I thought I would try my hand at this different context, where the `chase' was less about `come hither' and more about `get over here!'.

It is an experiment, so I hope you will bear with some of the rougher edges.

C.R.

 

Disclaimer and preamble:

1. This story is fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is pure coincidence.
2. This story may depict acts of physical intimacy between boys, as well as between men and boys, as well as between adult men. If this content is anathema, distasteful or otherwise illegal for you to consume, please take necessary steps to surf elsewhere.
3. This story is part of a collection of original works based on the author's real life observations, encounters and imaginings. No men, boys or cucumbers were harmed in the making of this film.
4. I wrote this story for me, that is- my enjoyment. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I hope you will.
5. This has been uploaded to the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive and may not be reproduced without express written permission from the author.
6. The author welcomes constructive feedback and critique from readers. I can't promise to do requests, but I welcome reading what you would like to see in stories- maybe I can incorporate those ideas into future work.

7. Last but not least, please support Nifty financially as your means permit. It is a gem of a community resource and we all have a part to play in keeping it alive. If you do nothing else, let this be your activism.

Charles Rubin
December 2016

 

Chapter 1: Kids, naps, and collars.

The young man's eyes opened slowly, his head still pounded with a massive headache.

Where am I? He wondered.

His vision was still hazy but even if it had not been, the room was almost completely dark. The only visible light source was a thin white line that appeared to be the gap between the door and the floor. Beyond, shadows and shapes occasionally drifted, indicating the presence of people- or at least movement- outside the dark confined space he inhabited.

Seeking to adjust his position, the youth found that his hands were tied, as were his ankles. Turning his head about to try and get a better view, he started get a better sense of his general orientation. His heart skipped a beat as he came to a chilling realization: He was bound, wrists and ankles, to what appeared to be a rack or table of some sort. A narrow black cushion, of vinyl or some other similar material, supported his weight from collarbone to abdomen. Another circular cushion, not dissimilar to those attached to a massage therapist's table, lay just below his head- considerately positioned such that if he chose to relax, his face would rest snugly and comfortably on it, allowing him to breathe unrestricted. His knees were supported at approximate right angles by some more cushions- he couldn't tell from his current position- which also support his shins roughly parallel to the ground. His legs were angled slightly open, such that his cock and balls hung freely in the air.

Hung freely in the air???

It was then that the young man realized that he was naked. Starkers. Bare as the day he had come cussing into the world. Focusing his attention on his sense of touch, the boy- for he was still just 19- tried to get a further sense of how his body was held down. Broad banded restraints made from a soft yet inelastic material, which he would later learn to be treated kid leather, anchored him at the wrists and ankles to a heavy frame of sorts. His legs were stretched open, as he had noticed earlier, but now he also realized that his ass was exposed. He could feel a slight draft blowing gently against his sphincter. It was ticklish, but bearable for the moment. Across his upper back, just above the lumbar curve, was another strap. This one was as wide as a small beach towel and also felt like it was made of the same material as his limb restraints. Evidently it was designed to hold him, or whoever was in the rack, down without causing injury or discomfort by distributing the tension across a wider surface area. It was not as restraining as the others, allowing his chest to rise and fall unhindered for breathing but restricted his ability to move or shift much beyond that.

The boy relaxed, just a little, though he knew he was still a prisoner. Nonetheless, if his captors had gone to all this trouble to not only make him comfortable but also prevent him from being injured despite binding him, they seemed to at least show a speck of compassion for his well-being. Or at least that was what made comprehending his predicament a little easier in that moment.

He had no idea how long he had been out. The last thing he remembered was sitting down in the bus on the way to the beach in Phuket, the popular tourist resort town in Thailand. He had been with two other friends, Leon and Jimmy. The three of them were first year students at the University of West Bristol which, ironically, was actually east of the city and closer to Bath than it was to Bristol proper. Ian, the boy finally remembered his own name, had remembered feeling sleepy and had dozed off despite it only being mid morning. He and his mates had set off after breakfast for a day at the beach.

Well, that plan's fucked, it seems. Ian thought to himself. Now they're going to ransom me or harvest my organs or turn me into a child soldier or some shit like that. It was a strange calmness with which Ian found himself analyzing his situation. He should have been frantic, struggling, screaming, shouting for help to anyone in earshot who could hear or respond. But somehow, he did none of those things, merely reflecting in the silence of that cool dark room- strapped as he was to some kind of device- and mused that his plan to refresh his sun tan that day was royally messed up.

The door opened, letting more light into the room. Ian caught a glimpse of some kind of lounge outside. Couches and chairs with curtain fabric upholstery- the awful gaudy kind his Aunt Marleen insisted on decorating her home with- could be seen through the doorway and a ceiling fan spun overhead, probably on medium setting since Ian could still make out the individual blades moving as they orbited the central column housing the motor. Then, as fleetingly as it had appeared, the view was gone as a man- Ian assumed it was a man- closed the door behind him and approached.

Half blind now, his eyes readjusting back to the darkness, Ian began to speak to his new companion.

"Hey mate, what the heck is going on ma— " He didn't get to finish his sentence as the man, Ian was sure it was a man now, stuffed a ball gag in his mouth and strapped it firmly behind his head. Ian felt the leather strap tighten, the tension compressing his skin until it was taut against the back of his skull. Evidently the strap was made of the same soft material as his other restraints so while it held the plastic gag firmly in place, it was neither painful nor particularly uncomfortable, all things considered. The man pulled up a stool from somewhere outside Ian's field of vision and dragged it over to the floor in front of where Ian lay bound. Ian heard, rather than saw, the man sit down in front of him and he could smell something- Drakkar Noir maybe- clinging heavily to his clothes. The man produced a small flashlight, no larger than a half dozen cigarettes bundled together, and shone it directly into Ian's face. The boy squinted, dazzled by the incandescent beam. He found it difficult to scrunch his face as the ball gag interfered with the movement of his cheek muscles, but he managed as best he could.

"I am Tranh." The man said at last. Ian, still gagged, had no meaningful way to respond and so just continued staring blankly. The bright light in his face was not so painful now and while he could still only make out only the vaguest of silhouettes at the perimeter of the bright light source, he found himself able to look straight ahead without squinting.

"I am Tranh." The man repeated. "You understand English?"

Ian nodded, not knowing what else to do.

"Good, you listen now. Listen good, or punish, understand?"

Punish? Ian thought to himself. What the fuck kind of kinky fucking shit is this place?

A sting startled him. The man had slapped him across the face. Not hard, but coming unexpectedly as it did Ian winced more out of surprise than pain.

"No think, listen. Understand?"

Ian nodded.

"Good." The man paused briefly, as if to gather his thoughts, before continuing. "From now, you no think. Think for people, you no people. You property now."

Ian took a moment to digest the halting, accented English. The man, seeming to understand Ian's need to let the message sink in, gave him a moment before continuing.

"Nod if understand."

Ian knew he had to resist. This was kidnap, slavery, torture! He would get out, and he would get the police to come down like a storm of justice on these vile twatnuggets.

He frowned as he shook his head vigorously, defiance in his eyes.

The man exhaled and sighed, almost as if expecting this response.

"You understand," the man said. "You understand because you shake head say no."

Ian realized that he had, indeed, fallen into that trap. Good one, Mitchell, his inner critic threw shade, now they know you're an asshole... and you didn't even need to break up with them to do it.

The man reached out and grabbed Ian by the chin. He couldn't resist, restrained as he was, and was forced to tilt his head upward until his neck strained. The man leaned close, so close that Ian could smell the remnants of beer and marijuana on his breath. Whispering, the man spoke softly, almost kindly, to Ian.

"You understand, but you not like. You learn now."

Learn? Learn what? Ian thought to himself, half curious and half dreading that he was about to find out.

The man released Ian's chin, allowing his head to fall back to rest on the circular cushion. The flashlight was also switched off, returning the room to its previous state of near total darkness save for bright sliver under the door. Ian heard the man move the stool back to somewhere on his right, the hollow metal legs ringing as they grated across the bare concrete floor. A few moments passed and Ian could hear the man somewhere behind him, rustling with some plastic which crackled indistinguishably. Then he heard a pop as if a shampoo bottlecap had been opened, and he felt a cold tingling on his tailbone, right between his butt cheeks.

"Orrrrhhhhh?? Orrrh!!" Ian squirmed in surprise as the cold gel sent shivers up his body, straining futilely against the restraints that continued to hold him firmly in place. He thought that the ceiling had sprung a leak and that water was dripping on his body from a crack above. Then it dawned on him.

Oh no... oh fuck no! No no no no!

A large British Rail steam engine, probably an LMS Ivatt Class 4, crashed right through his anal ring and embedded itself half way up his rectum. Ian screamed through his ball gag and involuntarily flailed, or tried to flail, as he was violated from behind by some dinosaur prick from the next upcoming Jurassic Park movie. In reality, it was just a small 4.5" aneros prostate stimulator, or the locally pirated version of it anyway. Unused as he was to anything going into his anus, rather than coming out, though, Ian shivered and tensed uncontrollably as the intrusive procedure kicked his animal brain into overdrive. He struggled as if chained animal, whinnying like a wild mustang that had been branded for the first time. The man removed it quickly, almost as if he didn't actually want to cause Ian discomfort. Ian heard the `click' of the flashlight as the man seemed to inspect Ian's freshly abused entrance. A finger, Ian guessed it was a finger, gently but expertly probed the flesh around his entrance, testing for softness, consistency and whatever else the man was interested in. The probing digit briefly pressed up against Ian's entrance itself, causing the boy to reflexively tense up, the muscular ring closing tightly. The flashlight clicked off.

The man moved back to the front, kneeling or squatting in front of Ian, who by now had calmed his breathing a little but was still rather worked up. Fingers brushed gently, apologetically, through Ian's short hair- buzzcut down the back and sides but left long enough to style on top.

"I am sorry." The man's voice sounded genuine and sincere. "I not know you are virgin there."

Damn fucking straight I'm a virgin BACK THERE you fucktard! Ian thought to himself, still unable to speak thanks to the ball gag, now dripping with his saliva.

"You so pretty, eyes so pretty, I thought you by now have known this..." The man seemed to search for the correct word, "...pleasure."

Ian shook his head vigorously left and right. He was no pansy, and the only ass he had experience with was when HE tapped it, at his convenience. Girl ass was usually as good as pussy, especially when said pussy was already sloppy from a previous sperming, either his or one of his buddies. One of the benefits of being at university in England was that unless one was exceptionally ugly, or just socially withdrawn, there was usually someone who would hook up with you. Especially if alcohol was involved. Ian knew that he was at least `ok' in the looks department. He was tall, just over six feet, and a sixth form career as a high jump athlete had given him an excellent muscle tone without the unappealing bulk that rowing, ruby or some of the other more power-intensive sports tended to develop in their participants. Since starting university, he had taken up Tchoukball, a relatively new sport that emphasized agility and speed, rather than raw power. It kept him fit, cardio coming naturally in the sprint-stutter pace of games, and tanned as well since they would train and have matches outdoors when the weather was good. Being a young and relatively poor university compared to the `big boys' of Oxbridge or even the more established public universities, UWB had to learn to compromise when it came to facilities. Whereas some sports like badminton actually required an indoor space in order to avoid wind and other environmental disruptions, Tchoukball was designated one of the sports which could train outdoors during the non-winter months. Ian and his team mates had originally griped mightily, but when girls started digging the tanned, sweaty physiques of the team's finest, the complaints disappeared, as did their shirts during training as the boys strove to develop that sexy bronzed look that was so effective at getting girls to ask `if their asses were as tan as their pecs'.

A sensation on his left arm yanked Ian from his reminiscing back to the present.

Shit. He said to himself, wishing he could forget his current plight and just go back to fucking a girl under the spectator stands over by the secondary cricket oval, usually deserted unless a match was in progress. I'm back here again.

The tension on his left arm tightened, and Ian could feel his heartbeat pulse in his forearm. His fingers started tingling as the blood flow was constricted.

What's going on now? What—oww!!!! Ian felt the needle enter his vein. Fucking shit what is this, what the fucking hella shit is going on, if I ever get out of these straps I'm going to fucking---- Ian suddenly didn't feel it was necessary to finish that thought, as a strange relaxing warmth spread through his body. From his arm, it radiated up to his chest. Then, as it reached his head, a floating dizziness embraced him- taking all the concerns of the past minutes away and replacing them with a sublime chill-ness that just made everything fine and dandy. It was all going to be okay.

The cold lube once again trickled from Ian's tailbone down to his recently de-virginized boy hole as Tranh squirted a generous helping in preparation for a second round. Ian didn't flinch at all this time, as the dildo-like object pushed without resistance into his sacred space, embedding itself to the hilt.

Ian bobbed his head dreamily, barely minding the invasion of his behind by threats foreign into his domestic. A gentle pounding told him that he was being fucked, but it didn't bother him. Nothing seemed to phase him right now. He wiggled his butt a little, the strap across his back limiting his motion, trying to get the dildo to rub against his prostate. Yes, he knew all about the prostate, but not once had he thought that he would find himself trying to angle his rectal cavity to dock better with the dildo up his ass.

"Mmm... Mhmmm... orhh... Mmmmm..." Ian didn't notice when he started moaning, but now that he had, he didn't want to stop. Ian had fucked many girls in his short time as a sexually active male. Losing his virginity at 17, the night of the epic 3-6 loss by Cardiff City to Liverpool, he had always secretly wondered how anyone- girl or guy- could enjoy taking a cock up the shitter. He had a number of gay friends, and had even tossed himself off with one of them during a rather drunken early Sunday morning after a hard night of partying, but that didn't make him gay. Now, though, he realized that he had really been missing out on something as the perpetually hard plastic rod hammered his secret button and sent wave after wave of unbelievably awesome... awesomeness... crashing through his body like a roaring fan crowd at Anfield after a home team goal.

"Mmm! Mmmhhmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmhm! Mmmmmmmmmmmmhmhmhm!!!" Ian was really getting into it. All pretense and resistance had evaporated and he seemed to only exist in the moment between thrusts. Starbursts fired through his brain every time Tranh skillfully rammed the dildo into the boy, now corrupted forever. In that excruciating interval when he was not `getting it', Ian wanted nothing more than to be one with the Stick of Truth that made the very cosmos reveal its beauty and meaning.

Ian hadn't realized it, but he had already cum twice without touching himself. So fixated was he on the anal pleasure that he had not even noticed that his cock had leaked out two loads of top grade British twink jism. Tranh, however, kept track of all the boy's vital signs- not the ECG sort- and, knowing that the drugs would wear off sufficiently such that the boy would again have awareness of his surroundings, he knew that the next moments would be critical in shaping the boy's experiences... and preferences... going forward.

Ian's head was clearing, if just barely. It was not like before, when he had first awoken to find himself bound. This was different; Stronger, more sensual, and without that damned headache. He could feel the dildo pumping in and out of him, but it now had a sterile, mechanical feel to it. He thought that he could vaguely remember something quite pleasant just a few moments ago, but descriptions escaped him and he was left with a feeling of rather tepid disappointment. His hips had stopped bucking, and his moans- heated and needy just moments before- had given way to a more relaxed diaphragmatic breathing, still unconsciously in sync with each of Tranh's thrusts into him. Then, as if the time had run out on one of those coin-fed mechanical kiddie rides outside a supermarket, the dildo was suddenly gone from inside him. Ian felt a sense of emptiness and longing he had not expected. An itch ached deep inside him, so far in that fingers could never hope to reach it. There was only one thing, he knew, that could give him satisfaction. One thing that could return him again to that special place that he had just been cruelly ripped from. It was unbearable to think that he might go through the rest of his life never again experiencing what, and how, he had just felt.

Tranh moved the stool back in front of Ian and he sat down. There was no flashlight this time, only a hand that rested gently on Ian's head as it, in turn, cradled comfortably against the circular cushion.

"Good?" the man asked.

Ian nodded, feeling his hair brush against the man's fingers as he did so. It was nice.

"I ask you again, nod if understand."

Ian lifted his head up to gaze forward. He still could not make out anything beyond black and white flashes. The drugs messed with his ability to focus his eyes. Tranh knew this, hence dispensing with the need for the flashlight.

"From now, you no think. Think for people, you no people. You property now."

Ian took in the remark. It sounded normal, logical. A good chair had no complaints when used. A high-quality table rejoiced when it gave pleasure to its owner over a fine Sunday dinner.

"Nod if understand."

Ian, his ass dripping lube and still twitching from what had been nearly two hours of near non-stop pounding, let go of the last vestiges of his former life. Perhaps one day he would be rescued, or ransomed, or whatever those damn police in helicopters did with his parents' hard-earned taxpayer dollars. But for now, right now, he didn't care. All he could think about was when he could again please Tranh. He knew what was coming next, and it was no dildo.

Eyes still glazed from the chemically induced high, Ian tried his best to raise his head to what he thought would be a direct line of sight to Tranh. Leaving behind all that he was, he took his first step in embracing all that he could be.

"Mhm." He nodded.

Master, I am home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's note:

 

This was just an experiment, I'd really like to hear from you (readers) about what you think. This isn't my usual sub-genre, or scene, so I apologize if it comes across as amateurish or uninformed.

C.R.

c.rubin@contactoffice.net