There are a lot of photos of Fletcher House slaves. Some are curated and cataloged. Many are unsorted in boxes. It remains to future historians to mine this rich source, especially as it relates to the House’s complete historical roster of slaves. For the present, I have taken three pictures from a box in the facilities office and through conversations and interviews, and House records and reports, I have sketched out a quick bio of each of these three servitors.
Slave 101
The first of our three is a boy who was once named Andrew. Now call him 101 for convenience. He was taken from the parking lot at the Dallas Airport Hilton by a contract hunter. The target was on the way to his Infantry Training Brigade assignment, having recently completed Marine Basic Training. He was brought raw to the cells outside the walls of Fletcher House and like all such acquisitions, was first made to declare itself a slave and beg to enter service at the slave portal.
This one was resistant and strong and required three days of persuasion before he saw sense in bending to the inevitable. He was fed after that, washed and shaved and fitted with cuffs and collar, evaluated, and assigned to the House’s basic training program.
That the boy had only weeks before completed Marine basic was seen as a plus: the physical demands of both programs were similar in many ways, so it was thought that the second time through basic he could concentrate less on the endurance and strength part and more on the skills he’d need to satisfy the whims and demands of the many men who’d make use of him in the years to come.
The man in charge of slave training for Fletcher House recognized something in the boy even in his first eval session: given the choice between cum and nothing, the boy went for the cum every time. There was something hungry about him, and the training staff worked with a purpose to discover and develop this need. Staff wanted to train up a proper cum sucker and cleanup artist and 101 found he wanted nothing more than to suck and lick -- it didn’t matter piss or santorum or cum. The boy wanted dick because he wanted to smell and taste the cheese his tongue found in foreskins, and he wanted to swallow the cum that came with savoring cock. He wanted to suck sore ass because that’s where cum was found.
It’s likely the boy didn’t really understand this need growing up. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the church elders or his parents. He was a good boy and worked hard to keep himself in line. In school, he’d played sports all year long. He’d done years of weight training. And it helped. Helped keep down his true nature. His religious parents required that he save himself for marriage -- so he’d only ever beat his meat fearfully, knowing God was watching, even afraid to taste his cum.
It’s why he joined the Marines. Because the Marines were right, and he wanted to be right. Marines didn’t wake up in a sweat from fevered dreams of licking Jordy Parker’s ass. They were real men and did right.
But then, just months later, he’d surrendered to Fletcher House, surrendered his will and agency and pronounced himself no longer a Marine, but a slave. And this had suddenly opened the way to his true nature. Fletcher House freed him from his fear, indeed, indulged his need. Here, he had a place where he fit. Here, he had a job that rewarded him in important ways every day and masters who, unlike drill sergeants, were civil and business like.
There is one report that indicates 101’s transition into slavery was not entirely smooth, and that’s not uncommon. Many adjustments are required. Becoming a slave is a process. Of course, for some individuals, the change may be almost imperceptible, they’ve been slaves all their lives. For them, it’s more a matter of changing masters than accepting a new world view. But for 101, the struggle was within. His nature was at war with all the world he knew, and like nations, he continued to trade with the enemy even while at war with them. He was punished for his misunderstandings and his allegiance to the past. Twice. Memorably.
The boy learned quickly, but there was so much to learn. His punishments moved him toward acceptance of his slavery and away from his personal, deeply learned self-behaviors. He was after all a good boy and biddable, and in time, began to work toward being his best self and learning, if slowly, that his best self was a cum sucking slave.
In the archive snapshot above, 101 is still in his first year and therefore silent, and from the look on his face, intent on instruction from his trainer. We have from the note attached to the photo that this is training room 4 and early in the morning, so probably the first lesson of the day.
In his second year, 101 was made part of a yearling squad of four called the Cohort that became very popular among House members. The squad was in high demand for its whole year and especially at weekends and holidays.
101 was destined for the hotel trade and special events. His time in the yearling squad brought him a solid sense of teamwork and bonds of love and friendship with his teammates. They worked well together by all accounts, each with their own special offering so that together they added up to a well-oiled pleasure machine that was much talked about in the House and beyond.
From time to time, members and guests are asked by management to rate their experience with the slaves they’ve used. There’s a form. One guest wrote of his experience with the Cohort: “They came in like a pack of dogs, circled the room looking at everything and everyone, settled on their haunches, staring straight ahead, their leashes in their teeth, one was drooling. A bit frightening really, but thrilling.”
A quick check of the training logs shows no other punishments after the beginning of the first year. That may not tell the entire story, as there are known to be punishments that are not properly logged as such, usually because they are not called punishments. Six slaps of a Louisiana Prison Strap might just be called a correction and thus not logged. But 101 is widely considered to be a good boy, taken neither with himself or his popularity, deferential even among the slaves, cheerful and hard working.
Today, 101 lives in the House serai and works primarily in the hotel section’s fourth floor and occasionally as a member of ad hoc squads and special projects.
Slave 505
Terry and Martin are professional scouts. They’ve been a team for almost thirty years. Lately their client base has been expanding. Lately, they’ve often found themselves at high school and community college soccer games. They were looking for hard muscled, high stamina, 17–18-year-old white males with attractive features, 5’10” to 6 feet tall, prominent pecs, guns and abs, smooth skin, and crucially, a certain self-possession that showed a balance between courage, aggression, and play. Acceptable candidates were worth thousands to the scouts and the growing number of catch-and-release clubs had begun to provide a steady, comfortable income stream for them.
Across the country, in cities from Wichita to Missoula, clubs had sprung up that offered their members captured boys -- beautiful, virgin and frightened. Of course they were virgins only for the first encounter, but there was plenty of money in that. Most clubs didn’t keep the boys more than a week or ten days. Occasionally, an exception was made and a boy would be sold to one or another of the institutional slaveries where they might remain for years, but most would wake up, released in a city far from the club, often with a wad of bills in their pocket.
Terry discovered the boy we’ll call 505. This was at Omaha South High School, a skins and shirts inter-squad game on a distant practice field. The boy immediately stood out from the rest. Skill, physique, aplomb, strength, daring, all perfectly combined in one delicious box-to-box midfielder with fine legs and glutes.
The scouting team quickly assembled a high-impact black and white still-photo series that focused on anatomy and motion and offered the package to their largest and most active client and had an almost immediate acceptance. 505 was captured within three days and right away resold to a catch-and-release club in Phoenix that specialized in high-end virgin delights.
505 was kept naked in an uncomfortable cell for a few days while his presence was made known to the membership and their friends. The boy could walk about the cell as far as the chain on his neck collar allowed. Quite a few members came to the bars to see the boy up close. Many ordered him to approach; the chain on his collar got the boy just within reach, and then men had their hands anywhere they could, squeezing his nipples, his cockhead. Some pulled on his balls. The boy suffered all these humiliations in silence and growing fear.
He’d been told not to speak. The capture team had put in a penis gag and told him if he ever spoke a single word, he would never forget the pain that followed. While he languished in his cell, men came and went, told him to stand, bend over, turn around. One told him to get on all fours and bark, another told him to piss on his own face. “Get over here boy,” demanded one tormenter. “Get on your knees and look at me.” The man unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock and urinated over the boy’s face and head and shoulders and chest.
Another visitor to the cell stood beside the first and began to piss on the boy too, mostly on his hair and face. And this is what every other man outside the bars began to do, one after another until the combined streams of urine dripping from his hair and face and torso finally began to collect into puddles and then rivulets that ran across the floor and gurgled in the drain. “Jesus son! Don’t let it go down the drain. Drink it!” shouted one man behind a mighty stream. “Take it from my cock you little bitch,” commanded another.
Talk among the men speculating about who would get to fuck him first only made the boy more frightened. He was still dealing with the shock of being abducted and chained up. And pissed on. It came as a mercy that his jailers hosed him down after a while.
After some days of this, and what seemed a very long time to the boy, he was taken to a large hall and chained up standing spread eagle, a face banger strapped in, his cock locked in a cage and a blindfold secured. For the next two hours men came and went singly, in pairs, some in groups. There was a lot of murmuring and hands on inspection. Almost everyone pinched the boy’s nipples, and got the same gasp, the same squirming attempt to get away. Some wanted to know if the boy could get hard and experimented with different techniques. This produced more writhing and squirming as his cock pressed against the confines of his cage.
Some sampled the taste of the boy’s precum, some smeared it on his nipples with delightful effect -- it made his hips buck and his shoulders work. Now and then, someone squeezed his balls in a tight fist and made him groan in a high pitch, rattling his chains as his knees failed. Again and again, hands traced his arm pits, his abs and pecs, his legs inside and out. And everyone wanted to see his perfect tight, pink moneymaker. It looked good.
Every member that wanted to, put his calling card into the lottery pot and sat down to dinner. All the tables surrounded the boy, now unblinded and still standing spread eagle, all the diners contemplating full possession of the quivering flesh before them while they savored their meat and wine.
The boy was clearly frightened, but there was something almost of regal indifference in his attitude, a look that if it wasn’t brave, was ready. Behind his eyes the panic was at bay, but fear was not. His irises were wide and sweat ran down his face. His knees were not always under his control, and he wanted to cry. He’d wanted to cry for what seemed many days, but he’d somehow kept it together, even when they pissed in his food bowl and made him eat it.
After dinner the tables were pulled back and the boy was surrounded by a dense crowd in chairs, many with loosened tie, everyone with anticipation as the dungeon master circled the boy and began to work his butt with a hard narrow paddle, eliciting muffled shrieks of surprise and outrage turning quickly to stark pain and more fear. The paddling went on and on, the fear ratcheting up in sync with the pain.
Drool and sweat poured off the boy’s face, running down his neck and chest, sprayed wide when he shook his head, his moans and cries stifled by the face banger strapped in hard. Finally, the paddling stopped. There was a thin round of applause while the dungeon master moved to the sidelines and the club secretary came to the fore, holding the lottery pot. The club president, with a short speech, reached into the pot, pulled out a card and made a lot of fuss over naming the winner. A lusty chorus of cheers and moans filled the hall as the winner came up to accept his prize. The smile on his face was real and his thanks to the officials and the crowd were sincere.
Then, from the side, the booming voice of the dungeon master demanded of the winner, “How shall you?” The winner didn’t hesitate but turned to the master and proclaimed in a matching voice, “The fuck bench!” Loud applause followed as the boy was taken down from the rack. He could see what was coming, and where he had previously bent to the inevitable, now, his fears made real, he resisted. He began to struggle with the dungeon master’s men, shaking his head, trying to pull free, trying to evade what was to come, and then a forceful stream of grunts and thrashing, all probably meaning “No, no, no.”
It didn’t take long to secure the captive to the fuck bench even with his refusal. And he was pulled tight on the bench -- not much could move but his head. One of the master’s men removed the boy’s face banger, drawing it out with a flourish and whipping a great stream of saliva in an arc up into the stage lights. The boy heaved and threw up his lunch in a series of barking noises. Still, saliva streamed out of his mouth as an O-ring gag was strapped in.
Two boys with towels, like the sweepers at basketball games, quickly cleaned the floor and disappeared from sight. The dungeon master now came into the lights on stage armed with a heavy tail flogger and began slowly and gently to apply it to all the appropriate parts of the body chained down before him. He quickly sorted out the places that were ticklish and the places that would most easily cause pain. And then he began his program, and for the next hour worked the boy with each of his many tools -- the stainless-steel whipping rod, the silicone tail whip and the straps and tawse to bring it all home.
The O-ring gag, as you’ll know, is somewhat misnamed, as it isn’t really a gag per se. In this case, it’s more of a megaphone than a gag, allowing a sort of audio metering of a captive’s disposition, should anyone care. Our boy took the full allowance his vocal cords could make. Continuously. With nearly every strike on his skin whether wood, leather, silicone or steel. There were nuances in the barks and groans that came out of the O-ring, but they all told the same complaint: this was unexpected, unacceptable, and terrifying.
After an hour of tenderizing the boy’s flesh, the dungeon master completed his performance by applying a fine continuous mist of saltwater over every inch of exposed and reddened flesh. This time, the boy’s protests were not nuanced, they were just screams of pain. The master bowed to the audience, twice, and exited the stage with an obvious smile of satisfaction lighting up his face knowing this was a job well done. The audience were on their feet and the applause was loud and sustained.
The club president walked on stage as the applause died down, smiling broadly and waving to acknowledge friends in the audience. “The next hour belongs to our winner Mr. Treiber.” began the president. “He may do as he pleases, and we will cheer him on. Should his ministrations make the boy cum, he will be granted another hour. And so on for as many additional hours as he can make the boy cum.” The president turned to Mr. Treiber and continued, “You may use any of the tools laid out here,” he said, indicating a long table with the dungeon’s best tools. “The clock starts now.”
Mr. Treiber was already down to his T-shirt and boxers and was ready to begin immediately. He started with clips on the boy’s cock and balls -- hard ones. It made the boy wriggle as though he’d throw them off by shaking. He made short Ah, Ah, Ah noises and moaned loudly, tears streaming from his eyes. Treiber walked again to the equipment table and began to smear lube over a medium-sized dildo. He waved it under the boy’s nose and then eased it into the hole in his face, slowly, easily, a little bit in, a little bit out, a little further in. The boy gagged and retched, and Treiber patted the boy’s cheek, encouraging him to take it a little deeper this time.
In and out. Treiber worked with the boy, showing him how and when to breathe, how to loosen his throat, how to make his copious spit work for him. This went on for maybe thirty or forty minutes, but slowly, so that the boy had become able to swallow the dildo now without panic, all the way up to the silicone balls. Treiber tickled the boy’s chin and made him look up at him. “Always look at my eyes when my cock is in your mouth. Think of this dildo as my cock and take it all the way down.” He pushed the dildo slowly all the way down in one firm movement. The boy’s eyes looked in Treiber’s eyes, telling him, he’d got it. He knew how to do it now. It felt right. He could do it. Treiber kissed his forehead and said, “You’re a good boy.”
The clock was ticking. Much of his hour was gone, and Treiber hadn’t got anywhere near the boy’s most alluring parts yet. He next moved to the boy’s balls, gripping them and stretching them, working them away from the ring and cage, compressing them and pulling on them. Treiber ignored the boy’s protests and moaning as he applied a vibrator to the underside of his cock cage and then turned it on to high. The boy bucked -- as much as he could. He didn’t know what was happening, but his cock was trying to burst out of its cage and his head was whipping from side to side, his ears filled with his own grunts of protest.
“That’s a good boy,” said Treiber, patting the boy’s cheek. “Relax into it boy. Your job right now is to cum, so just concentrate on that.” He tweaked the ball clips gently, gently ran his palms over the boys bright red ass, over his hams and inside his thighs. “Just think about cumming. Can you do that?” he asked, looking into the boy’s eyes. The boy looked back at Treiber, holding his gaze for a long time, and then simply nodded a confident yes.
Even so, it came close to the deadline. Treiber could feel it in the boy’s breathing, how close he was. Even so, there was only a minute and a half remaining when cum squirted out the cage’s urethral pipe, splashing onto the crossbar of the fuck bench while the boy rhythmically barked out, “Gnaa, Gnaa, Gnaa,” while his legs pretended to run downfield full steam.
A five-minute break was called. The boy was made to walk around the fuck bench a few times and then to sit for a few minutes. The dungeon master massaged his shoulders and neck for a while and then got him cinched down to the bench again, good and tight, wrists and ankles. The boy’s jaw was just at the edge of the bench and Mr. Treiber made perfect use of his position to slide his cock in one smooth movement right through the hole in the boy’s face, right into his throat.
Mr. Treiber made a rasping noise at the end of this plunge and looked straight up as though he could see God through the clouds blessing him. This so pleased him that he pulled all the way out and did it just the same way again, holding himself in as far as he could, wiggling his hips and trying to push even deeper. Then out and in rhythmically, letting the boy breathe between deep thrusts. Treiber looked down at the boy’s face and locked eyes with him. He saw at once the athlete’s control of his breathing, the command of his body and an understanding of the rhythms and pace he’d have to meet.
Treiber found this so sympatico and so much to his liking that he lost all thought for a long time, simply lost to the ecstasy of skull fucking this gorgeous hot thing chained down for his sole delight. And this went on and on until he could no longer resist and finally with a great roar, he delivered his load of cum into the boy’s throat and mouth and onto his face. And then he had his cock back in the boy’s mouth. “Use your tongue now. Clean me up.”
The boy did as well as he could, given his position. Treiber went again to the tool bench and found a full-function e-stim prostate massager. This he lubed up and inserted in the boy’s ass. Boy made noises that clearly began as a sharp protest but slowly softened into grunts and after a while into groans that became almost frantic. “Can you feel the need to cum boy?” Treiber asked. “You need to cum boy. Surrender and cum.” The boy looked up at Treiber and nodded yes, yes, he was going to cum. His eyes rolled up in his head and the grunts were replaced with a long Ahhhh followed by a chain of Ak, Ak, Ak noises followed by a spurt of cum from the cock cage. And all within the hour. Mr. Treiber had won himself a third hour.
Handlers removed the boy’s gag and mopped up his face; once more he was loosed from the fuck bench and walked for a while around the staging area on a leash, hands bound behind, then into the audience, between the tables and chairs so everyone could get a close look at the prize. Some stood up from their chairs to admire the muscles of his shoulders and neck, his head and face. They could tell from his eyes and brow how frightened he was. Some could see the bravery underneath. There was still some mileage left in him; he wasn’t going to lose it yet.
One man seized the boy’s ball clips and pulled them off in a quick, smooth motion. This so surprised the boy that he froze for a second before he suddenly bent at the waist and knees and howled and barked and hopped. “Here, let me help,” the man said as he held the boy with one hand on his shoulder and with the other, smacked his balls. This produced a kind of kinetic dancing in the boy as he was led back to the fuck bench to be strapped down.
The dungeon master walked around the boy, inspecting everything. When he was satisfied, he held up his hand and announced that the boy was secure and that “Mr. Treiber may pursue his pleasure for one hour, the clock starts now.” Mr. Treiber wasted no time; he put his flaccid dick in the boy’s mouth and instructed him to suck until he got hard. As it turned out, that didn’t take very long. Treiber was primed for this moment. He found his favorite lube on the work bench and then went right to the boy’s little pink pucker. He’d found the prostate vibrator had gone in easily after a brief resistance, and now his cock head went in just the same way, but with a lot more noise from the boy. A simple motion of his hand toward the dungeon master and pointing to his mouth, the boy was quickly silenced with a face banger.
Once he’d got all the way in and he couldn’t push in any further, he paused to savor the moment. He then began slowly, pulling all the way out and sliding all the way in. He did this over and over until he lost count, lost contact with the world. After a while he found he was speeding up and coming close to climax. He stopped himself, checked the clock and looked to see how the boy was holding up.
Boy was tiring and in discomfort and wasn’t at all in sync. Even his stifled grunts didn’t correspond to Treiber’s assaults on his ass. He picked up the leash lying across the boy’s back and stretched it tight, pulling the boy’s head back and squeezing his throat. “Work with me boy.” He slid in once more, slowly, all the way in. “You feel that boy. A little bit like before when you wanted to cum? You feel that?” The boy grunted and Treiber slowly, carefully continued to slide in and out. “Stay with me boy,” he grumbled into his ear. “We’re both going to cum at the same time, and I’ll tell you exactly when. Now follow me boy!”
Treiber pulled even harder on the leash and the boy’s head arched back and his eyes bulged the more his breathing was restricted. Real fear seeped into the boy’s eyes as he gasped for air. “Feel me boy, feel me up your alley. Does that make you want to cum boy?” Boy was in no position to respond, but Treiber knew what he was doing, and the boy’s hips began to meet his thrusts, and his knees began rhythmically to slap the side of the bench now in sync with the thrusts from Treiber.
Treiber was deliberate and focused, and he worked the boy as he had so many others before. It’s easier when they’re young like this -- they’re just built to cum. He was in full possession of the boy’s ass, his hips flexing and thrusting to a rhythm both he and the boy could hear all the way down to their roots. They came together just as Treiber had ordered, the boy grunting, Treiber exclaiming Aaah Aaah Aaah over and over as he slowed his pace and finally came to rest, having pumped out the last of his load deep in the boy’s bowels.
The dungeon master determined that little as it was, there was cum dripping from the boy’s cage and another hour had been won. Treiber acknowledged the applause, waving as he approached the club secretary and conferred with him briefly. The secretary spoke to the president and the president announced that Mr. Treiber’s friend, Mr. H. would take his place for the next hour.
During the break, the secretary drew eight more names from the lottery pot, making great ceremony as he announced each name. “These eight will jointly own the boy for four hours tonight, the next dozen will have six hours the following day and so on until everyone has had their turn.”
A number of the members wandered out of the hall during the break, some intent to return tomorrow for their turn, some just for a breath of fresh air. In a far dark corner of the hall near the waiters’ stand, still with a view of the fuck bench from his small table, Archibald Cruickshank nursed his second drink of the evening and watched everything he could about the boy on the stage. What was in his eyes? How would he act as he came to see what was to come? How would he hold up?
Archie had been sent a heads-up by one of his scouts almost shouting about an “astonishing amateur” in Phoenix, possibly available at the end of its current engagement. Would he like to be sent an invitation to view? This corresponded perfectly with Archie’s current head count requirements for Fletcher House and had him on a plane two days later and thus here to see what all the fuss was about.
The true and short version of the story is that Archie was taken at once by the boy and he determined to have him for Fletcher House. Negotiations were easy and one-sided and three days later, Archie’s people drove the boy from Phoenix to Fletcher House where he has remained ever since.
After a year’s training and another year in service, the boy came to the attention of a certain general who found him alluring in a way that was not to be denied. Demands were made and the boy became his slave exclusively. The boy has since then been ensconced in the general’s personal quarters on the fourth floor and is rarely seen except by visitors when the general is in residence. We are reliably informed that the boy is today in good form but routinely requires rest and recovery after the general has made use of him and returns to duty.
Connor
Where does Connor’s story begin? With his early fascination with calisthenics and his skill at it? He was devoted to this. That and straight-A report cards. From age seven, his life, and his social life, was limited and confined to the gym. Or does the story begin later when he was at university studying kinesiology? This is where he was when he met Jerry. Is that the beginning? Let’s start with the large man with hair in his ears.
The temp jobs office was in a strip mall. The place smelled of cigar smoke. Connor sat on an orange plastic chair across from a large man with hair sprouting from his nose and ears. “You done any modeling before?”
“No,” the boy said. “The ad said, ‘No experience required.’”
“That’s right, but it doesn’t hurt. You won’t need it for this job. What I have here is a one-time, eight-hour gig. You show up at this address tomorrow at 5:00 pm, you talk to a guy named Karl and you do what he tells you to do. You think you can do that?”
“Do what sorts of things?” the boy asked.
“Jesus...! Modeling. The job is modeling,” the man said, exasperated. You model what they tell you to. You do that for eight hours and then go home. You can do that?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” the boy assured him and folded his hands in his lap. He really, really needed the money and this was a bunch of money for a one-day job. He’d get his training done in the morning tomorrow. Exams were a week away; right now, he could afford to take a day off from his studies to make some money.
At 4:50 pm the next day Connor presented himself at the address he’d been given -- as it turned out, an enormous, block-long sex toy emporium. He was taken upstairs to the mezzanine level where there was a busy photo shoot underway, directed by a man named Karl. The two were introduced and Karl stepped back a pace to take in the boy -- every inch, from his hair to his shoes. “Hmm,” he mused, turning to his assistant. “The Captive, doncha think?”
The assistant now regarded the boy seriously and nodded his head after a moment. “Yes, the Hitchhiker. And what...? The motorcycle gang’s dungeon master?”
“That’s good. Go with that,” said Karl. “Take him over to Jerry and get him dressed.”
The assistant guided him through the bustle everywhere around them. “It’s a catalog shoot you see. Almost every item in the store has to be photographed and a lot of the items are shot in use. That’s where you come in.” The assistant came up to someone he said was wardrobe. “Jerry, love, will you please make this into Hitchhiker Captive at the hands of Motorcycle Gang Dungeon Master? We need him in half an hour. Can you do that?”
“Of course, love. I am the miracle maker.” Jerry pulled a T-shirt off a display rack and found a pair of swim trunks. He looked the boy over once more and said, “Hmm,” then walked to a cabinet and selected a jock strap. “You’ll need to tame that for the time being,” he said looking pointedly at the boy’s crotch as he handed over the clothes. “Dressing room #3 right behind the counter over there. Quick as you can please. No shoes and socks.”
Connor was a bit dazzled by all this, but this was the job and so he slipped out of his street clothes and put on the jock (it was small for him) and then pulled on the pair of swim trunks that might almost pass for shorts. The T-shirt was creamy and felt wonderful as it caressed his nipples. He looked in the mirror as he left the dressing room. He did cut a familiar figure -- of a hitchhiker who might be seen anywhere on the PCH from Malibu to Laguna.
Jerry ushered Connor across the floor to a rambling assembly of reflectors and diffusers, light racks and cameras, all surrounding a tall, iron jungle-gym structure at the center of a raised stage. “Sit, here,” said Jerry, pointing to a chair. The boy sat, and before he could even look around, someone had locked on a neck collar, patted his cheek and said, “Come over here.” Before he knew it, Connor was standing under a bar well over his head. A rope was clipped to his collar and thrown over the bar and cleated down. He looked bewildered, glancing everywhere.
Cameras clicked, lights were adjusted; there were lots of people working or milling around. One cameraman circled the boy close in, clicking away. Another stood behind a tripod. Lighting people moved equipment around. The director called out, “That’s good. Next.” Assistants came with wrist cuffs and got the boy’s hands secured behind him. More cameras clicking. “That’s good. Next.” Ankle cuffs came next. A few shots of his ankles in motion, then a short chain linked the ankles together. More lighting moves and a spreader bar replaced the chain.
A sinister figure in motorcycle leathers appeared in frame. He holds a riding crop, in fact, the Stallion Riding Crop, ”Vegan-friendly leather made out of polyurethane for a classic look,” $35. Then, the Strict Leather Riding Crop, “A taste of discipline,” $40. One after another, the whole line of crops was photographed, and with each one, the guy in leathers smacked him a few times -- on his face, on his chest, inside his legs -- testing it out. The boy’s wrists were snugly fastened together behind him, pulling his shoulders back and pushing his pecs out. This made his nipples a particularly attractive target for crops.
A man with a grizzled face came up to Connor and then stepped behind him, purring in his ear. “It’s nice and slick boy. Breathe easy now.” And before he knew what was happening, the Suppressor Silicone Face Banger Gag, “A premium silicone ball gag that packs a little bit extra,” $63 -- slid in between the boy’s teeth. There was sputtering and shock on his face.
The cameras caught it all. They were quick; they got all the shots they wanted in one or two minutes. That gag came out and then a succession of ball gags followed, then bit gags. The drool only increased as the hour went by; after a while the front of Connor’s shirt was soaked. Finally, an O-ring gag went in, and this seemed to surprise the boy even more than the first face banger.
The gag’s steel O-ring was tightly wrapped with a thin band of leather. Connor caught only a glimpse of the thing before it was strapped in. The click of the lock at the back of his head brought an expression to his brow and eyes that delighted the cameras, and they kept at it the more it distressed him.
Just as the shoot was beginning to wear on the boy, a break was called. The rope that held Connor’s neck collar was released and he was ushered to a stool where he sat -- still with the O-ring gag in and his hands locked behind. No one was paying any attention to him and his efforts to get his jaw and hands free came to nothing more than short barks and head waving. After a while, Jerry broke away from a small group and came over to the boy. “I’ve been watching. You’re doing great!” Jerry had his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Now he leaned in and said confidentially, “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Be patient, we’ll come to the good stuff soon.”
This somewhat calmed the boy even while it did leave him to wonder over what the “good stuff” might be. His breathing got normal; his heart rate slowed. He closed his eyes and took inventory. Of all the things he could identify or feel in that moment, the one thing he focused on was the smell of the leather-wrapped O-ring and its straps. That smell combined with his helpless predicament and stirred something primal in him that he felt in his loins.
An assistant got Connor to his feet and freed his wrists. “Hands straight up please,” he said pleasantly. And Connor complied. The assistant took hold of his T-shirt and pulled it straight up over his head and past his wrists. Another pair of handlers each took hold of a wrist and locked it to a bar over his head so that he stood straight and tall with his elbows locked and his arms forming a great V. Once again, the photographers surrounded him as the process got under way once more.
The next items were whips and canes. Motorcycle Man made use of each whip and flogger for the cameras. Almost every strike from every cane brought out a bark from the boy. Motorcycle Man laid it on pretty good. The boy’s face showed that he didn’t like it, but the zipper in his swim trunks bulged out even more prominently, even with the undersized jock strap.
Now Connor was turned around and reattached and the entire line of floggers was applied to his back and shoulders one after another. Over the next hours, Connor was treated to arm binders, hand cuffs, a variety of wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bars, and several collars. He played the frightened ingenue convincingly and was hard the whole time.
Hours later, the shoot wrapped up and Connor was relieved of his kit and sent to his changing room. Karl found him there just as he was leaving. “You did great kid. I’m really pleased with what you bring to the shoot. You’ve got something natural that really works. Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Oh,” thought Connor, “Another day away from studying...” He hesitated and looked uncertain. And then, sensing the boy’s doubt, Karl explained that it would pay twice what he’d got paid today. That clinched the deal. “Okay, I’ll be here,” he said, before really thinking it through. Jerry slapped him on the back and made a lot of pleasant noises and then went back to his business. Connor went home.
It was near 4:00 in the morning before Connor got into bed and lay awake contemplating his day. He walked through those moments again when he was gagged with the O-ring and helpless with his hands bound behind him. And remembering it made his dick hard and his heart swell. To be so mastered! From his earliest memories, coaches and trainers used their authority to direct and define his training, his technique, his skills, his life. Now, for the first time, Connor saw how all the equipment he’d seen today could be used as instruments of compulsion in ways that authority alone could not.
It was as though Connor had stumbled into Aladdin’s magical cave, and it was a sex toy emporium. To be honest, he’d never seen a spreader bar or arm binders or a neck collar before. Or floggers. But today’s experience opened up a new world of possibilities, of compulsion and denial beyond anything he’d imagined. And he wanted more of it. With these thoughts and feelings swirling in his head and with a lovely hardon, the boy fell asleep.
It was just afternoon when Connor got to the gym for a light workout, showered and showed up for work five minutes early. Karl was visibly pleased to see him, gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, “Okay, let’s get you dressed and on set.” He looked around and found his wardrobe director and called out to him, “Jerry, our Hitchhiker is ready for you.”
In the changing room the same swim trunks from yesterday were laid out, cleaned and pressed. There was no jock strap. That suited Connor just fine; the damn thing was too small anyway. The shorts were tight enough around his thighs that he didn’t worry too much about falling out. And no shirt today. He walked out to the set and found Jerry. He and an assistant together took Connor in hand and got an O-ring gag strapped in and an English bulldog harness buckled snug in four places. A business-like set of wrist and ankle cuffs got locked on, a spreader bar between the ankles, a carabiner kept his wrists locked behind his back and a fancy hand-tooled neck collar was locked on and cabled up to a crossbar high above.
Connor was surrounded by cameramen clicking away as well as a couple of video cameras he hadn’t seen yesterday. Motorcycle man came on set and in frame for half an hour or so. He was photographed seemingly tightening the harness straps, checking the gag and the spreader bar, showing off the best use of the product. He disappeared after a while and an assistant appeared with a One Shear® Pro Extreme Duty Trauma Shear, olive drab, $59.99. A hand wielding the scissors came in frame and slowly began at the waistband to cut away Connor’s swim trunks. The reveal was better than expected as Connor was freeballing and his semi was almost completely.
People came with ice bags and lubricant and managed to get Connor into the brass ring of a cock strap. Each of his balls had to fit through the ring separately and each was just that much too large to go through comfortably. There was some compression required and the boy made loud honking protest. The ice bags had done their job and with lots of lube and a bit more work got Connor’s flaccid cock through the ring as well. The front strap was buckled snug to the chest harness and the back strap was pulled up tight at the ring between his shoulders.
For a long time, Connor didn’t move but just stood there frozen, assessing his situation, then he slowly rolled his shoulders and flexed his hips as though he’d just waked up from a long sleep and found himself in the home he’d only ever dreamed of. He’d glimpsed a path to freedom where he was entirely the creature of someone else. And in this moment, he realized he had license here to be as comfortably hard as he liked. And he liked it hard.
For the next two hours it was urethral inserts beginning with the 16x Cockhead Teaser with Urethral Sound, “Vibrates with 3 speeds and 13 patterns, only in black,” $85. This made the boy gurgle and bark and roll his eyes up into his head. This was followed by the Dark Rod Vibrating Beaded Silicone Sound, then the Invasion Silicone Urethral Sound Trainer Set, followed by the Mortal Coil Cum-Thru Sound, and finally, the Electric Urethral Sound, “An electrosex accessory not for the squeamish,” $80. The voltage from this toy would normally create a rictus in the subject, it would force the boy’s face into a smile with the mouth wide open. But Connor was already there with his O-ring gag in place. His neck fairly vibrated.
The camera crews, video and still, took a break after this, but left Connor held in place by his neck collar. Jerry came up to him, took off his gag and put a water bottle straw in his mouth. Connor sucked greedily at the sweet tasting stuff and gulped it down. “I gotta pee,” he said. Jerry was prepared for this, picked up a bucket nearby and put it on the floor under the boy’s cock. By and by the crew drifted back and the handlers went back to work on Connor.
For the next hours Connor was relocated to a T-bar, with his arms stretched out to his sides and locked at the wrists. The ankle spreader kept the boy’s crotch accessible to the entire Gates of Hell line of products put on the boy’s cock and balls. First was the Strict Leather model, then the Snake Charmer with D-ring torment -- you can clip weights on it and it hurts even more -- then the Adjustable Cum-thru Sound Cage -- “Lock up your slave’s cock and balls for maximum submission,” $65.
Ice packs were applied for every device change because the photography director really wanted shots of his cock trying to bust out of the steel rings along with the torment on his face, so he was made hard and made to suffer with each successive device. In and out of the devices, and every time his balls had to be squeezed through a small ring, and it was taking a toll -- the boy’s balls were throbbing by the time he was into his third gates of hell device. And there were plenty more after that.
The rest of the day’s photo shoot was taken up with cock cages, most of which went on easily enough without trauma to his balls. The boy liked the feel as well as the idea of the cage so much his cock swelled to fill the cages immediately they were locked on. The denial imposed on his cock made him horny in a way he hadn’t known before. The boy found his sweet spot with the Asylum Urethral Chastity Cage -- “When you’re serious about security,” $170. This was followed by the Hard Stop Chastity Cage, The Lock Down Chastity Cage, the Pussification Vulva Chastity Cage, and after several CB6000s, the Spiked Chamber Chastity Cage -- “This savage set of heavy metal chastity is ready to imprison your slave in a coffin of spikes!” $150.
This was entirely new to Connor. The spikes really hurt his cock and redirected all his attention to controlling his cock. It hurt. But just the idea of his predicament made him swell up in the spiked chamber and nearly made him panic. But he did not panic. He was a jock, and he had some experience at control, certainly of his muscles and his will, and now he turned all of that on his cock, trying to keep it under control.
The cameras all day went for his face as a reliable indicator of the product’s effectiveness and severity. This was the best of the shoot all day long. The chords in the boy’s neck stood out, his eyes were squeezed shut, sweat coursed down his cheeks and drool literally splashed out of the hole in his face. This was pain that would go away if only he could control his cock, but it was bursting with horny.
Ten minutes later Connor was relieved of his cage, his harness, his neck collar. Crew unlocked his cuffs and got him down from the T-bar platform. He remained still for a moment, still seeing only within, but Karl and Jerry hustled him along to the dressing room. Connor came out of his fog only slowly, but was finally clear when Karl asked him if he’d be back tomorrow. The boy, maybe drawing on his experience from yesterday, looked steadily at Karl for a long beat without expression. “The money will be double what you got today,” Karl offered. It didn’t take Connor long to do the arithmetic. It didn’t take him long to decide, but he finished getting dressed before he looked at Karl and said, “I have exams coming up. I can only do one more day.”
“Good man!” exclaimed Karl and gave the boy a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve been great for the shoot Connor, really great. Just bring it one more time.” And with that, he and Jerry went off to other business.
Connor went off to bed, where again, he lay for a long time awake, revisiting the biggest surprise of his many surprises -- the stainless-steel urethral sound, all eleven inches of it. The cold stinging shock of it made his cock hard, then as now remembering it. Once the sound had been run all the way in, Connor had thought fleetingly of a steel hard cock. Now he knew what that expression meant. And how it hurt in a way that ten years of hurt from calisthenics training didn’t quite reach. This hurt was controlled and personal. It touched him where nothing else ever had.
The boy was fully hard now just remembering the gag in his throat, his hands and feet immobilized, with no possible defense against the steel sound entering his cock hole and slowly, slowly forcing its way into his shaft inch by inch. In that perfect moment he felt himself owned in way that made him desperately need to cum.
Connor rolled over on his stomach, trying to calm his cock, to calm his feverish memories. He didn’t want to cum before the end of work tomorrow, if for no other reason than to prove he could control himself even under extreme load. And damn if this wasn’t nationals level control, because he wanted very, very much to shoot his load and shout Hallelujah!
It was still morning when Connor got to the library and down to studying. It was near 5:00 in the afternoon when he got to work. Jerry saw him arrive and came across the floor to greet him, put his arm around his shoulders and guided him back to the set. “Leave your clothes and things on the bench here, we’ll be ready for you in five,” he said as he slipped off. His assistants took Connor in hand and folded his clothes as he took them off. Wrist and ankle cuffs, then the neck collar went on and the O-ring gag went in. A CB6000 locked up his cock and he was led over to a fuck bench beneath bright lights. His cuffs were clipped to the bench and he was made comfortable. Cameras clicked and the workday began.
For an hour and a half there was a succession of dildoes that slid in and out of his O-ring, sometimes all the way past his tongue and into his throat. It made him gag and produce great puddles of drool. Connor was glad for the cage. His cock was really trying to get hard and so wanted to cum and the cage wasn’t having it.
This is just where the boy wanted to be, free from worry over cumming, free to take in whatever came at him, free to be entirely someone else’s creature. The rape of his throat was a calisthenic exercise for him and he saw himself in both roles simultaneously as the giver and the receiver, performing a duet, something that was exciting and heady and sweet.
A duet, however, that was no random pair, but a master and a slave. Somewhere deep in his mind a light went on and showed him the contours of his situation. Connor was the slave. And that what he’d been missing his whole life was not authority, but a master. It is a poor slave who has no master and Connor -- locked to a fuck bench, gagging on a dildo -- had found a light flickering at the end of his tunnel.
The next couple of hours involved a lot of clamps. The Hitchhiker started out with his neck collar stretched straight up by a rope, ankles spread, hands behind, now a face banger strapped in, a thick leather blindfold and a urethral tube that collected precum in a small vial. Motorcycle Man came in frame fixing a pair of clamps on the boy’s nipples. This got a good reaction from him and the cameras were all over it as he writhed to the new and unexpected pain of Japanese Clover Clamps, “Designed to get tighter as you pull on the chain.” $35.
This would have made him hard as a rock, but for his cock cage, it only made him horny and needy and whimpering; tears ran down his face. And that’s when they got their best shots, so they stayed with it, hurting his nipples as they put him in different positions with different clamps, finishing up with the Tyrant Spiked Clover Nipple Clamps, “A meaner version of the Japanese Clover Clamps.” $40. Finally, handlers released Connor from the pole where his neck collar was attached. They sprayed Gebauer’s Ethyl Chloride on his nipples and got him secured once again on the leather-padded fuck bench.
They began with an Anal Training Set to get Connor loosened up. He was certainly tight enough on starting and began with a lot of noise in protest. Jerry waved his hand at one of the handlers and he quickly got a suppressor gag snugged in. Motorcycle Man smeared silicone lube over the length of a Slim Tapered Anal Hose Trainer, “Comes in a set of three graduated sizes,” $90. He began slowly and the cameramen quickly jockeyed for position, trying to frame the hose and the boy’s reaction at once. Connor tried to look behind toward his ass, as much as the chain on his neck collar would allow. His neck arched to the side as the Motorcycle Man was poised to shove the rest of the hose in by main force. It was a beautiful sight, all that muscle accepting all that tapered black PVC.
Then the Triple Spire Tapered Silicone Anal Trainer Set, “Tapered for easy entry and the perfect mix of flexibility and firmness for most skill levels,” $45. There were half a dozen trainer sets, and the crew got through them in an hour or so. Connor found that indeed, he was being trained, just as he’d been trained as a small kid, the coach with a steadying hand on his back as he did his first handstands, his first flips.
Then the dildos came out again. Now he was fucked. And while it wasn’t photographically necessary to shove the dildos all the way in, Motorcycle Man sensed that the boy would approve, that he would want to know how that felt. And he wasn’t wrong. Connor was completely focused on the silicone cockhead sitting just inside his asshole, spreading his sphincter in a most unusual way. He became almost analytical about it. Yes, it hurt, but then so did a Planche or a front lever. Hurt was just another name for calisthenics. He’d known years of hurt. This was different.
And he wanted to know. This was the meaning of yearning. If he weren’t locked to the bench, he’d be scooting back and back onto the pole in his ass. He’d shove back so far, the cockhead would come right out his mouth, and then he’d slide back and forth on it until he passed out. God, he wanted it. And just then Motorcycle Man obliged with a firm and steady pressure that sent the dildo all the way in; and the boy simply groaned and went limp.
This last part of the shoot had the whole crew riveted to the action on the stage and it seemed all the assistants, handlers, and cameramen all wanted to put their hand to the dildo and take a turn plowing the thing into Connor’s ass. A line formed. Connor closed his eyes in bliss and welcomed all his admirers to have dominion of his body. After taking their turn, some kissed the boy on his cheek or ear, said thanks for three days of being the best boy they could have, and left him with best wishes.
A week later, it was balmy in Los Angeles, not yet summer. Connor had graduated with a degree in Kinesiology just the day before -- diploma to arrive by mail in the following months. He owned nothing, owed nothing but current bills. He had no job, but one ambition: to find a master who could appreciate his talents. This led back to Jerry who after some time introduced him to a man who was said to make things happen. In turn this man eventually introduced Connor to Archibald Cruickshank of Fletcher House. The two met for dinner in San Francisco and then a week later in a house on the Oregon coast.
Connor was grilled in detail by two men who’d come with Mr. Cruickshank. About anatomy and injuries and how to treat them. About strict progression vs pushing limits. About chemistry and suturing. About food and training discipline. Connor came away unsure of himself, unsure how he came across to Mr. Cruickshank’s people. They were not hostile or superior. They just wanted to know what he knew. Things that they cared about. It seemed the tenor of their questions was toward seeing that their charges were well looked after, and that reassured Connor, whatever they thought of him.
The impression that Cruickshank and his people took away was favorable, quite favorable. In two weeks’ time, Archibald, his boss, and the director of Fletcher House had agreed on a program and an offer that brought Connor into the House as a contract worker for one year. He is currently building a calisthenics program for a small number of students and running it from the Slave Master’s Office. He’s been given quarters, office space, mess privileges and full use of the training facilities as well as the dungeons and third floor rack room. He is not allowed to leave the House and will be eligible to apply for entrance at the slave portal at the end of his contract.
