammered and drooled out wads of spit and phlegm and then started off with, “Oh my God, no. No. No. You have to let me go. Please God let me go. I have money, I’ll give you whatever you want. Please, please let me go.” The Punisher walked around the boy and laid a solid smack on the right cheek and then quickly, the same on the left. “Oh!” the boy cried in confusion. “No. No. Please, please let me go, please,” as it twisted and writhed in its bondage.
The Punisher continued to belabor the boy’s cheeks with his paddle, sometimes up like a cricket bat to catch the underside of its butt or sideways like a baseball bat, there was no square inch that escaped the paddle, and after a while, when the Punisher had got every square inch of the boy’s butt glowing dark red, he switched to an e-stim spiked paddle that sent the boy into a transport of agony. The screams were genuine, throaty and prolonged and seemed to rise in pitch with every strike.
A half hour of this rendered the boy a blubbering, sobbing mess, exhausted from screaming and the pain. Finally, the Punisher left off with his beating, letting the boy hang limp and shuddering, rolling its head from side to side, drooling and sobbing, drifting in and out of present attention.
A stagehand brought the Punisher a red and black leather whip with half a dozen little tails. He brandished the whip with some skill and made it whistle through the air before it bore down on the boy’s back just below its shoulders. The boy jerked out of its revery with a shout and a groan of despair, realizing that it would have to endure even more than it could stand. “No, no, no, no...,” it demanded, uselessly. The strikes were harder the more it complained, and they went on regularly and relentlessly and covered all the skin on its back. Each snapping hit raised a red starburst welt that merged with another until the shoulders and back were one mass of bright red suffering flesh.
The boy was heaving in air and sobbing between strikes, barking at each strike; its knees collapsed at one point, and it hung there from its wrists, dead weight. The next strike merely twitched the shoulders a bit, the head bent forward and immobile. A stagehand poured cold water over the boy’s head and patted its cheek and said soothingly, “Wakey wakey my little cream puff, you’ve still a long ways to go.” Still, with its head bent down, it shook the water off its hair, got its weight off its wrists and back onto its feet.
The next whiplash brought the boy’s head up as it made a pain-filled “Ahhhh!” And then again and then again, the crack of the whip against its red and tortured flesh brought half the audience to their feet clapping and shouting their admiration of the boy for taking so much and the skill of the Punisher who measured each stroke and missed none.
After some while, the Punisher left off his assault and coiled up his whip, walked to the proscenium and announced, “The punishment has been meted out. The boy is once more restored to order; may it serve faithfully and wholeheartedly.” This brought the rest of the audience to their feet and a new round of applause and shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”
Stagehands got the boy loose and over to a padded gurney where it was laid face down and covered in ice packs. There was an intermission of one hour and the bar got busy once more. I got a drink and then wandered backstage to see what I could of the boy close up. Crew were just removing the ice packs from the boy’s butt as I arrived, washing the skin with chlorhexidine and then applying aloe vera. This will have somewhat reduced the burning sensation I suppose, as would the ice packs still on the boy’s back. I found a chair in a corner that let me observe the crew’s ministrations in preparation for sending it back for the final act of tonight’s theater piece.
A leather blindfold was fitted around its face and buckled up at the back of its head, the mouth left for the moment uncovered. Thigh straps were buckled on and arm bands and a greasy, electrically conductive ointment was spread on the boy’s nipples and copper clips applied. This caused the boy to jump and shake and twitch its shoulders trying to throw off the clips. And this was before any electricity lit up the clips. Clearly its nips were sensitive and it didn’t like the clips at all.
"Oh my God! Please, please,” the boy pleaded. “Please let me go. I have money. I can pay you. I can get you money. Tell me what you want. Please...” The boy was blind and couldn’t tell what caused it so much pain and certainly misunderstood its starring role in this dramatic piece. But it was desperate to get out of this situation. “Please,” it pleaded in a rising voice, “please, I can pay whatever you want.” The emcee quickly danced over to the boy and put his hand gently over its mouth.
He spoke energetically in a stage whisper that everyone could hear, “Shhhh. Not so loud. Do you want everyone to hear? Hmmm...?” The emcee looked to the handlers who were putting on a weighty magnetic ball stretcher. The two pieces of the steel doughnut snapped together with an audible click and a gasp from the boy as the full weight of the stretcher pulled its balls tight, swinging easily like a pendulum. “How much money are we talking about, hmmm...?”
The boy’s answer came in two parts, the first as, “Unngh, unngh, gaah, oh God, oh God!” head thrashing and abdominal pumping and the bending of its knees. I’ll say as an aside, the boy had extraordinary legs. The flex in the dish of its inner thighs was breathtaking. I was torn between watching that and the confusion and growing fear on the boy’s face as it considered which concerned it more, its nips that were on fire, or its balls that were being squeezed. The second part of the answer came out in gasps as it endured both, “I’ll give you... the password... to a DDA account... at Chase.”
“Ooooh,” cooed the emcee. “And how much is in this account?”
“I don’t know, maybe $70,000. You can have it all. The password’s ‘soccerBoi2006’,” the boy said. “Please, please let me go.”
“Well..., ‘maybe $70,000’ is a pretty offer,” said the emcee, “I’m sure it’s an honest offer, but I think you’ve come in a bit low. Here’s my counter offer: You will stop talking and you will do what you are told.” He signaled to a stagehand who applied silver chloride electrodes to the boy’s cockhead and balls and to the under part of the legs close to where they form the groin. Another placed a thick magnetic steel donut ring at the base of the cock and balls. Conductive gel was smeared on a steel sound and slowly pushed deep into the cock and fastened in place; a steel e-stim vibrating torpedo was slid up its ass.
The boy was lifted onto a leather padded table about knee-high from the floor. It was on its back, its legs were butterflied, where the soles of its feet were touching each other, its knees tied down and its ankle cuffs tightly chained together. The wrist cuffs were secured so that the arms were straight and the fists just wide of the butt. The neck collar was made fast with ropes so it could not rise from the table.
The thin wires extending from the electrodes, the cock ring, the sound, the nip clips and the torpedo were all collected into a controller that was itself connected to a computer console. A large flat screen displayed the values for ten data points at each of six sites so the audience could see at any given moment which parts of the boy’s anatomy were being lit up and with what function and intensity.
WAVEFORM: TAMBORIM
MODE: Biphasic Asymmetric
INTENSITY: 34.3 mA
FREQUENCY: 92 Hz
PULSE WIDTH 320 µs
VOLTAGE: 67 V
LIMB RESPONSE: Positive
EYE MOVEMENT: Active
PAIN SUPPRESSION: Off
SESSION TIME: 00:02:10
Spots shone down on the shock table where the boy was pinned down like a frog in an anatomy class. The house lights went dark and the electro-stim control board display glowed. The emcee circled the table, checking all the bindings. He reached over and rolled the boy’s balls and wiggled the sound in its cock, causing the boy to flex almost all the muscles it had and made it groan too. He made sure the clips on the nips were secure and then stopped by the boy’s ear.
“Can you hear me boy?” the emcee asked in a stentorian voice. The boy made as much of a nod as his bindings allowed and made a noise that may have meant yes. In a more confidential tone, he continued, “You have little to do for the next while, but to enjoy the show as much as all of us. And for just as long. But,” the emcee looked to the sky for a sign, “for how long, hmmm? How long will you just lie back and enjoy the show? Well, really, as long as you like. We can go on for hours and hours if you like. All night long and into the morning if it suits you, for this is after all, your performance and all about you.
“It’s all about you,” repeated the emcee with a grand theatrical gesture. “And it’s up to you. You’ll let us know when you’ve had enough, hmmm?” The boy shook its head like a dog and made a puling sound. “Well, hmmm, I’ve said you mustn’t talk. You’ll be punished if you talk. Hmmm, hmmm, let’s think about this.” The emcee put his hands behind his back and paced back and forth along the shock table, apparently lost in thought.
“Well,” he said finally, emerging from his revery, “I have it. When you’ve had enough and you’re ready to bring the show to a close, all you have to do is cum. Just shoot a rope or two into the air and we’ll know you’re done. We’ll get you down from here, get you a little snack and then off to bed. You can do that? Hmmm? There’s no rush, you can savor the caresses and the rhythm of the shock table for as long as you like. And that’s how you’ll let us know you’re done. Shoot cum and the show is over. How’s that?”
The emcee came to the front of the stage and introduced tonight’s “Electrician.” With a warm round of applause, a man dressed all in black came to the fore. Bows were made, salaam, blown kisses, waves, more bows to continuing applause. Finally, the Electrician went to his bench and adjusted his rolling seat, got on his headphones, typed in a series of codes on his keyboard to make ready. The display panel flashed out SAMBA and then showed six boxes, each labeled with the name of a samba instrument, one for each body target. He raised his hand and pointed at the emcee -- ready to go.
The emcee bowed to the Electrician then went to the boy’s balls, caressing them gently with his fingernails, just enough to surprise it and make it flex its hips. All the air came out of its lungs as the test current went to its balls. It froze for a moment, then heaved in all it could and then squeaked out a slow leak of air. Next, the emcee put all five of his fingers about the glans, just barely touching the edges of it. Then came a hard sharp current to the glans that made the boy flop within its confines and scream full throated this time.
And then the emcee just pointed his index finger to the boy’s proud beauty with the sound fixed in place. This is what the audience was waiting for, testing the sound, what the club members have dubbed the ‘Roman Rocket,’ wherein a mid-range pulse quickly increases both in frequency and amplitude up to what must seem to the subject like eleven on a scale of ten, and the effect of it is felt very keenly along the entire length of the sound. The really strong boys show best; their muscles bulge and quiver, pop and vibrate, usually with a lusty scream of resistance.
But this boy was a little different. As the ‘rocket’ went up, the boy flexed the muscles in its legs that would have brought its knees together if they weren’t tied down. Its moaning protest began low and in harmony with the frequency of the shocks the sound gave to the length of its cock. And as the frequency and intensity rose, so did the tone of the groan rise. So did the boy’s knees shake in their bonds faster and faster until they were vibrating as fast as the arms and head, and the sounds it made were really just strangled gasps over and over. But the boy seemed to be riding that feeling into exquisite pain as though on a runaway horse it could not slow or turn. And it continued to squeeze out strangled noises until the current was cut off. Boisterous applause came immediately after with much stomping of feet and calls of “Encore! Encore!”
The emcee patted the boy’s face gently and gave it some praise and some encouraging words and time to regain its regular breathing. He rubbed the boy’s stomach and the inside of its legs and ran his fingernail along the side of its abdomen to produce a reflex in the external oblique. All looked well with the bindings and the boy as well. The emcee once again pointed to the Electrician who pointed back, ready to go.
The nipple clips were tested next, left then right, back and forth with increasing frequency and intensity. The boy hadn’t liked the clips to begin with and now with hard sharp charges to its nips, it acted as though this was a major problem. It bucked like it hadn’t anytime before. Its ankles shook furiously and made its chains sing. Its chest heaved in ragged gasps as its hard abdomen rocked in counterpoint. Again, the strangled noises in its throat and a violent shaking of its head spraying saliva and sweat.
After a while, the Electrician moved from the nips to the torpedo. This began as a slow vibration that gentled the boy noticeably. And as it relaxed by degrees, feeling the soothing vibrations from the torpedo all the way up its ass, its cock responded in the expected way: after a short time, it stood straight up large and hard. And then the test charge to the torpedo came, a flash of lightening, so surprising that the only response it produced in the boy was a loud “Ha!” and nothing else.
This was among the loveliest of the scenes in the performance. The boy slowly rocked its head from side to side to some internal beat that may have been in sync with the working of the vibrator. Its hips had enough play to flex upward with occasional, restricted pelvic thrusts, urging its now towering cock into the air. It moaned, but more like along with a tune. Its teeth weren’t sunk into the gag, the jaw muscles were resting, the forehead was smooth, the legs for the moment, quiet. Only the abs and glutes were working and it looked to me like it had just discovered what the emcee had meant about cumming. As the boy got more and more into a rhythm with the increasing vibrations, it may well have thought this ordeal would be easy.
The Electrician let the boy ride the torpedo’s pulsing vibrations for a bit longer, watched the fingers rigid and splayed out, the heels tapping each other, its cock waving in time to its rocking pelvis. The Electrician stood and raised his arm, “And now, we’ll build the full complement of the samba ensemble, adding each instrument, one after the other.” He put the torpedo at a low and slow substantial discharge at beats 2 and 4 like a surdo drum, fundamental, with the shocks coming off the main beat given by the vibrator, creating a driving syncopated groove that was played on speakers as it played out on the target body parts. The boy responded quickly to the change, grunting the while, “Uh, uh, uh,” on the off beat.
The Electrician let the boy get used to the beat for a while, then set a rhythm of shocks to the boy’s very sensitive glans -- this was the caixa -- typically a snare drum in batucada ensembles. The caixa plays a bright, sharp staccato and drives the rhythm with fast syncopated patterns. It is essential for the 16th note flow with accented notes that create swing and groove. The boy’s back arched as it began spastically shaking its hips and barking out “Ah, ah, ah, ah...,” contributing vocally to the rhythm and the building percussive sounds that matched the shocks.
Now the Electrician brought in the agogô for the cock sound, to add a bright high-pitched melodic percussive element. The agogô is made of steel and rings out when hammered with alternating strokes (high-low-high-low) in syncopated shock patterns the whole length of the cock shaft. This torture rang above the others when struck in time with the surdo and caixa, rising in intensity until the boy completely lost the beat and began gurggling and then screaming, once again shaking uncontrollably.
The Electrician brought it all back down until the boy stopped screaming. He kept the surdo drum’s rhythm going; you could see it resonating with the hip movements. Then, for the balls, the tamborim was turned on. This is a small high-pitched frame drum that is the most attention grabbing instrument in a samba band. It produces a high, sharp “crack” or “ping” and is used especially for syncopated rhythms. And this is exactly how it hit the boy’s balls. Its jaw opened wide and its navel nearly touched its spine. “Oooh... Huff..., aaaah...” came out involuntarily and the head shook from side to side.
And then, the pandeiro for the nipples, a drum played with the dominant hand using a combination of thumb, fingertips, heel of the hand, slaps and taps. And the Electrician’s console did all that. It is worth noting of the Electrician’s skill in this performance that he had the boy making different sounds with each different samba instrument as it was applied. When brought into play, the pandeiro had the boy making throaty shouts like “Hark... O God!... hark!” over and over as though singing.
With different combinations of body targets and different levels of intensity and pace and rhythm, the Electrician kept the boy dancing and sobbing and screaming and fighting and straining against its bonds for the next two hours. And contrary to what the emcee had told it, the boy didn’t get to choose when to cum -- that was the work of the Electrician who, feeling good about the boy chose to bring it to climax in a very deliberate way. He’d had the cock sound pulled out and turned down all but the surdo drum, then brought up the caixa, slow and low and rising by degrees. The current to the glans drove the boy almost hysterical, but it managed to hold on to itself and find the tow rope that would pull it over the top. Its hips swung within their tight bonds, the vocalizations came, first a low continuous moaning that rose to a series of “Uh, uh, uh...,” and finally one strangled short “Aaaah!” as it shot an astonishing rope of cum literally six feet in the air.
__________
There are actually two codas to this story. The first is about the boy. The Circuit’s auditors were very much impressed with the boy and its performance, and while they wouldn’t submit their report for another week, they were clear that it would be rated high, details to come. This was enough to get Charlie’s “board” to agree to put the boy on the Circuit. So, I didn’t need to return it to the wild, and which freed me from that moment. I did not attend the Saturday night performance; as I’ve said, I rarely get involved with clients on a personal basis. I had Charlie’s people talk to my agent to discuss terms and conditions for supplying boys on a regular basis. And thus, it was a profitable weekend adventure.
The second coda has to do with Brenda. It was a matter of a single morning’s work for the firm to extract Asshole’s money from its bank account, after all, we had its wallet and password. It was somewhat more work to anonymously set up a trust account that could be used for Brenda’s child. There was actually $87,426.18 in the boy’s account, all which is now in her trust. And so, it was a profitable adventure for everyone.
