"The Boys in the Box" by Jackson Blooms

Story By @Violet-JC-Bloom

The Boys in the Box Ch. 01-03

by !©

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing erotic fiction. While there will be plenty of sex, the first several chapters deal mostly with the process of turning young men into sex slaves, a process I find at least as erotic as sex itself. This story is a work-in-progress, and any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcome. This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings is morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

1.

I have various methods of obtaining new merchandise, but perhaps my favorite is one I fondly refer to as "The Box." The Box is my pied piper, the perfect enticement to dozens of young men I've acquired over the years. You see, as some men deal in antiques or art, I deal in flesh. Specifically, I deal in the toned, taught flesh of human males, selected for their youth and beauty and trained to provide pleasure and service to the world's elite, those men whose power is so great that laws and pedestrian morality hold no sway, whose wealth is so vast that price tags are a foreign concept and expense is no consideration. Men who can afford, and will accept no less than, the very best.

That's where I come in. Perhaps you have heard stories of the so-called modern slavery that still exists in our country and abroad, the human trafficking of drugged-addicted, used-up unfortunates from Asia and Eastern Europe, lured to the West with promises of money and freedom only to find themselves locked away in filthy apartments where they are forced to service dozens of men a day. It's a sordid, repulsive industry. My business may be no cleaner from a moral standpoint, but the aesthetics, and the quality of the product, at least are as disparate as a Big Mac and the tasting menu at Per Se. The men to whom I cater would no sooner be caught sampling such wares than be caught flying coach. While each client has specific, personal tastes when it comes to his slaves, there are a few things they all demand.

The men I provide are young; ideally eighteen years of age, although occasionally the length of time necessary to train a slave to perfection means I end up selling the odd nineteen-year-old. Any older significantly reduces potential selling prices. Make no mistake, many of my clients appreciate the services of their slaves for quite a long time, but every day past a slave's eighteenth birthday is one day closer to its obsolescence. I refuse to take on any merchandise younger than eighteen, not for moral reasons - I am selling humans, for Christ's sake - but for practical ones. Any younger and there's nearly always someone with an interest in the boy, be it a family or a teacher or a social worker. That's not to say that men who are adults in the eyes of the law disappear easily, per se, but a man who has reached the age of majority is at least legally entitled to pack up and take off on his own. There may be a futile search on behalf of law enforcement, but failing any evidence or a body, they're forgotten relatively quickly.

The men I provide are beautiful. Of course beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but in general I strive to select the finest specimens of each race and build that are available. My stock need not be perfectly toned at the time of capture, as that is obtained easily enough by strict physical training, but a good frame and a handsome, symmetrical face are prerequisites. Genital size is less important than one might imagine; while many of my clients do prefer well-endowed slaves, a sizable and lucrative minority do seem to fetishize men who are rather less endowed. And of course there is the occasional client who elects to have that that entire part of his property's anatomy removed altogether. (In such cases I usually recommend having the testicles retained and surgically relocated to the inside of the mound of flesh where the penis and scrotum used to be; not only do eunuchs tend go soft physically, but a horny slave is naturally more eager to please its master, regardless of the inability for actual orgasmic release.) I attempt to avoid stock with tattoos and piercings; such modifications are available at an owner's pleasure, of course, but having them pre-installed turns the slave into a niche product and lowers its price. And of course all of my stock is a specimen of health, free of disease, addiction, or physical defect. This is another reason to choose young males, as most of them haven't had much chance to pick up anything that a little penicillin won't cure. In the rare case that my staff veterinarian does find something unsettling in a new product's induction blood work, I have a few contacts in overseas brothels who are happy to take it on at "fire sale" pricing. It's extremely rare, but it is the cost of doing business.

Finally the men I provide are, almost without exception, heterosexual. I of course hold no prejudice against homosexuals; I'm a gay man myself, as are most of my clients! But years of experience have taught me that most of my clients prefer straight boys, and I find that they do make much better slaves in the long run. A slave spends a significant amount of its life providing sexual service to its master, and a straight slave is naturally able to focus solely on pleasing its master whereas a gay slave may become distracted by its own arousal. Psychologically, of course, the men who purchase these young bucks must derive some extra pleasure in holding absolutely power over the body of a formerly free straight jock. I do process and sell the occasional homosexual, but it's an exception rather than a rule.

There are any number of other criteria that go into choosing new product, some of which are so subliminal and instinctual that I, by now an old hand at my trade, couldn't even fully articulate. But I imagine it's best to allow you to learn by hearing about my most recent acquisitions. I imagine as well that you're curiosity about just what exactly is The Box.

2.

The Box is a retrofitted semi-trailer, a forty-eight footer I bought in cash at a foreclosure auction about ten years ago. I spent the better part of a year turning it from an empty crate into the honey pot it is today. Part carnival game, part cargo transport, it spends most of the year empty floating around the Pacific and Indian Oceans inside one of hundreds of anonymous shipping containers on giant cargo barges. Early in the summer I pick it up at port in San Francisco, hitch it to my tractor unit, and head to one of the thousands of county fairs happening in small towns all across our great nation. I park The Box close enough to the fairgrounds to ensure a that there will be occasional foot traffic but not so close as to attract too much attention or to be visible to any security cameras (not that there are usually security cameras at county fairs, but it seems like there are more of them every year, and video of an eighteen-year-old boy walking into my trailer unit and never coming out could certainly raise red flags.) Ideally I like to find an area off a backroad, some place a guy might sneak off to to smoke a joint or drink an illicit beer.

The exterior of The Box is fitted with three-hundred-sixty degree video surveillance. When someone trips my motion detectors, a custom app I pings my iPhone, along with a video feed of my new quarry. If he seems to meet my criteria, and - equally important - no one else is around, I'll press the "on" button and The Box will go into action. Lights flash and an old school carnival barker's voice (your truly; I was a struggling actor before I got into a more lucrative business) cries out:

"You there, young man! Do you have what it takes to Beat The Box? Only twenty five cents to try your luck! Make it out of The Box and win $100!"

When the boy invariably walks up the metal steps to the back of the trailer - only one in, maybe, twenty walks away - he is greeted with a door. The door has a small video screen in at eye level, with a coin slot for a quarter next to it (I litter the ground in all directions with quarters, figuring a mark who might not have one on him will almost certainly have bent down to pick one up nearby.) Once the coin is inserted, the screen lights up and asks the easiest question I could imagine.

WHAT IS TWO PLUS TWO?

Next to the screen is a number pad. I actually doesn't matter what the guy answers - you'd be surprised at the error rate in some of these hick towns! As long as the a key is pressed, the door slides open into a small black room. As soon as the boy enters, a pressure plate beneath the floor activates and the door slides shut behind him, leaving him trapped. Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the room, giving my high definition video feed a chance to really size him up. Usually my instincts are right, and he's a worthwhile acquisition. Rarely I miss the mark, realize my error, and begin the ejection mechanism. A video screen in the wall presents an impossible puzzle with a thirty second timer, and when he fails to solve it, the door behind him slides back open.

"Better luck next time, sonny!"

More frequently, I see a corn-fed, naive jock eager to win a c-note. At this point, I switch on the live audio feed.

"Congratulations, sonny! Entering The Box is half the challenge, but the game is far from over! Due to the challenging nature of this game, you must be eighteen to play. Please scan your photo ID on console to your left before moving on!"

If the potential acquisition isn't age appropriate (as I said, I prefer eighteen-year-olds, although I will accept the rare nineteen-year-old who is too hot not to pass on. Anything older is automatically disqualified) he'll be released. Otherwise a locker opens and the future slave hears,

"Congratulations, sonny! Due to the highly secretive nature of the puzzles beyond this door, cameras and cellular telephones are prohibited! Please place any personal effects in this locker. You may retrieve them upon your Escape from The Box!"

Once he does, a door slides open into another black room. Sometimes my young men hesitate, but seeing as they are locked inside a cell roughly three feet deep and eight feet wide with no means of escape, they all eventually give in and turn over their wallet and phone. One time, a prospect was so attached to his stuff that he spent a solid forty-five minutes trying to get out instead of giving them up for the duration. He kicked and screamed and pounded the walls trying to find a point of egress, making me very grateful to have spent a considerable amount of time and expense sound-proofing The Box. Eventually he relented, as they all do. (If I recall correctly, he's currently warming the bed of a high-ranking Party member in Beijing. The Undersecretary saw the obscene amounts of money other Party members spent on purebred dogs and decided to buy a purebred American Blond instead, whom he now keeps collared, on all fours, and stuffed with a dog-tail butt plug up his rear when he's not otherwise using it. But that's a story for another time.)

At this point, you probably imagine that I simply knock out my new merchandise with gas or a tranquilizer shot on the other side of the door. And I admit that there's not much practical reason why I don't. But as I said, I used to be an actor and I'm afraid I never quiet lost my taste for the dramatic. Instead of giving you a dry, technical rundown of the design of the remaining rooms in The Box, perhaps you'd like to follow one of my recent acquisitions as he makes his way through the gauntlet?

3.

I recently acquired a young colt named Sparky. That isn't his birth name, of course. I rename all of my merchandise upon acquisition. I find that giving the new slaves names more commonly associated with household pets than human beings aids in their acceptance of their new role in life. Sparky was born Ryan Connor in Lewisburg, Kentucky. What brought him to a county fair in a small town in rural Ohio I have no idea, but for my purposes it was ideal; the disappearance of an eighteen-year-old from out of state is less likely to attract local attention. Standing a mere 5'9, Ryan didn't have the most impressive physique. The lad had the soft, round face of a boy still shedding his baby fat, with barely-there biceps peeking out from his baby blue tank top suggesting he'd recently started lifting weights. The pressure sensitive plates beneath his feet told me that he weighed in at 152 pounds. He had impressively thick thighs for someone with his build. Perhaps he ran track in high school. The barest dusting of hair covered his legs and sprouted from his exposed pits, matching the unruly shock of mousey brown sprouting from his head. The boy had a broad smile and lively, curious brown eyes. His identification indicated that he had turned eighteen two months earlier, meaning he was either a recent graduate or a drop-out. Ideal.

After relinquishing his personal effects, Ryan made his way into the next chamber. As the door slid shut and a lock clicked behind him, he found himself enclosed in perfect darkness. After standing for a moment with no light or audible instruction revealed, he began to grope with his hands along the slick walls. My wall-mounted thermal cameras allowed me to view his slow progress, tracking him until he located a series of handles along the far side of the wall, starting at the floor and reaching just over his head. Pulling them out one by one, fumbling in the dark, he eventually understood that they formed a staircase of sorts. The young man found himself climbing up a steep staircase about ten feet up to the top of The Box, ending at a hole roughly two and a half feet square. Feeling out with his hands revealed a ramp slanting down into the next chamber.

At this point, many of my acquisitions hesitate; without any illumination lighting the way, they fear a potential fall and the injury it may entail. Not so Ryan. Eager for his reward, he thrust himself forward through the narrow space, landing in pool of ice cold water about five feet deep. Recovering from the initial shock, he surfaced and caught his breath. The Pond, as I like to call it, is dimly illuminated by a small, pulsating blue light in the far right corner. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Ryan made his was to the corner. Squinting in the dark, he located a small button on the wall about two feet above water level. He had to reach on his tiptoes to active it. Upon activation, a an illuminated drawer slid out of the wall next to him, and a familiar voice greeted him from the speakers above.

"Congratulations, sonny! You've made it through the first half of The Box in record time! What a smart young man you are! But it seems you've gotten rather wet in the process! Due to the highly technical nature of this experience, your wet clothes may damage the workings of The Box and cause you physical harm in subsequent chambers. Please remove all your clothes and place them in this drawer. They will be returned when you Escape The Box!"

This is the point where most of my merchandise offer their first signs of resistance. After all, what eighteen-year-old young man is willing to just disrobe and hand over his clothes? But eventually they capitulate. After the announcement, the outline of a door lust above water level, reachable by a small ladder along the wall, is illuminated. Most of my prey decide they'd rather continue the process in soaking jeans and t-shirts; the first time they attempt to pull the handle on the door, they're met with a small but painful jolt of electricity and tossed back into the pool.

"Sorry, sonny! Can't have you tracking water with those wet clothes and shoes into the rest of The Box, can we? Kindly remove all your clothes and place them in this drawer. They will be returned when you Escape The Box!"

Most of my boys try at least once more to make it through with their clothes on. Most of my boys spend some time searching for an alternate way out of the room. All of them eventually strip, after one shock or a dozen, place their clothes in the drawer, and find their way through the door. Sparky was special; despite his new name, there was very little electricity needed in convincing him to disrobe. That was a good sign; he was already signaling a natural obedience and affinity for training. After his first jolt sent him back into the pool, he shook out his hair like a wet dog, removed every stitch of clothing, carefully placed them in the drawer and returned to the illuminated doorway. He was nearly home.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 04-06

by ! ©

Author's note: I hope you're enjoying the story! Here's the next installment. We're still in the world-building process, but if you're enjoying this at all, please stick with it. The next installment will dive more deeply into the world of Master/slave sex, as well as the actual training of the boys into proper slaves. As always, comments and email are welcomed and encouraged. This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

When last we left Ryan, soon to be Sparky, he was naked, soaking wet and halfway through The Box. What will happen next?

*****

4.

The next chamber is practically a coffin. Ryan found himself in a cell about seven feet tall, but only two feet wide and two feet deep. Blinding white light lit the room while vents in the walls opened to air dry the merchandise. Of course video cameras recorded the entire process. This part of the intake only lasts about forty-five seconds, but is recorded for the pleasure of my clients. The complete intake process of all my merchandise is recorded in high-definition, but I find that for some reason the blow-drying of a newly stripped straight slave in all of his disoriented glory is especially appealing to my buyers. I am happy to oblige.

Newly dried, Ryan's hair was even wilder than before. I took a moment to drink him in in all his young, boyish beauty before allowing him into the next room. He definitely had a bit of baby fat that needed working off, but otherwise he was beautiful. The lightest smattering of body hair covered his milky skin, trailing up the back of his thighs to a surprisingly hairy ass. My groomers and I would take particular pleasure in denuding him, although I intended to leave a bit of hair in strategic areas, at least until his new owner gave specific demands. That hairy ass, though, would soon be as smooth as the day he was born. In a way, he was about to be born for a second time. Not as a child, but as a slave.

His ears stuck out adorably from the side of his head. Some lucky buyer would love to use them like handlebars while the slave deep throated his master's free cock. His slightly upturned nose gave him a puckish charm. This boy would turn me a tidy profit. But first I had to lead him to the end of The Box.

When I finished basking in his beauty, I sent the cue to cut the lights. The wall in front of Ryan slid open, again ushering him into darkness. The boy took two tentative steps forward and the wall behind him again slid closed. The lights in the new chamber went up. Relatively spacious, about six feet deep and the full nine feet of the trailer wide, the room was carpeted and made to look like a living room, complete with a television and game console mounted on a wood-paneled wall. The walls to the left and the right were mirrored - I enjoy seeing how my boys react to the sight of themselves, naked and disheveled. Some preen and pose, checking out their bodies. Some try to cover themselves and look away to hide their embarrassment. A handful of the cleverer ones approach the mirrors, attempting to block out light and look through as if they are two-way mirrors. (They are, although the cameras behind them are small enough that there is nothing for the boys to see. It does provide lovely up-close footage of the merchandise, however.)

Ryan simply walked over to the television and examined it. There was a post-it on the game console that simply said, "Let's play." Booting up the system, he found, like all of my other acquisitions find, that the game inside was a popular arcade dancing game, where the player has to press buttons with their feet in time to the music in specific combinations to win. Unrolling and plugging in the game pad, my new naked slave began dancing, assuming that a high score would allow him to progress to the next room.

In fact, it doesn't really matter how well the subject does at the game. The goal of the dancing game in the penultimate chamber is simply to get him worked up and sweaty, his bouncing ass and package providing a good show for the cameras. In this regard, Ryan was no disappointment. My young buck was actually pretty good at the game, even though he'd have "won" regardless. Once he was good and sweaty, having spent the better part of an hour jumping around in The Box, his unruly brown hair damp and sticking to his forehead while his six-inch half-hard penis flopped around atop a pair of respectable balls, I cut the electricity in the room. Finding himself again in darkness, he waited. I let the boy stew for a few moments and then I cut in on the intercom.

"Congratulations, sonny! You're quite the dashing dancer, aren't you? Your prize is nearly in sight! There's only one more challenge before you can accept your prize! Please make your way into the next room!"

At this point, one of the five slots in the wood-paneled wall of the room slid open and a small speaker inside started beeping. They run along the floor, just under three feet high and two feet wide. In the case of Ryan, almost Sparky, the panel in question was the second from the left; I'd already taken on one new passenger on this run who was nestled safely inside slot one. Following the sound, Ryan groped along the wall, found the open door with his foot, lowered himself to his knees, and crawled in, expecting to find the exit and his hundred dollars on the other side. It might be an understatement to say he was in for a bit of a surprise.

5.

The cells at the end of The Box are perhaps the simplest part of the experience. Each is five feet deep in addition to their just under two feet of width and three foot ceilings. They're rather cramped; some of my broader boys spend most of their confinement on their sides so their shoulders aren't shoved against the walls the entire time. Each is equipped with a speaker, an infrared camera, and a spout for water slanting down at a forty-five degree angle from ceiling at the far end. Of course, the spout is no ordinary faucet; each water drip is covered in a silicone mold of a penis, specifically the penis of yours truly, and is activated by suction. The stock are informed via recording that they may be spending a fair amount of time on all fours in their cell and how to get water if they are thirsty. Most of my straight slaves are hesitant to suck even a plastic cock, but eventually their thirst gets the better of them. Some merchandise has to spend a week or more in their cells while I pick up the rest; drains in the floor catch their liquid waste, and although most of them are too scared to defecate, those that do find themselves quickly rinsed off by high-pressure showers from above until everything is washed away. I pipe a high-protein slurry through the cock faucets once ever two days for the "long haul" merchandise; it's not ideal to keep them locked up that long, but the economics of my business necessitate filling The Box to capacity with five slaves on a multi-state run. I prefer to make the June harvest in about a week, but sometimes it simply takes longer. And while I try not to be needlessly cruel to my stock, a slave's comfort is not paramount in my concerns. I must make ends meet.

In the case of Ryan - I hadn't yet named him Sparky, so it seems appropriate to refer to him as such for the time being - he was relatively lucky. I caught him on a Sunday, and I'd filled my cells by Thursday of that week, meaning he only had to spend six days in his cell before being allowed out into slightly more spacious lodgings. In Cell One, next to him, was Gus, soon to be Cinnamon, a lanky redhead I picked up the previous afternoon in Indiana. Over the course of the next few days I added Pedro, soon to be Pollo, a Puerto Rican from Texas, and what I was sure would be my big-sellers for the year, a pair of blond, curly-haired twins from rural Minnesota. I don't usually like to deal in groups, but the prospect of identical blonds was too enticing to let slip. I admitted them to The Box as a pair, and within an hour they were soaked, stripped, blown out and in their cells, each having tried to one-up the other to rise to the challenge of a given room. Their IDs told me that their names were Daniel and Benjamin. It took me a while to decide on a proper pair of slave names, but eventually I settled on Flipper and Flopper. Their longish mops of bright blond curls made the names seem apropos, and the fact that I intended to train them to fuck each other in turn for their owner's pleasure made the names seem, shall we say, doubly appropriate.

When my phone buzzed with a notification that the twins were now occupying cells four and five, I finished my funnel cake and ambled over from the fair. Once again stripping The Box of the colorful, magnetic paneling advertising my little game to reveal the standard blue trailer with white BOYCO shipping logos underneath, I set off for home, my three-hundred acre training farm and compound in northern Montana.

6.

I was eager to get home and get to work. There were five half-trained slaves waiting in the stables, and while I have utter confidence in my assistants, I pride myself in being hands-on in the development and training of my slaves. I was also horny as hell. It had now been a solid twelve days since I had come; one of the benefits of my line of work is always, or nearly always, having an embarrassment of riches in terms of beautiful man flesh in which to unload whenever the mood strikes. I sometimes considered bringing my personal body slave, JoJo, along on "the hunt," but the logistics involved were too onerous (for one, he'd have to wear clothes at least some of the time, the very idea of which repulsed me).

Leaving Minnesota just before 6 PM, I checked my GPS and saw that I could make it home just before sunrise. I always have to be careful on the road; the last thing I need is to get pulled over for speeding and have some hick cop demand to check my cargo. I carry plenty of cash which, on the two occasions I have been pulled over, has always been ample persuasion to convince the officer to let me off with a warning, as well as a sidearm which thankfully I've never had to use. Still, it's always better to stay completely under the radar in my line of work.

The route from rural Minnesota, through North Dakota, to my compound in Montana is hardly cosmopolitan. So you can imagine my surprise when, having driven at least two hours without seeing even another car or truck on the highway, my headlights lit upon someone thumbing a ride on the side of the road at half-past eleven. Slowing down to get a better look, I was impressed with what I saw. About 5'11, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes, ripped jeans and a thin denim jacket that was doing fuck all to keep out the midnight North Dakota chill. He had a smallish frame, but seemed to carry a decent musculature atop it, and had an olive-drab canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. What impressed me the most, though, was the kid's obvious mixed parentage. He had high cheekbones and almond eyes, but his skin was creamy white and his nose straight and delicate. Must have been a half-breed, probably Chinese and white. Not exactly a common sight anywhere, but in North Dakota I'd be less surprised to find a leprechaun hitching. While I idly considered which side of the family his lower half took after, I brought my truck to a stop.

"Well, hey there, son. Looks like you're a long way from home. Need a lift?"

"Yes, sir, I guess you could say that."

"Where ya headed?"

"Vancouver, sir, but I'm happy to go wherever right now if it'll get me off this road."

I liked the way he called me sir. "Well, looks like this is your lucky day. I've got a load of cargo in the back that's headed straight to Calgary. Hop on in."

As he settled into the passenger seat, I had a chance to look him over better. He was one hell of a cute kid. Talking to him a bit I found out he was from San Diego. Rather a long way from home. Apparently he was meant to report for basic training a couple of days ago in Oklahoma City but had chickened out at the last minute. A little on the nose, I reflected, heading to Canada to avoid shipping off to get blown to bits in some sand pit in the Middle East, but I wasn't complaining. He'd never make it to Canada, but at least chances were he'd never see the desert, either; my Arab clients were all interested pretty much exclusively in whites or the occasional black. This kid would probably end up warming a bed in a Manhattan penthouse or a European chalet.

The kid stank and, judging by the barely-there dusting of hair on his chin, had clearly gone several days without a shower or shave. Not that I minded; frankly it only made me hornier. I offered the kid a beer out of the cooler behind my seat, which he was only too happy to accept.

"So, how'd you end up on the side of the road in the middle of the night?"

He gulped down about half the bottle in one go, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and replied, "Last guy picked me up tried to put the moves on me. I don't go in for that gay shit. So, you know, if you've got any ideas you can just let me go again. No offense or nothin'."

I had exactly zero intention of letting him go, as he so adorably put it. I laughed and gave his thigh a squeeze with my big, meaty palm. Nice quads. Slapping his knee as I brought my hand away I said, "No worries there, kiddo. Don't think the wife would take too kindly to me pickin' up crabs from a kid on the side of the road. No offense or nothin'," I gave the kid a wink and he laughed a little too loudly. "Can't say I'm exactly surprised, though. They say that North Dakota ain't got much goin' but steers and queers, and I don't see any livestock 'round here." Except, of course, for the prime piece of boy beef sitting in the cabin next to me. He laughed again, quieter this time, let out a surprisingly delicate belch, and was out cold. I'm sure the kid was exhausted, but even if he hadn't been, the mickey I'd slipped in his drink would have taken care of him.

I pulled over again, went around to the passenger side, pulled the kid out and slung him over my shoulder like a sack of extremely valuable potatoes. In the small sleeping area behind my cabin, I made quick work of stripping, gagging, plugging, and hogtying my newest acquisition. I was right about his build. He was nicely toned with big tits and biceps, but mostly I couldn't believe the size of the tackle on this young buck; it was at least seven and a half inches soft, nice and thick, sitting on two of the biggest balls I'd ever seen on a boy, much less a kid who was half-Asian. They were at least the size of golf balls. He might actually get picked up by some size queen for use as a human dildo. I made a mental note to give him rigorous training as a top. Of course all of my merchandise can perform in any way demanded (I even train them in the basics of pleasuring females, rare as that is for boys in their station), but since they are used almost exclusively as bottoms and cocksuckers, their training as fucksticks is relatively minimal. This cock, though, I figured had about a fifty-fifty shot at either being used regularly or being bought by an owner who took special pleasure in making sure the kid never came again.

Back in the driver's seat, I checked the clock and the map. It was about 3 AM; I'd lost a little time collecting this kid, but he was worth the trouble. I texted my assistant, Jake, to let him know I'd be home right around seven and to make sure that the holding pens were ready for six newcomers.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 07-09

by ! ©

Authors' note: Finally, some sex! With much more to come. As always, comments and criticism are appreciated and encouraged. This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

7.

About forty five minutes out, I activated the speaker system and overhead lights in the cells, waking any of the merchandise that may still be asleep. I wasn't concerned about the AWOL private in my bunk. Awol, I realized with a sudden flash of clarity, would be his name. I take a particular pleasure in naming my slaves, and I enjoyed the idea that every time he heard his new name, he'd be reminded that he was in this situation because of his own choices. Impressing upon a slave that it had no-one to blame but itself was an integral part of its acceptance of its status. His ID read Charlie Wu, but to me, he was simply Awol. In any case, the sedative in the beer I'd given him would have him out for another few hours, and on the off chance that he was made of sterner stuff than I'd anticipated, my men could always knock him back out with a quick shot before moving him out of the truck.

I'd shut off the water about thirty six hours prior; Flipper and Flopper would be thirsty after their relatively short confinement, but Cinnamon, Sparky, and Pollo would be on the verge of dehydration. As charming as it had been watching my thirsty young men sucking in vain on totems of my penis, desperate for a drop of water, it was time to give the boys a drink. I turned the water back on, this time laced with a potent sedative sure to have them out in a matter of minutes.

"Sorry about the plumbing problems, boys, but the tap's back on, so drink up!"

Cinnamon and Pollo went to work on the dongs in front of them like their lives depended on it which, given their level of dehydration, I suppose they sort of did. Sparky and the twins were a little more reticent.

"In case you're curious, fellows, that wasn't a request," I remarked, my tone darkening. "The next few days are going to be much less pleasant for anyone who doesn't take a good long drink. Start sucking, kiddos!"

The twins went to work on my plastic penises. Only Sparky refused. There's always one or two, although after seeing how pliable he had been previously, how quickly he had given up his clothes and made it out of the pool, I was a little surprised it was Sparky. I wasn't angry; his defiance was a crucial part of his and his new brothers' training. Someone had to be the first to disobey, and someone had to be punished. It was a bit of a nuisance tranquilizing the kid manually before removing him from The Box, but not a real problem. Like so much of his training, this was primarily an opportunity to teach him about the necessity of obeying orders. I looked forward to seeing his rosy cheeks streaked with tears, looked forward to the point where I could see the light switch behind his eyes and realize how much unpleasantness could have been avoided if he'd simply done as he was told.

Looked forward to punishing him for quite a while after he understood, until he ceased begging me to stop. Realized that I knew he was ready to be a good boy, and would continue doing with him precisely as I pleased despite that fact. Like most of the boys who were quickest to resist, he would also be my fastest learner, would grow to be an example to his fellow slaves.

8.

I parked the truck just outside the loading dock behind the induction chambers, little more than a metal shed with a heavy padlock on the door. Tossing the keys to Jake, I instructed him and my second assistant, Tyson, to unload the merchandise and being processing. I let them know about Sparky, still awake in cell #2, and Awol, probably asleep in my bunk but possibly in need of further sedation. It was nothing they hadn't dealt with at least a dozen times before. Business as usual. I know I said I like to be hands-on, but after a long hunt and just over twenty-four hours awake, I needed a bed, a bath, and a blowjob, although not necessarily in that order. I collected the boys' belongings to look over after I'd rested and headed for my room, and JoJo, in the big house.

I picked JoJo up about four years ago, in New York City. I'd been in town in August, meeting with one of my brokers, and hit up a bar near his office before making the trip back to Montana. I headed into one of a thousand identical bars in the Financial District of Manhattan, full of identical hedge fund twenty-five year-olds blowing their salaries on Johnnie Walker Blue and trying to impress whatever identical "actress" or "model" they'd met the weekend prior. I'd finished my bourbon and was heading out the door when I literally ran into a little blond adonis arguing with the bouncer and blocking my way. Well, actually not so little; he was probably about 5'11 and looked to be hiding the ropey musculature of a soccer player underneath his Brooks Brothers oxford and khakis.

"Beat it, kid, we don't take fakes," said the bouncer.

Apologizing as I stumbled backwards, I shot a peak at the kid's laughably crude fake. Ryan Beckman.

"Woah, woah, sorry! Ryan! You made it!" Then, to the bouncer, "Sorry, man. I know the kid looks young, but I can vouch for him. New hire at our firm," I explained as I slipped him a hundred dollar bill, trading the Benjamin for the obviously phony identification. I put my arm around the kid and brought him into the bar with no more trouble. I ordered him a Johnnie Walker Blue.

Turned out "Ryan," actually Joseph Germaine, had just graduated from high school and was wrapping up an internship at a brokerage on Wall Street before heading back to his home town in Missouri and starting community college. When I asked why a kid as bright as him wasn't headed straight to Dartmouth or Brown, he explained that he didn't have any family to speak of, having lost his mother his junior year and never knowing his father. Part of me felt like I should help the kid out. Part of me said nobody would miss him. Guess which side won?

An hour and half a bottle of overpriced Scotch later, I asked the kid if he'd like to meet a girl for a good time. He was unsurprisingly eager to accept the invitation. I called Miranda, another dealer I sometimes have occasion to work with. We took my car and met at her SoHo penthouse. JoJo - I'd already decided to call him JoJo - looked like he'd died and gone to heaven when he saw her digs. If possible, his eyes grew even wider when he got a good look at Miranda. He was too drunk to notice me discreetly filming while he jackhammered away at her pussy, although I've let him watch the video numerous times on my big screen television while I've done the same to his boycunt since. I have to loop the video; he lasted all of two minutes, and I have substantially more stamina. Once he was through, Miranda noted that he must be exhausted and offered him a glass of water. In case you haven't guessed, it was drugged. Miranda helped me get him down the service elevators - no cameras - and into the trunk of my car. I tried to pay her for services rendered, but she called it a professional courtesy. Two days later JoJo was back at my compound, where I personally oversaw every aspect of his training.

He was never meant for sale. I moulded my slave from the get-go to anticipate and respond to my every whim. Four years later, the blond boy was even more beautiful than they day I grabbed him. Entering my suite, I found him kneeling in front of the door in the same position I'd left him two weeks ago, ass in the air, face pressed into the carpet. I'm not dumb enough to imagine he hadn't moved; obviously my assistants had alerted him to my imminent return, but the consistency and control were intoxicating nevertheless. Nudging the toe of my right boot under the boy's nose, he immediately began licking two weeks of road dust off my boots. It was endearing, but it would have to wait.

"My shoeshine can wait, boy. Right now I want you to get me out of these clothes, clean me up and suck me to sleep."

Immediately JoJo was on his knees, first removing my boots, then my jeans, then my leather jacket, then my black t-shirt. Returning to his knees, he removed my jock and socks as I'd trained him to, using nothing but his tongue and his teeth. I flopped down on the bed.

"We can shower in the morning. Right now just lick off this road dirt and don't stop sucking until it's time for us to wake up."

My perfect blond beauty pulled a think, plush comforter over us as he licked every inch of me from my ears to my toes clean of sweat and dirt. Then as I drifted off to sleep he went to work swallowing my nine-inch cock. Knotting my fingers in his golden locks, I pressed him down into my crotch, forcing my pubes up his nostrils as I came down his straight, twenty-two year old throat. I set my alarm for noon and drifted off to sleep as JoJo kept sucking away.

9.

Rising from my nap, I gently pushed JoJo and his accommodating oral orifice off my half-hard member. I had work to do today, and needed to save some juice for my trainees. At forty-three, I'm not old by any measure, and I keep myself in pretty impressive physical and sexual shape, but even I have to admit that I can't just fuck all day long like I could when I was nineteen. JoJo started a pot of coffee and then took care of properly bathing me in my shower. I didn't have any time for his normal ministrations, but I did allow the boy to give my asshole a loving tongue bath. Stepping out of the shower, I allowed the boy to dry me off, again paying especially close attention to my nether areas. I slipped into a plush robe and settled down at my desk.

You may wonder at my use of the word "allow." Training is a curious thing. Most men can't imagine a straight twenty-two year old "enjoying" the act of eating his master's hairy asshole. And it certainly takes time and training to turn a "free" boy into an eager sex slave. But almost nothing, outside of the actual act of sex, is enjoyable in and of itself. We all train ourselves to enjoy things because of what doing them gets us. First a boy resists. He has his mouth, his asshole, his entire body must be taken and used by force. After some time, he relents and performs the acts required of him in order to avoid punishment. But eventually, too gradually for the slave itself to recognize, it learns to love serving its master. To live for its master's cock, to want nothing more than its master's pleasure. To serve its master with the same zeal that an accountant balances his bosses' books or a construction worker lays a foundation. The difference between my merchandise and free men is that my boys have no illusions about the fact that they are slaves. Once they accept their station, they are free to serve their purpose without any of the tiresome day-to-day worries that men who are under the illusion that they are their own masters face.

In this regard, JoJo was exceptionally well-trained. After fetching me a mug of steaming black coffee and laying out the personal affects of my new acquisitions neatly on my large mahogany desk, he lowered his eyes to the ground and asked,

"Master, if it pleases, may I suck on your balls as you work?"

I smiled. "Perhaps later. First you are to report to the induction chambers and inquire as to the progress with the new stock. Report back quickly."

Pulling up JoJo's profile on my iPhone, I pressed a button to send a short, sharp shock to the gold-plated cock ring wrapped around the base of his genitals. He gave a quick yelp, and then squeaked, "Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!" before trotting off. I watched his beautifully tanned cheeks bounce as he made his way out the door, and settled into the business at hand: learning about my new merchandise.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 10-12

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

10.

A standard aspect of processing my new acquisitions involves finding out as much as I can about their former lives via social media profiles, google results, and the like, as well as more private information gleaned by investigating their cell phones. Usually this is a simple task. Remarkably few of my boys lock their phones with any kind of passcode; apparently the few seconds it takes to enter one are more important than leaving all of their personal information vulnerable to any scoundrel who gets his hands on their devices.

One of the first things I do upon receipt of a new piece of stock is to remove and destroy the SIM card from his phone, turn off all cellular, bluetooth, and wifi radios, and then shut down the device completely, lest any overzealous law enforcement attempt to track the boys by their digital devices. With the devices untraceable and safely inside my study, I turned on the six smartphones scattered in front of me, browsing their pictures, email, text messages and the like, matching each one to my boys, examining the histories of their former existences.

None of the young men in question seemed exceptional, either academically or professionally. This was a good thing; it meant there was less a chance of anybody missing them too much. Judging from his FaceBook profile, it seemed that Gus Grantholm had been something of a track and field star in high school. This made me smile. At 6'2, the slender redhead with the meaty thighs was an excellent candidate for pony training, and apparently he already knew how to run. Even if his eventual owner didn't elect to use him as such, I'd enjoy having him carry me around the estate in my various traps and carriages.

Sparky, formerly Ryan Connor, had been sending and receiving sexually explicit texts and photographs with at least half a dozen girls in the week leading up to his capture; I added the choicest and most revealing of these to his file in my sales catalog for the titilation of his prospective purchasers. An album of professionally photographed glamour shots and several unanswered emails to modeling agencies in New York and Los Angeles suggested that the high school drop out had fancied himself model material, but obviously his 5'9 frame was a deal breaker for the magazines if not for my clients. Maybe if we built up his musculature enough, he'd have a future modeling as a living statue in the gardens on some Sheik's private island.

Pollo, formerly Perdo Lopez, was a bit of a surprise. If his rose gold iPhone wasn't enough of a giveaway, the fact that the first several apps on his home screen were Grindr, Scruff, and Jack'd made it clear that I'd unwittingly picked up a pansy. As I mentioned previously, my clients largely prefer heterosexual slaves. I worried that I'd end up taking the loss on the little queen, but my fears were quickly allayed when I stumbled upon an album of the boy twisted in increasingly impressive contortions; apparently the kid was a dancer, and a remarkably flexible one at that. If I could train him to focus solely on his master's pleasure (I made a mental note to inflict more chastity training than usual on the boy, making him realize that his cock and his desires had nothing to do with his station in life, and to force him to spend more time than usual learning to pleasure a woman, so that he could understand that his tongue was there to satisfy his owner, not his own desire for a cocks stuffing his holes) he could turn out to be a truly astounding fuckslut. As I pored over his photos, I noted that all that training left him without an ounce of fat and beautifully developed muscles. He would be an interesting challenge, but I was sure that I could turn him into a proper piece of prime slaveflesh.

Flipper and Flopper, formerly Daniel and Benjamin (or Benjamin and Daniel; I frankly couldn't tell the difference and didn't much care) Proctor (Jekinborg) , were about as average as you can imagine, short of their beautiful blond locks and their tendency to make one feel like he was seeing-double looking at them. There phones held plenty of pictures of the two drinking at bonfires out in the middle of nowhere. I felt myself grow unintentionally hard at a couple shots of the boys kissing, presumably on a dare, as the next pictures were inevitably of the two making screwed up, goofy gagging faces. It would be a pleasure to see each of their faces buried in the other's asshole.

Awol was something of a cypher. No Facebook page, no search results. Maybe the kid was an orphan; he certainly wouldn't be the first ward of the state to try and escape a life of group homes and foster families by joining the military (or end up in a slaver's clutches, for that matter.) No matter; he was mine now, and even if his last name had been Rockefeller he'd have the same fate in store.

I finished setting up google alerts for news stories relating to each of my new boys' former names; I never anticipate trouble, but it's good to keep an eye on the feeds to make sure nobody is sniffing too close for comfort. Just as I was tossing the last artifacts of my new slaves' old lives down the chute to the incinerator in the basement, JoJo returned.

"What is it, boy?"

"Master, the new arrivals have been blindfolded, gagged, plugged, and strung up in the induction chambers, per your orders. Dr. Bohrman has concluded his physical inspections and reports that they all appear healthy, Master. He will have blood test results back shortly, Master."

"Good boy. You may suck on my balls for five minutes before you dress me. I need to visit the stables," I said, reclining in my chair so that my eager plaything would have easier access to my heavy sack.

"Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!" he practically squealed with delight as he dropped to his knees and crawled over to service me. I set his cock ring to vibrate gently for five minutes, letting him know his time was up when it ceased buzzing his balls. The little slut moaned with pleasure as he worked my balls with his velvety tongue, drooling onto the leather seat of my chair. As he happily slurped away, I sent a triple buzz to the thick, steel bands circling the balls of each of the five partially-trained slaves currently toiling or training on the estate, giving the signal to drop whatever he was doing and report to the stables for my inspection. When his time was up, I instructed JoJo to lick up the precum he'd leaked all over my hardwood floors before dressing me.

Ready for the day, I hitched him to my personal trap, a small, one-pony cart ideal for traveling short distances at a good clip, gave him a light whip on his left flank and headed for the stables. Daddy was home.

11.

The stables are where I house, feed, and groom my slaves in training. They were once proper horse stables; like most of the compound, they have been retrofitted to their new purpose, while keeping as much of the original design to reinforce the boys' new station in life as no more than livestock. There are six stalls on either side of the building; the new boys are kept on one side, the more senior boys on the other. Each stall Has a wooden front wall with a built in gate reaching about four feet high, just like it did when it used to house actual horses. Thick iron bars have been added, reaching to the roof of each stall to make escape impossible once a boy is locked in. These immovable bars have the added benefit of forcing the slaves to enter and exit their stalls on their hands and knees. (With few exceptions, the boys spend almost all of their time in the stables on all fours.)

Inside each stall is a small bed of fresh hay for sleeping, which the slaves replace every day, and o-rings on the walls where a misbehaving slave may be restrained as punishment; slaves in training wear black rubber (easier to keep clean than leather) cuffs and collars fitted with matching o-rings around their ankles, wrists, and necks for this very purpose. Each stall is fitted with a spigot similar to the ones in The Box, a silicone mold of my own penis attached to the stables' water supply. Any time one of my slaves wants a drink, he's going to get it by sucking a cock.

In the rear of the building is a long aluminum trough, where my boys eat their meals twice a day. I feed the slaves a high-protein, nearly flavorless slurry that delivers all the necessary daily nutrients as efficiently as possible, without any empty calories to mar their physiques. There's actually a similar product available on the mass market today, although why anyone would consume the stuff by choice is beyond me. For a slave, though, a healthy, consistent diet is important. It also aids in the training process; like dogs and other trained animals, slaves respond remarkably well to positive reinforcement in the form of food. I always carry a bag of M&Ms or Reese's Pieces to reward good behavior. To you, a tiny piece of candy might not seem like much of a motivator, but after spending months with nothing to eat but flavorless gruel, you'd be amazed what you'd do for a bite of chocolate.

At the other end of the stables is a metal-clad corner where the boys perform their daily ablutions, consisting of showers, shaves, and enemas. I have a private salon where my merchandise is professionally groomed prior to meeting any potential buyers, but for day to day operations I find it best to leave it to the boys themselves. Many owners expect a slave to keep its own body smelling sweet and completely devoid of hair and ready for a good hard fuck at any time; it's good to get them in the practice early.

Of course there is no hot water in the stables. Such luxuries are strictly for masters.

As I entered the stables I saw an almost perfectly lovely sight: four eighteen-year-old boys of various shapes and sizes on their knees and ready for inspection in front of stalls one, two, three, and five, legs spread beneath them, hands locked behind their heads, eyes fixed on the ground. I say almost perfectly lovely, because in the space in front of stall four was only empty ground and dust where a slave should have been kneeling.

"Bongo," I said softly to the boy in front of stall five, a lithe young man of 5'6 with shaggy, mouse-brown hair and a perfectly flat tummy, "Where was Sunshine when I called you to the stables?"

"Master, he was at the gym with me, Master."

"And why are you here and he isn't?"

As if just saying his name out loud had summoned the boy, Sunshine burst through the door. Standing a mere 5'4, Sunshine had the face of a cherub, or perhaps an elf, with sparkling blue eyes, an upturned nose, unruly corn-blond hair and a mischievous grin. His thick, eight-inch cock would be impressive on any slave; on a boy of his stature, it looked frankly gargantuan. I had spent the prior three months transforming him through rigorous weight training from a skinny skater boy into a perfect muscle twink with bulging biceps and impressive pecs. Despite his laudable growth and remarkable good looks, Sunshine clearly had difficulties with time management and coming when called.

In his haste, it took him a second or two to notice me. The stables were silent. When he realized his error, I was pleased to see real dread fill the boy's eyes. He immediately dropped to his knees and presented in inspection position. I calmly pulled out my phone, pulled up his profile, and delivered a sustained, painful shock to the slave's genitals. To his credit, the only indication Sunshine gave that he was feeling the agony of his punishment was a brief, almost inaudible gasp when it began and a few silent tears running down his cheeks and into the dirt beneath him.

12.

I am not a sadist. I don't inflict pain on my slaves because it gives me pleasure. (I can't say the same for all of my clients. It isn't my place, though, to judge how men spend their money or enjoy their property.) I punish my slaves, when necessary, because it is the only way that they will learn. Unmeasured, indiscriminate or arbitrary punishment creates panicky, unpredictable slaves who deliver sloppy service. Measured, appropriate punishment helps a slave learn to better serve its master. A dog that jumps on the furniture or bites its owner's guest is not at fault; it simply has a bad master who did not spend the time properly and lovingly training the beast. Likewise, a slave who does not perform his duties appropriately is the product of bad training. Slaves need, one might even say crave, punishment, as surely as they need food or water or air.

Above all, it is important that the slave understand it is being punished for its own good, and to help it learn from its own mistake.

I took no pleasure in wracking Sunshine's beautiful body with pain. But it would be more cruel to coddle the boy and allow him to fail without suffering any consequences. After thirty seconds, his cock ring ceased to deliver the electricity to his body.

"Sunshine, you were at the gym this morning with Bongo, were you not?"A gulp, and a boyish voice, barely quivering. "M-master, yes, Master."

"Bongo was here when I arrived. You were not. Why is that?""M-master, Mister Tyson said that i-if I didn't complete my chest exercises I'd b-be spanked, Master."

"Hmmm. Remind me, boy, is Mister Tyson your owner?"

"Master, no, Master."

"Remind me, boy. Who does own you?"

"Master, you do, Master!"

"And yet you chose to obey Mister Tyson instead of me. Why was that, boy?"

"Master, I thought I could finish and still make it back in time, Master."

"But you didn't, did you?"

A sniffle. "Master, no, Master."

"Is there anything you'd like to say to me, Sunshine?"

"Master, I am so sorry, Master! It will never happen again, Master!"

"I certainly hope not. I imagine you'll need to be punished for letting me down, won't you, Sunshine?""Master, yes, Master."

"And what do you imagine your punishment should be?"

One of the most important and delicate aspects of slave training is asking the boy to determine his own punishment, making him take complete responsibility for his actions. It's also an interesting psychological game. New slaves always try to low-ball their punishment, thinking that they can pull one over on their master and get off with a slap on the wrist. They quickly learn that no slave is smarter than its master, and such insubordination leads to even stricter penalties. Some slaves think that they can attempt reverse psychology; they ask for a punishment far harsher than necessary, hoping that their owner will take pity on them. Again, no slave is smarter than its master. A conscientious and respectful slave will soon learn to recognize a punishment that is appropriate and will earnestly ask for it, however painful it may be.

Despite his occasional failings, Sunshine was shaping up to be an earnest, honest slave.

"Master, I should be whipped, Master."

"Hmmm. That certainly does seem appropriate. But remind me: Bongo was with you at the gym, was he not? Why didn't he make sure you came along with him in plenty of time for my arrival?"

For the first time, Sunshine was at a loss for words. A look of fear crossed Bongo's face.

"It seems to me that your failure is also Bongo's failure. Remember, boys: you are all brothers. When one of you lets your master down, all of you do. So it seems to me that Bongo should be punished as well. I think perhaps you should receive the spanking that Mister Tyson promised, Sunshine, and that it is Bongo who should be whipped. How would you like that, Sunshine? Be honest, boy." Bongo's usually ruddy complexion went white as a ghost.

"Master, I wouldn't like that, Master! Please whip me, Master! Just me, Master!"

"I didn't think you would. Which is precisely why you'll be spanked and Bongo will be whipped.You must learn that your inconsiderateness has effects on others. And Bongo has to learn to think about others more. Isn't that right, Bongo?"

"Master, yes, Master!"

"Good, then. Sunshine, take your proper place in front of your stall. The two of you will receive your punishment later. You boys have six new brothers to meet soon, and it will be valuable for them to observe."

The Boys in the Box Ch. 13-15

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings is morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

13.

At the mention of new stock, I sensed a shiver of excitement and anticipation pass through the five slaves kneeling before me. Surely some of my boys had guessed at this; while I had left the compound for two or three days here and there over the course of the past three months, my most recent trip was the only time throughout their training that I had been gone for two whole weeks, and of course they knew that the five boys who had formerly occupied the stalls opposite their own had all been sold just prior to my departure. Soon the five boys in front of me would be the seniors, rather than the freshmen. This was significant, not least of all because they would soon be released from the shiny steel chastity cages that had encased their cocks since March.

"Tiny," I said, turning my attention to the slave situated in front of stall number two, "fetch me a chair." As the slave jumped up to retrieve a sturdy oak chair from the far corner of the stables, I reflected on the humor of his name. The boy stood just over 6'5, with a long, ropy musculature. His creamy skin had the faintest undertone of pale brown, suggesting a drop of African ancestry mixed in with his mostly European heritage like a dash of biters in an otherwise perfectly clear martini. He had silky brown hair with a slight kink to it, kept close-cropped against his skull, a sharp nose, and a wide mouth with some of the biggest dick-sucking lips I'd ever seen on a boy.

Had the boy been 5'5 rather than 6'5, the name would still hold an ironic appeal due to the frankly ludicrous size of his endowment. Tiny had two low-hanging testicles the size of racket balls and a cock so prodigious that I had to special order an oversized cage just to contain it. To call it "thick" would be like calling Einstein "smart." Just under eight inches flaccid and a remarkable foot long turgid, even now it strained at the seven-inch chastity cage I'd had forged. Hung like a horse is an understatement; Tiny could make a stallion blush. To that end, I'd already put him through quite a bit of pony training and would increase that over the coming months at the behest of a buyer who had placed a speculative deposit on the slave.

Returning with the chair, I sat and instructed the boy to get on his knees in front of me.

"I'd like to see what you boys have been up to these past few weeks. Tiny, you may service my cock and balls while your brothers give me a little show. Would you like that, boys?""Master, yes, Master!" came the chorus of replies from my five kneeling slaves. To be honest, at this point, none of them meant it. They'd largely abandoned resistance, but were still simply trying to avoid punishment. That's why Sunshine was late; a spanking from one of my assistants is a relatively minor punishment, and should be eagerly accepted by a diligent slave in service of its true master. Right now, any punishment was dreaded. Some of the boys still probably harbored vague fantasies of escape, even though they knew intellectually it was impossible.

Still, I was pleased with their progress. My stock, half-trained though they were, were performing as expected and on schedule. Even if they were still disgusted by what they were made to do, they did it. By the time they were ready for market, they would love performing for me.

"Bongo and Sunshine, due to your disappointing morning you won't be playing. Go in the corner and give each other a proper scrub down and shave; I don't want to see a single hair beneath your eyebrows or a spec of dirt on the soles of your feet. Once you're done, clean each other out until the water runs so clean you could drink it. You'll be spending the evening at the big house and you had better be ready."

"Master, thank you, Master," they chirped in unison and scampered off. I couldn't help noticing a barely concealed look of disappointment on their faces; until now I'd allowed the boys to maintain a small patch of pubic hair. Denuding them was further punishment and would further cement their status as sexual playthings without any autonomy.

"Cubby and Icarus, step forward."

If you were to look up "corn-fed" in the dictionary, you'd find a picture of Cubby. Hailing from Nebraska, the former farm boy was six feet of solid muscle, with milky white skin, apple-red cheeks and a soft sweep of brown hair. He had a broad smile and had been remarkably eager to please from day one. My research told me that he had been a foster kid who'd bounced from group home to group home growing up. I'd heard that kids like that were always "performing," desperate for someone to keep them. Cubby certainly fit that mold, and I had no doubt he'd end up making his master extremely happy. His cock wasn't especially impressive, an average five and a half incher when hard, but what he lacked in that department he made up for with a beautiful, tight ass and a willingness to do absolutely anything requested of him. If I'm being perfectly honest, I will admit I felt a particular fondness for the lad.

Icarus, on the other hand, was Cubby's opposite in nearly every way, including his increasingly frustrating reluctance to perform. The boy was bred from pure Greek stock, with dark, shining eyes, a mop of black curls that flopped down over his ears and eyebrows, and unblemished olive skin. At 6'3, the boy was skinnier than Tiny, with a remarkably narrow waist, ass, and pecs that had seen only the barest development despite to the relentless exercise regimen I had assigned him. He did have beautifully toned legs, and despite his borderline scrawniness he possessed impressive stamina and was doing exceptionally well at pony training. He had an amusing habit of shifting his weight from one leg to another, like a horse cantering, when the long, silky horse-tail butt plug tickled the insides of his thighs. He seemed to take to the physical labor, perhaps because every minute spent hauling a cart was a minute spent not providing sexual service.

"Icarus, on your knees. Cubby, how long has it been since you've had a piss?""Master, not since this morning, Master."

"You must be about ready, then. You may relieve yourself in Icarus' mouth. Icarus, you'd better not spill a drop."The young stallion failed, or couldn't be bothered, to hide his disgust. All he said, though, was, "Master, I won't spill a drop, Master."

14.

It was, of course, a fool's errand.

Given the strict rules against any of my slaves touching his own or a brother's cock without explicit instruction, taking a full load of piss without spilling any was essentially impossible. Further complicating the matter was Cubby's swollen penis straining at its cage, the steel bars of which turned the pale yellow stream into a wide, unpredictable spray across Icarus' face and chest. To the slave's credit, he did manage to catch and swallow a fair amount.

"That was a rather disappointing display, Icarus. Clearly you need more practice. Until further notice, whenever you need a drink, you are to beg myself or one of my assistants for our piss. Do you understand, boy?"

"Master, yes, Master," said the sticky, humiliated lad, his usually bouncy black curls soaked and stuck to his forehead.

"Cubby, you made a bit of a mess. Lick every stray drop off your brother's body.""Master, yes, Master! Thank you, Master!"

The sight of my beautiful teenage muscle stud running his thick pink tongue over every inch of his mate's lean, dripping, olive torso was nearly enough to make me come on the spot. Instead, I reached down to Tiny's collar and brought him to his feet, leading him around behind the chair and bending him over the back of it. Reaching down, I unceremoniously popped out the slave's butt plug and dropped it on the seat in front of him.

"I trust that this hole is nice and clean for me, boy?"

"Master, yes, Master!" Tiny replied. I licked my right index finger and shoved my thick digit knuckle deep into the slave's tight, shaved hole. I grinned at Tiny's little gasp as I twisted my finger inside, tickling the boy's cunt. I pulled it out and took a good sniff; it smelled of musk and sweat, earthy but clean.

"Good boy," I said, lowering my face to the slave's tight little hole. I pulled apart his pale, dun cheeks and dove in, my three-day beard tickling the boy's tender rosebud while my tongue explored him more intimately. As I worked my tongue in and out of his anus, Tiny began emitting a low, involuntary moan of pleasure, amplified when I brought my hand up between his legs and began to knead his pendulous testicles with my left hand. Almost immediately, a steady stream of precum began spilling from the slave's locked cock.

"Tell me, Tiny, who do these balls belong to?" I asked between long licks up and down the boy's twitching crack, punctuating my query with a good hard squeeze to his jewels.

"Master, they belong to you, Master!" he yelped. I gave him a solid smack on his right flank.

"Excellent answer, boy. And who does this tight little slave hole belong to, boy?" Another swat.

"Master, this tight slave hole belongs to you, Master!"

"Precisely correct. Is there anything you'd like me to do with it, boy?" Another swat. He let out a little yelp, half pain, half pleasure.

"Master, please fuck this slave cunt, Master!" he squealed, sounding a little surprised to hear himself utter the request, begging for me to fuck his pussy.

"With pleasure, boy!"

15.

I'm the first to admit that I don't have the world's largest dick. At a reasonably thick nine inches, I'm no slouch, but compared to Tiny, my cock is practically a rounding error. Despite some men's hangup on dick size, though, I find it doesn't matter a whit to a slave whether your meat is three inches or thirteen the moment you bury it inside his tight, straight hole. Tiny squealed like a stuck pig as I grabbed his hips and rammed the full length of my member up his fuck chute, my balls slapping against his ass.

Unlike some men in my business, I don't train my boys to stoically hide their pain or pleasure, to lie motionless and quiet like a wet fish while they take a cock. If my clients were interested in a lifeless sex doll, they could buy one much more cheaply than any of my merchandise. When a man fucks his slave, he wants an active, though obviously not equal, participant in the act. All of my boys are allowed and encouraged to grunt, moan, yelp and squeal like the little piggies I've trained them to be. As I pounded away at Tiny's hole, he punctuated each stab, each ping on his prostate, with a little grunt. From past experience I knew that by the time I unloaded inside him those grunts would turn to high-pitched whines. Tiny had an impressive range.

Laying into the slave, feeling his sphincter tighten around my cock with each thrust, slapping his ass as he bucked his hips against mine, I looked up to see Cubby, still dutifully lapping at a now piss-free Icarus, who looked uncomfortable and shiny with his brother's spit.

"I think Icarus is clean enough, Cubby. Why don't you two show how fond you are of each other and kiss while I finish fucking your brother?" I called out with a smile. The two boys immediately had their tongues in each other's mouth, or at least Cubby had his tongue in Icarus'. It was extremely erotic watching this pair of beautiful, straight teens making out with each other for my entertainment, their dicks leaking prodigiously against their will, while I felt their slave brother squirming beneath me.

I continued to fuck Tiny's hole for another twenty or thirty minutes, enjoying the show in front of me, occasionally glancing to the far corner of the stables where Sunshine and Bongo, now completely hairless from the noses down, were squirting crystal clear, ice cold water out their asses and down the drain in the floor after what was probably each boy's dozenth enema.

I was ready to pop. Pulling Tiny up from his bent position and pressing his oversized, smooth slave flesh against my hairy musculature, I unloaded inside the boy's ass. As I dumped my seed into his rectum I bit down on the slave's well-muscled shoulder, my groan of satisfaction harmonizing with his squeal of pain and pleasure, both sounds diminishing into sighs of spent satisfaction. Still inside him, I called to Cubby and Icarus, who crawled over like eager puppies.

"Cubby, clean my cock. Icarus, suck your master's seed out of Tiny's asshole. I expect you not to make another mess," I instructed as I pulled my shaft out of the slave's still-twitching cunt.

"Master, thank you, Master!" the boys replied in unison. As Cubby dutifully slurped the sweat, cum, and anal juices off my cock as eagerly as a kid with a lollipop, I watched Icarus turn a deep crimson as he set to his task. Of all his brothers, he was certainly the most resentful of his station. While no longer displaying outright disobedience, he was plainly the least acclimated and accepting of his new life. I'd have to really buckle down if I wanted to turn a decent profit on him at the end of the summer.

With my cock and my slave's hole given thorough tongue baths, I replugged Tiny's ass and sent the boys back to display position in front of their respective stalls. I checked my watch; it was nearly five o'clock. A bit early for dinner, but some of my boys had a long night ahead. I walked to the back of the stables, pulled a bucket of Viagra-spiked chow out of the small walk-in refrigerator and poured it into the feeding trough. A quick whistle brought the five straight teens crawling over on all fours to feed.

I smiled as they eagerly lapped up the grey slop. For the moment, there was plenty of room for the five slaves to feed in relative comfort and dinner was an almost calm affair; soon they'd be joined by six new brothers, all eleven trying to eat at once, the boys pushing and jostling like eleven newborn pups jockeying for position at their mother's teats. I never let my boys go hungry, but it is always amusing watching each one fight for his share.

As the boys literally licked the trough clean, a buzz in my pocket pulled me out of my reverie. It was a message from Dr. Bohrman, letting me know he would be by the stables shortly for the boys' check-ups. I instructed the boys to clean up and await the good doctor in their stalls. There was no need for me to observe the physicals; he'd be my guest at the big house tonight and would give me the full report over dinner. I reminded Bongo and Sunshine that they would joining us and instructed them to provide their veterinarian with transportation back to the house for dinner after he completed his inspections.

Due to their small statures, neither of the boys would ever make a proper pony slave, but the two of them together could certainly carry a small carriage with one passenger over the half mile between the stables and the big house. Not to mention the lads looked absolutely adorable with bit gags in their mouths and, knowing Dr. Bohrman's tastes, I imagined that each would be sporting a few bright red marks on their hinds where his driving whip had encouraged them to go faster. It would be a mere taste of what awaited the lads who had disappointed me this afternoon.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 16-18

by ! ©

Author's note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

16.

JoJo was not a pony. Like Bongo and Sunshine, he simply wasn't built for the job, and on my relatively modest estate a true pony slave would be wasted. Ponies need space, and as such owning them is only practical where they can carry their master over long distances, running for miles and miles in the sun. Sprawling European manors, private islands, parts of the Middle East where sheiks and princes can display their slaves with impunity - these are proper homes for ponies, not my small, discreet three-hundred acre compound. I would no sooner keep a pony on my land than I would a mastiff in a Manhattan studio apartment.

That said, JoJo was trained to shuttle me here and there on the estate. And like a proper pony, he had picked up the trick of napping on his feet while awaiting his master's pleasure. Exiting the stables in the late afternoon sunshine, I found my blond-haired boy standing and snoozing, a tiny ribbon of drool escaping his mouth around his bit gag. He was almost too cute rouse.

Almost. A sharp flick of the riding crop on the slave's left flank brought him to immediate attention.

"I need to check on the new stock. Be quick about it, it's nearly suppertime and we have a guest."

We were off at once. It was a quick sprint to the unassuming shed where I store new acquisitions until they are ready for the stables. While we awaited the results of Dr. Bohrman's blood tests, the boys had to be properly shaved, cleaned, cuffed, and given time take in the gravity of their new situation. That day or two kept locked inside, gagged and blinded, completely unable to see their new world or communicate with their captors, is crucial to the understanding and eventual acceptance of a slave's fate.

Entering the shed, I was greeted with a beautiful sight. There before me were six new slaves strung up from the rafters like so many slabs of beef, standing on tip-toes, eyes masked, mouths gagged, rectums lovingly plugged. Tyson and Jake had spent the afternoon giving them an initial grooming; gone was any hair below the eyebrows, save for the small patches of pubes I allowed. Most slaves are eventually permanently depilated, but in the meantime I liked to leave them with a small remnant of manhood. I find it charming, not to mention convenient to grab.

"Looks like they're coming along well," I said to Jake. "They give you any trouble?"

"The little wetback tried to bite me when I shaved off his trash 'stache," my assistant replied, "but otherwise they've been pretty docile."

I looked over at Pollo, a small purple bruise on his jaw standing witness to his disobedience. I supposed he didn't require any further punishment. Nor, judging from the six-inch erection he was sporting, did I anticipate too much more resistance.

"No slurs, please, Jacob." I only addressed him by his full first name when rebuking him. "This is a quality establishment, not some back alley brothel. Anyway, that one's a little pantywaist, in case you hadn't already guessed. Don't rough her up too much; she's going to make some old queen very happy. If you're done all done with the initial processing, you and Tyson may call it a night."A quick "Thanks, boss," from my chagrined assistant and he and Tyson were packing up to head home. It was an unusually early evening for them, but there was no need to guard six gagged, blinded, and immobilized boys. We'd all be pulling long hours in the coming weeks, and their was no reason not to give them a break while I could afford it.

"Feel free to have a quick fuck or suck with Icarus, Tiny, or Cubby before you leave," I called over my shoulder, almost as an afterthought. "But hands off Bongo and Sunshine, they're working tonight."

Alone in the shed, I allowed myself to drink in the sight of my six new slaves, raw and ready to be trained.

"Hello, boys. You don't know me yet, but I am your new owner. Every inch of your bodies belongs to me. Over the next several months, I will train you into strong, capable, desirable pieces of slave flesh. You're going to resist me at first. Just know that the sooner you accept what you are, the better your new lives will be. I'm looking forward to getting to know each of you very well."

A few gagged mumbles of anger, perhaps cries for help, struggled to make it past the thick rubber penises invading my slaves' mouths. Ignoring them, I sauntered up to Sparky, grabbed his chin, and leaned in close to his ear. When I spoke, my voice was firm, but not unkind.

"You disobeyed a direct order, boy. You will be punished. For your sake, I hope you learn from your mistakes." Then, louder, "Sweet dreams, boys!"

I kissed him on the cheek, feeling his body try to shrink from my embrace, before making my exit. I headed towards the door, flicked off the lights, and sauntered out into the early evening air. Placing a thick padlock on the door behind me, I called out, "Home, James!"

17.

As we entered the big house, I dismissed JoJo to prepare dinner while I returned to my rooms to freshen up. One of the many benefits of owning a personal slave is having a live-in cook. I personally am a disaster in the kitchen, but fortunately Jake is an accomplished chef and was more than happy to train JoJo to save me from a life of canned soup and frozen tikka masala.

Entering my bedroom, I was pleased, if not entirely surprised, to see that JoJo hadn't simply spent the day standing in the sun and waiting for me to finish my work. Instead, he had taken the initiative to quietly return home, select an appropriate outfit for dinner, lay out my clothes and return to the exact spot where I had left him outside the stables. A good slave does what is demanded of it; a truly great slave learns to anticipate its master's needs even before its master. JoJo was proving, time and time again, to be a truly excellent slave. Not for the first time, I reflected on his eventual "retirement;" he is still young, but sooner than later his youth would fade, his ass would begin to sag, and he would need replacing. Perhaps I could keep him on here to assist in training the new boys, rather than selling him to some Asian brothel or a plantation owner in need of field laborers in Africa. Perhaps.

For the time being, though, I set to the task of preparing for my guest. Stripping out of my dusty work clothes, I slipped into the clean pair of dark jeans, fitted black oxford, and freshly shined black boots that JoJo had picked out. I made my way back down to the kitchen, where I found an ice cold martini waiting and JoJo hard at work.

"How's the sauce, boy?"

JoJo dipped a finger into the red wine demi-glace he was stirring and held it up for me to taste, smiling. Licking it off his finger, I let him know that it was indeed delicious. I stuck a finger in the pan, shoved my sticky digit in JoJo's hole, and knelt down to lick it out of my slave's beautiful ass. JoJo gasped and giggled as I sucked the sweet sauce back out of his perfectly smooth anus.

"Oh dear, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything!" came a cry of feigned surprise and scandalization. There stood my veterinarian, Dr. Etienne Bohrman, at the kitchen door, flanked on either side by Bongo and Sunshine on their knees, both panting and slightly sweaty from exertion.

"Not at all, Etienne! Looks like you gave my lads quite a work out!"

"Well, you know me," said the slim, slightly effeminate doctor. Etienne was in his "early late thirties," and had a penchant for taut, young boyflesh. "I know we were supposed to come right over, but I had such a good time watching their little asses bouncing along that I just had to take a few extra laps around the property. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all," I replied with a grin. "What's mine is yours. Isn't that right, boys?"

"Master, yes, Master!" agreed Bongo and Sunshine between pants. The red stripes on their hindquarters indicated that Dr. Bohrman had enjoyed the ride.

The doctor, the boys and I excused ourselves to the sitting room while JoJo continued preparing dinner. Watching Bongo struggle to mix Dr. Bohrman's martini, I made a note that the slave required more thorough domestic training. I nearly had a stroke when he looked like he was going to shake the drink, but Sunshine stepped in at just the right moment to remind him that a martini must always be stirred. Once Bongo delivered the cocktail, Etienne patted the cushion on the plush couch beside him. The boy gave me a trepidatious look; as a matter of course, slaves are not allowed on the furniture. I simply nodded my assent, and Bongo curled up on the seat next to Dr. Bohrman, placing his head in his lap. I gestured for Sunshine to do the same next to me. Stroking my slave's blond hair, the doctor and I began our pre-dinner conversation.

18.

Etienne Bohrman was a client of mine before I was a client of his. We met on Fire Island about six or seven summers ago, shortly after he had begun his plastic surgery practice in Manhattan. I was visiting a prospective buyer and his husband at their home in the Pines, having brought along a couple of slaves I thought would be especially well-suited to their particular tastes. (I don't really make house calls any more, but in the earlier days of my operation it was an important part of building a clientele.)

Etienne was a weekend guest at their home. The young doctor came from old money; he worked because he needed something to do, not cash. The amount of money and power his family wielded meant that, even if he didn't technically own them, Etienne was used to viewing everyone around him as a servant. We became fast friends, and he ended up purchasing the boy the couple passed on, a blond wisp of a lad who looked younger than his eighteen years. Etienne said he'd put him in his carry-on for the flight home; I'm still not entirely sure he was joking.

In any case, we were soon business partners. I paid Etienne handsomely to ensure the health of my stock and perform the occasional elective procedure. To ensure his discretion, I also provided him with ample access to the freshest slave pussy available, along with the pick of the litter whenever he grew tired of his personal slave. I suspected he was cooling on his current boy and would be in the market again soon; he'd bought a 5'2 Mexican named Licorice with a tiny waist and beautiful ass from me about three years ago and hadn't even deigned to bring the boy along on this business trip.

While I tousled Sunshine's hair, I noticed Etienne had removed Bongo's plug and was working his middle finger inside the boy's ass. The slim little slave was practically purring. As he casually finger-fucked the eighteen-year-old, Dr. Bohrman gave me the run-down of the day's activities.

"I'm afraid there's nothing especially exciting to report. All your old stock seem fit and healthy. The new boys are dee-lish and I can't seem to find a fault. I dropped off their blood samples with my friend in town, but unless one of these vestal virgins stepped on a used needle somewhere I rather doubt you've anything to worry about."

"That's good to hear. What about this new anti-aging treatment you thought I might find useful?"

His eyes lit up as he slipped his index finger alongside its mate into Bongo's rectum. The boy's eyes fluttered open for a moment and he let out a little gasp before he settling back down.

"Oh, YES, darling! I nearly forgot!" he exclaimed as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of what looked like lotion. Tossing it to me, he said, "Enjoy - first one's on the house. It's called Eroxofil. It was supposed to be the new Botox, only better because it's a topical treatment. Unfooooortunately, there's a teensy side effect that makes it rather unsuitable for market. It tightens the skin and sub-dermal muscles like you won't believe, but it makes 'em itch like a mother. Only way to relieve the sensation is to stretch the tissue back out."

"So what good does that do me?" I asked, examining the bottle.

"Well..." he said, drawing the word out into about seven syllables. "Say you stick it up Bongo here's pretty little cunt." He added a third finger; the boy squealed. "It's gonna tighten that hot little sphincter like shrink wrap under a hair dryer and he'll be literally itching to get his hole filled up and stretched out again. Boy'll practically beg for it, I imagine. Entertaining to say the least, could be useful as a training method as well."

"Interesting." I pondered the tube in my hand. "I suppose we'll need to try this out.""I suppose we will," he chuckled, flashing a wicked grin. Right as he was about to stick a fourth finger up Bongo's ass, JoJo alerted us that dinner was ready. We finished our cocktails and made our way to the dining room, Sunshine and Bongo padding along behind.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 19-21

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

19.

Dinner was a simple affair - rare steaks in JoJo's delicious demi-glace (although, for my money, it tasted better served out of the lad's tender hole), a light salad, and roasted fingerling potatoes. JoJo served the wine, making sure that neither of our glasses went dry, while Bongo and Sunshine paid similar attention to our cocks beneath the table, gently lapping at our shafts and sacks while we dined. Occasionally my guest would discretely slip a morsel of food to Sunshine, giving into the boy like a doting pet owner capitulating to a dog begging for scraps.

The slaves beneath the table knew better than to bring either of us to completion while we ate; such a breach of etiquette would be embarrassing to the diners and ensure a nasty punishment for the boy. I thought perhaps Sunshine had gone a bit too far when, near the end of our meal, a look of surprise crossed my guest's face. Fortunately, it was only his phone buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, Dr. Bohrman glanced at his screen and shared the good news.

"Ah! I've just received the final results on the blood work from your new batch. Looks like you're in proud possession of six perfectly healthy young bucks. Congratulations."

"Wonderful, that means I can stable them in the morning. I'm pleased we won't have to wait another day; no doubt Bongo and Sunshine are eager to meet their new brothers. Isn't that right, boys?"

Their mouths full of our free cocks, the two straight teens beneath the table nevertheless managed to answer a muffled, "Mffter, yeff, Mffter!"

"What say we skip dessert and make our way to my den, Etienne? I'm eager to get the evening's entertainment underway."

Immediately, the boys eased off our cocks and tenderly returned our half-hard equipment into our pants, zipping up our flies as we stood. Of course I've seen Etienne's cock plenty of times (and it's quite impressive, especially on his slim frame), but while I try not to stand on ceremony, I believe that certain traditions are worth retaining. I find it much more dignified to walk from room to room without my tumescence bouncing as I go. Some things must separate man from slave.

The two of us headed to my parlor to unwind, followed by the boys. Bongo and Sunshine padded along behind on all fours, while JoJo carried himself on his hind legs with the dignity befitting his station in the house. Upon reaching the luxuriously appointed room, I invited the good doctor to avail himself of a richly overstuffed armchair. As soon as he sunk in, the two young slaves immediately removed his shoes and began worshipping his tired feet.

I fetched some drinks, pouring two healthy tumblers of Pappy Van Winkle 23-year-old bourbon from my prized Steuben decanter. The entire set was a bit of a splurge I made celebrating my first sale, a remarkably beautiful redhead I'd met at an audition in Manhattan, with green eyes and seemingly as many freckles dotting his milky skin as stars in the Milky Way. The slave must be over thirty years old now, I realized with a start, although in my mind's eye he was still that nineteen-year-old boy. For a moment, I wondered where he was. I'd sold him to a an impossibly wealthy, and ancient, Broadway producer who died three or four years later. It was possible a favorite nephew inherited the boy, or perhaps he was sold on by relatives eager to liquidate the old man's estate.

Snapping out of my brief reverie, I turned to my guest. In my right hand I held his tumbler, in my left JoJo's rapidly inflating cock. Placing the tumbler beneath the slave's piss slit, I slowly began stroking his shaft.

"I think I remember how you like your whiskey? Just a drop?"

"You, sir, are a truly unparalleled host," chuckled my friend, as a thick dollop of precum leaked out of JoJo's turgid member and into Dr. Bohrman's glass. I gave the slave's balls an appreciative squeeze and dismissed him to clean up in the dining room, reminding him to return after.

I once again gazed lovingly at JoJo's bouncing cheeks as he returned to his work, a sight I truly never tired of. Handing my guest his drink, we settled down to business.

20.

The two eighteen year old slaves worshipping Dr. Bohrman's feet each jumped a little bit at the sharp SNAP! as he put on his latex surgical gloves.

"You don't want to get any of this stuff on you," the doctor explained, sensing my puzzlement, "unless you relish the sensation of a swarm of fire ants nibbling at your fingers."

"Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose?" I asked with some trepidation, "I'm not going to use a rubber to fuck my own slave."

"Oh, dear me, no! No need! Once the Eroxofil has been completely absorbed by the tissue, there's absolutely no danger of transfer."

"And how will we know when it's been completely absorbed?"

"Trust me. You'll know," he giggled. His voice dropped about half an octave and took on a decidedly authoritarian tone as he instructed, "Spread those slave cheeks and present your straight little assholes, boys."

The boys turned away from the doctor and fell to the floor in anal presentation position: knees bent, chest and heads on the ground with asses stuck straight up, arms thrust back spreading their cheeks as wide as possible to expose their tight little rosebuds, still securely plugged. Not exactly comfortable, but nothing compared to what was coming.

Etienne bent forward to inspect his work space, popping out their plugs and making a show of checking their sphincters for any tearing or bruising, despite the fact that he'd already been well acquainted with them not three hours prior during their physicals in the stables. Apparently satisfied, he dove face-first into Sunshine's smooth boypussy, dancing over the slave's crack and inner thighs with his latex-covered fingers while his tongue lapped at his asshole. The ticklish teen, unable to control his laughter, started to giggle and squirm, desperately trying to maintain his posture. It was pretty hot, but not what we were there for. After thirty seconds or so, I casually cleared my throat.

"Is this part of the application process?" I inquired.

"Oh, you never let me have any fun," Etienne sighed as he reluctantly extricated his face from the slave's anus. I tossed him the bottle of lotion, whereupon he squirted a large dollop on his right index finger and began slowly circling Sunshine's sphincter. After a few moments, he announced, "Here we go!" and unceremoniously shoved the entire digit into the boy's asshole as Sunshine gave a little squeal of pain and pleasure.

After working the lotion into the slave's rectum for about a minute, he repeated the process with Bongo. Satisfied with his work, he peeled off his gloves, dropped them in the waste bin by the wet bar and washed his hands. As he finished washing up, he remarked, "We should probably do something to keep their fingers out of there. Otherwise these little pieces of boyflesh are going to be elbow deep in their own assholes in, oh..." He trailed off, glancing down at the Patek-Philippe Grand Complications on his wrist. "Eight and a half minutes."

21.

One entire wall of my den is occupied by an enormous mahogany breakfront cabinet. It's been in my family for generations, but whereas previous owners used it to show off their finest china and crystal, I've elected to showcase the various custom dildos, butt plugs, and implements of erotic torture I've collected over the years. Ambling over to it, I opened one of the top drawers and retrieved a two pairs of fist mitts. The mitts were custom-made in Florence from full-grain, Italian calf and lined in cashmere.

As I called my boys over to me and fitted their hands inside the mitts, snapping them in place with small silver padlocks, I idly wondered if my slaves truly appreciated the level of luxury I bestowed on them. The hand-crafted sacks of leather wrapping Sunshine's hands had cost as much as a semester's tuition at the small state school where the boy had been studying before his capture. But then, I supposed that was the beauty of slavery. They no longer had to consider such pedestrian trivialities as expense, any more than a cow or a pig might consider the cost of its feed; whether the mitts cost twenty dollars or twenty thousand was beyond their ken.

"Now what?" I asked my friend as I clipped each slave's mitts together in front of him, making it impossible for the boys to reach their assholes.

"Now, I need a refill," he replied. "The Eroxofil should kick in any moment. Maybe let them stand in the center of the room and wait for the show to begin?"

"Fair enough," I nodded as I rose to refill our glasses. "You heard the doctor. Back to back, boys. Sunshine may face me. Bongo, present yourself to our guest."

We lounged in our chairs, considered the toned flesh of the teenage slaves on display in front of us, Sunshine with his broad pecs and bulging biceps and Bongo with his narrow waist and almost girlish definition, and sipped our bourbon while we waited for the drug to take effect.

We didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, the boys' eyes widened to the size of saucers, and my normally well-behaved and docile slaves began fidgeting. Sunshine couldn't help letting out a little moan. I couldn't see Bongo's face, but the way he was clenching his shoulders and shaking his shaggy hair told me he was feeling the effects as well. The slaves began, perhaps subconsciously, rubbing their pert asses against each other as each struggled to maintain his composure. These efforts were ultimately in vain.

I've obviously never experienced, first-hand, the effects of Eroxofil, and I have precisely zero intention of ever doing so. But Etienne was kind enough to share some medical research, and after reading up, I feel confident in relating what can only be described as a singular experience. Patients in the clinical trials of the drug compared the sensation to the itch of poison ivy. One particularly colorful respondent said it was "like scabies and pubic lice got together and had an orgy on my face." One can only imagine what the drug was doing to the sensitive tissues of my slaves' tender fucktunnels. I didn't even fault the boys for falling to the floor, panting and moaning and scooting their asses on the carpet like a pair of dogs in heat.

"How long will this last?" I inquired, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Indefinitely," came the giggling reply. "They'll go on like this until the tissue gets stretched back out. I suppose it might wear off eventually, but I wouldn't want to be the one to wait for that!" By now neither of us could contain our laughter as we enjoyed the sight of the two straight lads squirming on the ground, desperate for something, anything to fill their itching holes.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 22-24

by ! ©

Author's note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

22.

"Well, I suppose we should help these boys out," I remarked as I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes and JoJo returned from cleaning up the dining room. "JoJo," I said, "How would you like to assist Sunshine and Bongo? I'm sure you can see how desperate they are for a good hard fuck, and I think you're just the slave to give it to them." A broad, grateful smile spread across JoJo's face, revealing his beautifully white teeth. "Master, thank you, Master!" His penis, kept in a state of permanent partial erection by his golden cock ring, quickly bloomed to its full eight inches and in no time the larger, stronger slave was making full use of the almost preternaturally tightened assholes of the younger slaves beneath him. His strong hands grabbed Sunshine by the hips and pulled the boy's twitching bottom towards his face, spitting on the slave's hole. With nothing but spit and sweat to ease his entrance, he thrust his cock up the teen's fuckchute. Sunshine shrieked, the sound of his voice and the look on his face communicating an exquisite blend of pain, pleasure, and relief as his rectum stretched to accommodate JoJo's thick meat. As he pumped his way inside the teenager, I thought again about the first and only time JoJo had ever fucked a woman, pleased to see that while his stamina had increased, he could jackhammer away at a pussy with the same great gusto.

After laying into Sunshine for a good ten minutes, I instructed JoJo to leave him be while he went to work on the still suffering Bongo. As he pulled out and made his way to the mop-topped slave squirming a few feet away, Sunshine let out a little sob.

"No, JoJo! Please come back! I need you to keep fucking me, please!" begged the little blond slave, looking very much like JoJo's attention-starved little brother. Ignoring the boy's pleas, JoJo pounded away at Bongo, giving his asshole sweet relief while Sunshine begged desperately for more dick. He wasn't bucking and squirming quite as wildly as he had been, so clearly the fucking had alleviated some of the slave's distress, but he obviously wasn't out of the woods entirely. Continuing to hammer away at the asshole of an ecstatic Bongo, JoJo looked with something akin to pity at the muscle twink rolling on his back like a turtle baking in the sun. He looked at me questioningly, and I nodded.

JoJo pulled out of Bongo and dragged him by the collar to the center of the room next to Sunshine. In short order, he had the boys side by side on all fours, their asses twitching invitingly. Squatting with his hand on each of the younger slaves' outer hips, he deep-dicked their holes one after the other. First Bongo, then Sunshine, then Bongo, and so on. This display of impressive athleticism continued for a good twenty minutes, as the smell of sweat and sex filled the room. Seeing that Bongo and Sunshine seemed to have calmed down and regained their composures, I surmised that the drug's effects had been properly ameliorated. I gave JoJo permission to unload his seed in the hole of whichever boy he pleased, a rare treat for the slave. After properly thanking me, he drove his full manhood into Sunshine's cunt and deposited his load, releasing a low, guttural moan of perfect satisfaction as he did so.

JoJo let out a sigh and pulled himself off the smaller boy. Without even needing to be told, Bongo set to work slurping JoJo's spunk out of his brother's throbbing red hole, while Sunshine gratefully cleaned the alpha slave's cock with his tongue. His equipment clean, I dismissed JoJo to prepare my chambers for the evening and gazed with fondness at the two sweat-slicked young slaves on the floor in front of me.

23.

I was abashed to realize that I had been so wrapped up in the theatrics before me that I had completely forgotten my guest, sitting across from me and indiscreetly stroking himself through his trousers in a state of obvious arousal.

"My, Etienne, where are my manners? Sunshine, take care of our guest!"More or less coming to his senses, Sunshine crawled over to Dr. Bohrman and freed the doctor's ten inch monster from it's cloth prison. Bongo followed, continuing to slurp up JoJo's cum from his brother's asshole while Sunshine inhaled the cock in front of him. Once I was confident that he'd hoovered every last drop of spunk from Sunshine's rectum, I instructed him to join his brother in worshipping my friend's ample meat. The two of them took turns slobbering all over his shaft and balls until his toes began to curl and it was clear to everyone in the room that he was on the verge of release.

Dr. Bohrman pushed the two teenage slaves' faces off his massive pole. Each boy wrapped one hand around his shaft and began to pump. Knowing what was coming, the boys opened their mouths wide and positioned themselves a few inches from his engorged purple mushroom, awaiting their reward. In a matter of seconds the doctor shot his massive load all over the boys' faces, mouths, and chests, covering my property in his sticky jism.

I ordered the boys to clean up; soon they were licking every last drop of semen off each other, as well as lapping up the small pools of various bodily fluids that had ended up on the floor.

"Well, old friend, that was quite the display," I remarked as I watched the boys tonguing each other's lithesome bodies. "Anything left in the bottle?"

"As the slogan goes, 'A Little Dab'll Do 'Ya!' We barely used a quarter of it!" he exclaimed, tossing the tube back to me. It was certainly an entertaining party trick, and I began to turn over in my head the various ways I could use it to train recalcitrant slaves. "That stuff's not cheap, but if you'd like more I can get it for you at wholesale prices," he said, yawning in his lazy, post-orgasm haze.

I looked at my watch. It was just after ten; hardly late, but I still hadn't properly caught up on sleep, and both the boys and I had a very big day tomorrow. It was definitely bedtime.

"Well, Etienne, I'm afraid I must call it a night. You're welcome to stay over, although I'm afraid I can't offer you a bedwarmer as I need all my boys bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing in the morning to meet their new brothers."

"Oh, that's not necessary. I actually need to catch a red-eye to Macau. One of my Triad clients wants me to take a look at some Thai boy he won in a poker game. No rest for the wicked, and all that.""Very well. Thank you again for all of your help. It's always so wonderful to see you. Let's not wait so long next time," I said with a weary smile. "Bongo and Sunshine can carry you to your rental car. And then straight to bed, boys! You have a big day ahead."

24.

I rose early, despite the fact that I was still running at something of a deficit where sleep was concerned. The clock on the nightstand let me know that it was just after five-thirty in the morning. Jake and Tyson would already be on the property, giving the new slaves one last rinse, inside and out, before trussing them up and delivering them to the stables where they'd be living for the next half year. I activated the overhead lights with the remote app on my phone and nudged JoJo, curled up at the foot of my bed, with my heel. Instantly the slave was awake and on his knees in front of me, his pink, pillowy lips wrapping themselves around my morning wood to accept my piss.

Of course the slave didn't spill a drop; it had been well over two year since he had. He continued to nurse my cock once the stream had run dry, no doubt seeking a little cream for his "coffee." Most mornings I availed myself of his attention, but today there was too much to do. I even showered on my own, instead sending JoJo to prepare my breakfast. The scent of the coffee and bacon waiting at my desk filled my nostrils as I exited my bathroom. As I sat down to eat, JoJo set to work polishing my outfit for the day.

I don't put much stock in the stereotypical "leather daddy" uniform; for the most part, I wear jeans and a t-shirt. The accoutrement of the S&M scene has always struck me as more fit for dress-up than the down-and-dirty business of slave handling. On certain occasions, though, I find value in the costume. With the exception of Awol, none of the new slaves had ever laid eyes on me. This morning I intended to make a powerful first impression.

I finished breakfast and headed down to the kitchen, leaving JoJo hard at work polishing my leathers to a shining, almost impossibly black perfection. I pulled a can of turkey chili out of the pantry and poured about half out into a large metal doggie dish. Stopping at the breakfront in my den, I retrieved the black velvet bag in which I kept JoJo's collar and cuffs.

I returned to my chambers and found JoJo, having finished polishing and laying out my clothes, kneeling at the foot of the bed with my leather jock in his mouth like a dutiful labrador with his master's morning newspaper. I couldn't help but grin at the sight. I set the dish down by the door and walked over the kneeling slave, retrieving my jock and mussing his hair. "Breakfast, boy!" I smiled, indicating the bowl of room temperature stew on the floor. JoJo's eyes lit up and he looked at the bowl and then back to me. "Go ahead, boy!" I encouraged, and he crawled over to the dish, diving in face first and hungrily gobbling it up. I don't keep JoJo fitted with a tail, or even a plug as a matter of course, but I could practically see him wagging as he tucked in. For the most part I feed him the same chow that the other slaves get, but sometimes I can't help but dote. He had put on such a good show last night, and today was a special occasion after all. I'd have happily given him the entire can, but knew it was more generous to limit his portion; when you get used to a strict, regimented diet, as my boys do, too much rich food can wreak havoc on one's digestive system.

By the time I had slipped into my leather jock and chaps, JoJo had licked his bowl clean and padded back to me, gazing up at me from all fours with a look of near religious ecstasy. The young slave was panting with pleasure, sauce all over the lower half of his face. I playfully nudged him away and told him to clean up and then finish dressing me. In no time, the slave was back, face freshly scrubbed, and helped me first into my calf-high boots and then my thick leather harness. Properly dressed, I retrieved the bag that held JoJo's decidedly skimpier outfit.

On a day to day basis, I don't keep JoJo collared or cuffed. The boy knows his place and doesn't need a ring around his neck to remind him of his status. (Of course he does have that thick golden cock ring, but that's mostly to deliver instruction when I can't do so in person.) Today, though, he needed to dress the part in the same way that I did. In his own way, I think JoJo actually took pride in his special accessories; the solid gold collar and cuffs were worth almost as much as one of my slaves, after all. I secured each cuff in place around his wrists and ankles with a small golden padlock, and then did the same with his thick, weighty collar. From the front dangled a small golden tag with JOJO set in delicate black diamonds.

Both of us looking our part, we set out for the stables.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 25-27

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

25.

Before we entered the stables, I attached a gold chainlink leash to JoJo's collar. Like his other bonds, it was completely unnecessary. Hell, it was irrelevant; the twenty-four karat gold was soft enough, and the links fine enough, that the athletic young slave could easily snap it apart by taking off at a decent trot. But optics are important on mornings like this. And so, the leash. Likewise, I had the boy drop to his knees and follow me in on all fours, his posture giving the lie to his actual position in my household, at least compared to the eleven slaves inside (and even, perhaps, to Jake and Tyson, although I'd never admit it to them.)

Inside the barn was a sight that never failed to delight me. Placed in front of six empty stalls were six full-length mirrors. In front of six full length mirrors were six fuck benches, pieces of furniture about the size and shape of a flat-topped doghouse with padded ledges for ankles and knees, where a young man could be secured in place with easy access to his cunt available to one and all. In the far corner of the building, Jake and Tyson with a coffle of six boys cuffed together at the wrists. Only days ago these cocky youths had been princes of their own tiny worlds; now they were about to receive their first (except for Pollo, of course; Etienne's inspection confirmed, as I expected, that the boy's ass was not exactly virgin) proper fuckings, along with a complete introduction to their new lives.

The boys were still blindfolded and gagged, with black silicone cuffs locked to their wrists and ankles. Each boy's wrist was attached to one of his fellow slaves, forming something akin to the kinkiest game of Ring Around The Rosie in human history. Around each boy's genitals was perhaps the most important implement in my training toolbox, a thick silver cock ring connected wirelessly to an app on my phone, and those of my trainers, capable of delivering painless morse-code style instruction, waves of vibrating pleasure, or almost unimaginable pain from anywhere on the property. In consideration of the morning's festivities, they hadn't been replugged after their enemas, nor were they yet collared. That pleasure would be left to me. I instructed Tyson and Jake which boy would be housed in which stall, and one by one the boys were disconnected from each other and bound to the fuck benches in front of his new home.

As each boy was locked in place, his blindfold was removed. Squinting in the brightness, their eyes widened in fear as their eyes adjusted to the light and the blur of brown and grey clarified into the reality of their situation, of bars and stalls and muscular men clad in black leather, and of their new slave selves reflected in the mirrors in front of them.

Whereas I like to carry a riding crop, Jake and Tyson carry thick, black police-style batons at all times. I make frequent use of the crop; I don't think either of them has ever had to use one on a slave (except perhaps as a dildo), but, again, the visual helps the boys understand their situation. I presently borrowed Jake's baton and walked down the length of the occupied stalls, ringing the bars with the heavy piece of wood. If any of the slaves hadn't been roused by the sound of the morning's preparations, they were awake now.

I try to keep the mood on the compound, and in the stables especially, upbeat. I demand order and obedience, but I resist needless cruelty, attempting to be as kind as a man in my position can be to my property. At its best moments, the atmosphere in my stables is something like a mix of a boarding school, a military barracks, and a kennel.

Smiling at the five slaves standing at attention behind the bars of their stalls, I called out, "Good morning, boys!"

"Master, good morning, Master!"

"Today you get to meet your six new brothers. I expect you to treat them like family and to help them learn the ropes. Can you do that for me, boys?""Master, yes, Master!" came the chorus. I pressed a button on the wall. The doors on stalls one through six swung open, and five half-trained slaves, hair wild from sleep, morning erections straining at their chastity cages, hay stuck here and there to their naked bodies, crawled out on their hands and knees to greet their new brothers.

26.

Cubby, Tiny, Icarus, Sunshine, and Bongo recognized the boys in front of them. Not personally, of course, but they recognized the boys because they had been just like them. Three short months ago, they had been happy-go-lucky free boys without a care in the world beyond maybe cramming for a test and trying and failing to get laid. Three short months ago, I had caught them (not in The Box, of course; as I said, I have many methods of acquisition. But that's a story for another day.) Three short months ago, they had been strapped to those benches. Three short months seemed like an eternity to them; they could barely remember their old lives.

Now these five former free boys knelt in presentation position, knees spread and arms behind their heads, displaying their locked cocks and gazing hungrily at the asses of my six newly acquired slaves. Each knew what was coming. Months ago, they might have felt pity or empathy for the boys trussed up in front of them. By now, though, the three-month ache in their balls and the three months of training made it difficult for them to feel anything but arousal.

I retrieved a heavy sack from Tyson and turned my focus towards the boys on the benches. "Good morning, boys. Or rather, happy birthday. As cliche as it may sound, today is the first day of the rest of your lives. Except, of course, your lives aren't really yours anymore," I monologued as I walked up and down the line of gagged teenage faces in front of me, JoJo crawling obediently a few steps behind. Occasionally I tousled a boy's hair or pinched his cheek. "I own you. I will train you, and then I will sell you. Today you will all be reborn in the image I have chosen for you. And because I am a kind and generous master, I've gotten each of you a birthday gift."

At stall number seven, I fastened a heavy black collar snuggly around the neck of Sparky, formerly Ryan Connor. Taking hold of his unruly brown locks, I pressed his face into my crotch, a few centimeters of leather separating my cock from his straight, teenage face. I held him there for a good long while, waiting until he couldn't hold his breath any more, allowing him to get a few good, deep whiffs of the smell of leather and man musk, learning his owner's odor, then turned around and did the same with my exposed, hairy ass, sitting on the teen's face for a good thirty seconds. "This is Sparky," I announced to the assembled slaves. "Say good morning, boys!"

"Good morning, Sparky!" they cried in unison.

I repeated the process as I made my way down the line, Pollo at stall eight, Cinnamon at stall nine, Flipper and Flopper at stalls ten and eleven (I didn't know then, and don't know now, which was Daniel and which was Benjamin), and finally Awol, my wonderful little accident, at stall twelve. I gave Awol some extra time to get acquainted with my ass, enjoying the feeling of his nose nuzzling my hole.

"It's time to show your new brothers just how excited you are to meet them, boys. Please be so kind as to make your way to the slave in front of you and get to know him properly."

I checked the camera system via the app on my phone to make absolutely certain that I was recording every angle at every second. This was too good not to preserve for perpetuity (and, of course, my buyers' tittilation.) Five beautiful teenage slaves crawled on their hands and knees and buried their faces in the boys' straight, tight, teenage assholes, slobbering all over them like overexcited mongrels. Each knew what was coming, and each was eager to get the virgin cunt in front of him good and ready. A veritable Mormon Tabernacle Choir of moans, screams, and grunts attempted to escape the six inch silicone cocks gagging each of my new slaves as they found their virgin assholes breached by warm, wet intruders.

As my half-trained slaves ate the asses of my new slaves, I again made my way down the line, bending down to unlock and free each slave's cock for the first time in a quarter of a year. Instantly they sprang to life with the pent-up frustrations of horny eighteen year olds denied three months worth of orgasms, leaking precum all over the ground. While they attended to their brothers' holes, I made my way down the line of benches, removing now the gags from each slave's mouth. As expected, I was greeted with a chorus of curses, threats, and pleas from the boys who'd been silenced for days.I allowed them to tire themselves out and throw their little tantrums. Nothing could spoil the pleasure of what was coming next.

"All right, boys, it sounds like you've done an excellent job warming up those tight little holes. I think you're each overdue for a little pussy. Fuck away."

27.

I take real care pairing my boys. It's more than just a first fuck. It's more than the slave's introduction to the proper use his body. It's a bond. It's valuable for the new boys to have a "big brother," a more experienced slave to whom they can look as an example. As the smell of sweat and sex rose in the stables, I looked at my work and smiled with pride. I'd done an especially good job pairing them, if I did say so myself.

Cubby and Sparky actually looked like they could be brothers; although separated by several inches, each had the same sturdy frame, milky skin, and rosy cheeks. Only one of them was smiling at the moment, but they had that broad, beaming grin in common as well. Cubby's hair was a little less wild, and Sparky's body was obviously less developed, but a less scrupulous seller might actually try to pass them off as a sibling set. Most importantly Cubby and Sparky were both smart; hopefully Cubby's eagerness to please would rub off.

I have to admit that Tiny and Pollo were mostly a study in opposites. Whereas Tiny would make a truly impressive pony, Pollo was without question destined for use as an eager and pliant pleasure slave. Whereas Tiny was long and lean, Pollo was small and compact. Physically, Pollo's closest analogue, with his petite frame and impressive musculature, was Sunshine, but I gave Pollo to Tiny because I figured if any of my little sluts in training had a chance at handling a cock the size of Tiny's it would be a boy who'd already had some practice. As it was, Pollo was struggling and squealing, but he was surely fairing better than his brothers would have, and judging by his engorged cock and the nut he'd already popped off over the back of his fuck bench, he was clearly enjoying the challenge.

Cinnamon was the only one of my new acquisitions that broke six feet, and he was also the only one with any hope of being a proper pony. He and Icarus had strikingly similar frames, although I hoped he would be less recalcitrant than than the slave fucking him, who somehow managed to look sour even as he enjoyed his treat, pounding away at the creamy white ass in front of him.

Sunshine and Bongo, the two runts of their litter, had always held a special bond. Watching them grinning at each other, seemingly in a contest to see who could jackhammer harder and faster on his respective twin's virgin asshole, I hoped they wouldn't be too bad an influence on the boys.

I walked up and down the row of slaves, drinking in the pleasure and pain, making sure each new boy was getting a proper view of himself in the mirror in front of him. Some looked down, some squeezed their eyes shut. Jake, Tyson, and I intervened where we could, pulling hair to get heads looking into mirrors, even pulling eyes open when necessary. It's important for a slave to see itself as it really is. I was pleased to see some of the "big brothers" taking our cue and doing the same, reaching forward and locking fingers in hair or cheeks so that their little buddies could be sure to enjoy the view.

The older boys were really getting into it, now. They'd started awkwardly enough; of the five of them, only Cubby had ever actually fucked a girl, and none of them had ever fucked an ass before, even though they'd taken plenty of cock over the last three months. Each had begun standing stock straight, hands on his little brother's hips, and simply started thrusting. Now, though, they were beginning to find rhythms in the sex, trading off shallow thrusts and deep dives, discovering the euphoric tightening of their partner's rectum around their tools when they pounded his prostate just right, and really leaning into boys beneath them. Surely each remembered the trauma and terror of his first time three months prior, and it was lovely to see, after the initial rush of carnal madness had waned, them attempting to make the experience as pleasurable as possible for the slaves they were fucking.

Cubby laid his broad frame all the way down on Sparky, hugging him close as he humped his hole, their alabaster torsos seemingly melting into one another. I'm half convinced I heard the bigger boy moan, "I love you," the second time he came.

Tiny had his broad hands on Pollo's muscular shoulders, massaging the squealing brown boy as he took long thrusts in and out of his hole. Burying himself all the way in he began to barely pump and inch or so in and out, letting Pollo's ass swallow and get to know his enormous cock while he leaned over and began kissing the small of Pollo's back. He worked his way up to his shoulders and then his neck, where he began to nibble, continuing to massage and pump. He brought a long muscular arm around Pollo's neck, forcing the boy's chin up facing the mirror, and rested his head atop the boy's, Tiny's face beaming, Pollo's contorted in passion, the two of them looking like some kind of erotic totem pole.

"I know you boys have been waiting long and...well, not exactly hard...to get to know the tight boycunts in front of you. But please do take your time. After all, who knows when you'll next be allowed to come?" I remarked, just an edge of foreboding in my voice. "I'd also like you to take your brothers' feelings into consideration; I have a Hershey's Kiss for each slave who manages to make his little brother come from the fucking you're giving him. But no cheating; don't you dare touch his cock."

"Master, thank you, Master!"

I made my way to the bench in front of stall twelve, where Awol lay bound and alone, still gagged and without a cock in his ass. I knelt down to eye level. Running my hand over his buzzed black hair, I saw the hate in his eyes. I smiled and whispered in his ear, "Don't worry, boy. I haven't forgotten you. You're going to get a special treat."

The Boys in the Box Ch. 28-30

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

28.

Forty-five minutes in, my slaves were still going strong. Each of the older boys had come at least twice; the Viagra-spiked chow I'd been feeding them over the past several days meant that they had more stamina than I'd normally expect from a bunch of horny eighteen-year-olds. The slaves on the receiving end of the morning's festivities were doing admirably, as well. Pollo was now taking Tiny's gargantuan meat with gusto, bucking himself into the larger slave's thrusts as much as the bench would allow, and had come twice, his brown, uncut six inches spraying hot slave seed all over the fuck bench. Cinnamon and the twins had eventually let loose as well, the pounding on their prostate eventually overriding their discomfort and anger. Only Sparky hadn't come, and the look of defiance in his eyes, even while he moaned under Cubby's attention, made me suspect he was just being obstinate.

"That's enough, boys; I need my new stock to be able to walk, after all," I called out with a good-natured chuckle. The boys reluctantly pulled out and set to work slurping their own seed out of each new boy's asshole. When they'd finished, faces slick with spit, sweat, and spunk, I called them over to stall twelve.

"Now, boys, I think Awol is feeling a little left out," I remarked, casually stroking his spine, feeling his well developed lats, traps, and deltoids tensing angrily at my touch. "Luckily for him, I think you boys might have a little bit left in you. Do you, boys?"

"Master, YES, Master!" came their hearty response.

"Well, that's what I like to hear. When we first met, Awol here informed me that he 'doesn't go in for that gay shit.' Lucky for him you're all straight, right boys?"

"Master, yes, Master!"

"Well I'm sure he'll find that quite a relief. You'll each get your turn, but perhaps JoJo would like to do the honors of christening this cunt?" I lead the blond slave by his leash to the half-Asian boy's anus, and JoJo wasted no time giving Awol's tight pink asshole a thorough tongue bath before rising and impaling him on his full eight inches. I didn't bother removing his leash; he had more than enough slack, and there's something I find very appealing about holding onto a slave's bonds as he dominates a bitch.

I love to watch JoJo fuck. He really pounds with an animal intensity, completely devoid of mercy. Honestly, between the two of us, I'm a much gentler partner, so I can only attribute his violence to raw instinct. With Awol's buzz cut, there was no hair to grab onto, one of JoJo's preferred methods of manhandling his bottoms. Instead, JoJo leaned in and worked his muscled arms under Awol and around his torso, working with the tight bit of leeway the bonds of the bench allowed. He pinched and twisted on Awol's nipples and scratched at his tits while he pounded away, his well-defined abdominal muscles rippling as he humped in seeming defiance of physics.

I ungagged Awol, letting his stream of obscenities wash over me like a warm Spring shower until he went suddenly quiet; JoJo's furious pummeling on the boy's prostate led to the newly-christened slut's balls unloading their cargo all over the back of the bench in record time, just as JoJo unloaded inside him, collapsing on top of the panting teen, biting down on the slave's neck and shoulders as he came (that habit he did pick up from me.)

There was no need to clean Awol out after JoJo was done, as one after another, the five slaves in line took their turn at Awol's asshole, with nothing but their spit, sweat, and semen to lube him up. Once there were six loads of slave spunk shot up the teen's twat, I allowed Icarus the "pleasure" of sucking his hole clean. The straight slave on the bench, perfectly free only a few days earlier, looked, if not broken, at least beaten. His formerly unblemished skin was covered in small purple bruises up and down his back and hips where his big brothers had held tight for balance and stability, his ass a bright red where they'd accentuated their thrusts with hearty slaps, his back criss-crossed in small red lines where they'd scratched in the throes of passion. Where they'd at least attempted a level of gentleness with the other boys, for Awol there was only raw animal fucking, each of the boys trying to rise to the level of JoJo, their alpha.

Jake and Tyson began removing the mirrors from the fronts of the stalls. It was just about eight AM. Normally, my stock would be cleaned, fed, and beginning their day's training, but after the early morning fuck marathon, I decided the big boys could all use a rest. I sent them back to their stalls for a brief nap, and turned my attention to the fresh meat still bound before me.

29.

"I hope you boys enjoyed your first taste of our world-famous hospitality," I called out to the six teenage slaves bound before me. "Soon you will be released from your benches and fed. Some of you are no doubt considering making a break for it. This would be extremely foolish. Even without the extensive fortifications and relative isolation of this compound, I am confident asserting that you would not make it ten feet from your bench before being immobilized in the most painful way imaginable. I take no pleasure in damaging my property, so please, for both our sakes, do not test my patience.

"There are a few house rules that I would like to take a moment to impress upon you. First of all, the stalls in front of you are your new homes. When you are not being trained or otherwise made use of, you will spend your time here, in your stall, in the stables. You may not realize it right now, but you are extremely fortunate; very few owners are as generous as I am. Many slaves like you are kept crowded in pens like pigs in a sty.

"Second, you are never to speak unless explicitly instructed or questioned. I've graciously allowed your little outbursts up till now, but I will not be so lenient going forward. Until further notice, the only words you are permitted to say are 'Master, thank you, Master!' Am I understood?"

Silence. Of course. I pulled out my iPhone and casually pressed a button on the new brood's collective profile. Immediately the six boys in front of me bucked at their bonds and screamed at the pain of ten thousand volts delivered to their freshly shorn balls. As I released my finger, their screams ceased, replaced with sighs and a few sobs.

"That, boys, was a 'two.' I doubt any of you would like to feel a five, much less a ten. I will ask again, and I strongly advise you answer. Am I Understood?"

"Master, thank you, Master!" came the sixfold reply, less enthusiastic than one would like, but certainly an improvement over silence.

"Very good. All that is required of you is your complete and utter obedience. Obey, and you will be happy. Disobey, and you will suffer. As previously indicated, I am your master. I am to be addressed as such and only as such. My assistants here are Misters Jake and Tyson," I announced, indicating to the men standing on either side of me, Jake with his traditionally Scandinavian good looks and Tyson with skin almost as black as his leathers. Each of them towered well over six feet, looking every inch like a Tom of Finland illustration. Had I met either of them when they were younger, things might have turned out distinctly differently for the two hunks. "You are to address them as Mister Jake and Mister Tyson, or as 'sir.' You are to obey them as you would obey me, which is to say completely and without question. They have complete authority over you as my proxies, and they will be an integral part of your training as you go from from straight, free men into eager, owned sluts. Am I understood?"

A beat. And then, "Master, thank you, Master!" A little louder this time. Good.

"Excellent. While we are on the subject of names, there is one more thing I must impress upon you. I have been gracious enough to give each of you a name, and from this moment forth it is the only name which you will respond to or acknowledge. Soon enough you will learn to think of yourself only as Sparky, or Flopper, or whatever I have named you. You won't believe it now, but some day you will even forget your free boy name. In the meantime, should any of you attempt to share your former name with anyone, slave or free, I will know." I paused. "And you will be punished," I said, stretching each word into its own sentence. "Am I perfectly clear?"

"Master, thank you, Master!"

"Misters Jake and Tyson are going to collect sperm samples now; some of my clients may be interested in purchasing you for milking purposes, and it's important to make sure your seed is suitable. I suggest that you enjoy this as much as you can; after collection, it will be quite some time before you have the opportunity again. I own those pathetic little peckers and they are to be used only at my pleasure."

In order to expedite my assistants' task, I set the boys' rings to a low vibration; by the time they approached the boys for milking, each cock was rock hard and leaking like a faucet. Each boy bucked a bit against his bonds at the sensation of a man's rough hands around his member, but only Flipper was stupid enough to voice his objections; a quick jolt to his testicles shut him up quickly enough.

Once the collection was complete, I personally set to the task of securing my new property; it was important the boys understood precisely to whom their cocks and balls truly belonged. I cut off the vibration to their spent packages and their slave meat quickly began to deflate.

Awol inherited Tiny's custom cage. While his meat was not quite as impressive as Tiny's at full mast, measuring only nine and three quarters inches, it was nearly as large as Tiny's when flaccid and as such fit into the steel crucible like Cinderella's foot into her glass slipper. Cinnamon's endowment was also not extravagant like Tiny's, but was large enough to suit a pony; at eight and a half inches hard and just over six inches soft, it would look beautiful flopping about as he carried his master hither and yon; for now it fit snuggly into a slightly oversized cage. The other slaves all had more or less average endowment, fitting comfortably into their off-the-rack cages.

30.

Jake and Tyson unshackled the slaves from their benches and unceremoniously tossed the boys to the dirt floor of the stables. Awol and Sparky attempted to stand when they were released, but my assistants made short work of pushing them back down to their rightful place at our feet. To their credit, none of the slaves attempted to run; several had in the past, most recently Icarus, but apparently this batch was quicker on the uptake.

I made my way to the trough and filled it with a bucket of the slop that would make up almost the entirety of the boys' diet while they were in my care. I chose a bucket laced with Viagra; the fact that the boys were denied even the ability to achieve a full orgasm would make their erotic overdrive that much more poignant. A horny slave is an obedient slave.

"This is where you will eat. Every morning and every evening you will feed at this trough. You will not use your hands; rather you will lap up your food like the livestock you are. Here, Sparky, it's time for breakfast," I announced, beckoning the young slave over. When he did not immediately begin crawling, I gave him a short, sharp shock to the balls. He fell forward and yelped. "I had hoped you would you remember the name I so lovingly bestowed upon you, Sparky. In case any of the rest of you forget, I'm happy to keep reminding you. Now, come, have your breakfast."

The slave crawled forward to the trough. I called each of his brothers by name, and they seemed to have learned from his mistake, crawling forward as soon as they were summoned. When all six were at the trough, I gave them permission to eat. It warmed my heart to see the six newborn slave pups lap up the grey gruel in front of them like it was ambrosia; presumably the combination of a three-day fast and the fear of punishment allowed them to appreciate the tasteless slurry more than even they could imagine.

When they were finished feeding, each of my handsome little slaves was covered from nose to chin in the slurry, dripping down their necks and chests like so much sperm. They looked content, in spite of themselves. They were quickly learning to respond to baser instincts that their modern, free experience had trained them to take for granted: pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst. Soon these would be all that mattered.

It was nearly ten AM and my older boys had been napping for two hours. Jake and Tyson roused them as I walked back to their stalls, my six new slaves trailing behind.

"Good morning, boys! It's time to take your little brothers on a tour of the facilities, but first I'm afraid they've made rather a mess of themselves at breakfast. Each of you is to assist your little brother with his morning ablutions; I want each and every one of you showered, shaved, and rinsed out in forty-five minutes. Come and claim your charges!"

As the five slaves scurried over and retrieved the boys they'd fucked not three hours prior, Awol was left alone. I unleashed JoJo and bade him take care of the little foundling. The older, more experienced slave wasted no time getting the halfbreed in line. As a rule, the more experienced slaves help the new boys with their grooming for the first week of their training; I had the feeling Awol would be taking care of himself much sooner than that. JoJo was efficient, but not gentle.

As I discussed the day's schedule with Jake and Tyson, I couldn't help but take a moment to drink in the exquisite sight before me. There, not twenty feet away, were eleven eighteen-and-nineteen year old boys, lathering each other up, shaving each other's balls and cracks, shoving hoses up each other's holes to prepare their pussies for the pleasure of free men. There before me were eleven grown men, nearly a ton of human flesh, that belonged to me. In a few weeks the boys would be splashing and laughing as they prepared themselves for the day ahead. This morning, though, was all business, big brothers teaching their little brothers what was expected of them. In a way, it was even sweeter.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 31-33

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

31.

When the boys were shaved, washed, and properly plugged, I dismissed my assistants and the senior slaves to prepare the carriage while I dressed the new boys for their tour of the grounds. I reattached JoJo's leash and retrieved six three-meter lengths of chain from the wall, clipping an end of each to a black leather loop, and looping other ends around the new slaves' cock rings. When I finished leashing them, I led my seven slaves, the new boys by steel in my left hand, and JoJo by gold in my right, out the door and onto the grass outside. I allowed the slaves to walk upright, as it is difficult to lead a slave by its cock on all fours.

We stepped outside just in time to see the carriage coming to meet us.

I don't train teams of ponies; my operation is decidedly boutique in nature, and I simply don't have the inventory, facilities, staff or space to properly train more than two or three ponies at a time. All of my slaves do, however, receive remedial training as beasts of burden, and today was the seniors' chance to show off their skills. Jake and Tyson had hitched the teens up in a traditional "pickaxe" style, with three in front and two in back. All were outfitted like proper ponies, complete with bit gags, blinders, and long silken tail plugs protruding from their anuses. Jake and Tyson had even taken the care to match the boys' tails to their actual hair, from Sunshine's bright blond to Icarus' midnight black.

Cubby led front and center, flanked by Sunshine and Bongo. They were the leaders, providing steering and acceleration, while my two strongest and most experienced ponies, Icarus and Tiny, took position as the wheelers behind them, providing the real muscle and, most importantly, breaking power. They were the only proper ponies in the bunch; Cubby certainly had strength, but only Icarus and Tiny had the long, lean musculature and stamina to properly carry passengers over the long haul. Sunshine and Bongo would always be too small to be much more than decoration, but they were strong enough to help the bigger boys carry myself and my assistants around the estate for our tour.

JoJo dropped to his hands and knees on the ground in front of me, flattening his back and bracing his core muscles to provide a step up onto the carriage, a good four feet off the ground. Once I settled down onto the rear seat, facing the six slaves trailing behind the carriage, he scampered on and curled up on the cushioned bench next to me. I allowed him to unfasten the front of my leather jock and release my manhood, his to nurse in front of his little brothers for the duration of the ride, a perfect image of their future.I gave the word and we were off. Jake steered while Tyson manned the whip. The team up front started at a gentle trot around the stables towards the front gate, giving the overwhelmed, leashed slaves a chance to understand what was happening and start jogging along. I like the new boys to think they're in danger of losing their balls if they don't keep up, but of course I'm not about to ruin hundreds of thousands of dollars of perfectly good merchandise by dragging it along behind a team of ponies running at full speed.

By the time we made our way to the inner gate, Tyson's liberal use of the whip had Cubby and the rest just under a full run, and the soft, untrained slaveboys trailing the cart were sweating and panting and doing all they could to keep up.

32.

The compound's inner fence is nine-foot high chain link. The fence is lined in razor wire and fully electrocuted. Not enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate anything smaller than a bull elephant. It fences in the inner two hundred and eighty-five square acres of my compound, the training and living area. I'll admit it's rather an eyesore for those of us on the inside, but it serves its purpose. The outer wall is composed of twelve-foot tall pine logs and serves as both a physical and visual barrier between the compound and the outside world. The space between the inner fence and outer wall is essentially a moat; it keeps unwanted elements out and it keeps my merchandise in. As we approached the inner gate, the cart made a right turn and I explained the situation to my boys.

"Now, I know that you boys are too smart to attempt to escape," I shouted over the low roar of the carriage's wheels and the sound of eleven pairs of young feet pounding the earth beneath them. "But let me explain what would happen if you decide to be that dumb. That fence on your left is electrocuted and will knock you on your ass quicker than you can say 'no, thank you.' Even if you made it to the top that razor wire would cut your pretty hides to shreds. But let's say through some miracle of science and ingenuity and plain dumb luck you did manage to get over the top, or dig under, or slip through the gate. On the other side of the fence is No Man's Land.

"We call it that because if you did somehow make it to that big wooden wall over there, you'd find yourself detached from those lovely locked cocks bouncing between your legs. Think of it as the world's nastiest invisible fence. You try and cross that barrier and a small explosive charge in your rings will blow your bait and tackle clean off. It won't kill you, but it'll leave you down and bleeding long enough to be collected and sewn up by my veterinarian. Now, I don't have much use for steers myself, but there's plenty of men out there who will be willing to buy you at a reduced price with a reduced anatomy. You're welcome for that little warning."

"Master, thank you, Master!" came the panting reply. They were learning.

Having given the boys a proper sprint, I signaled my assistants to rein the team in and continue on a slightly more leisurely pace. I was in no hurry. As we made our way around the property I pointed out each landmark that would compose the map of the next half a year of my boys' lives. Here was the big house where I lived and entertained, making special note of the entrances the slaves were to use when summoned. Here behind the house were the compound's rear gates, much like the front's. Here was the barn that housed complete workout facilities to melt away puppy fat and perfect the untrained slaves' musculatures. Here was the garage that housed my personal vehicles as well as the various traps and carriages used for pleasure and practice.

Finally, here was The Slaughterhouse.

33.

Back when they raised more traditional livestock, my ancestors used the slaughterhouse to butcher their meat. I use it to, shall we say, tenderize my stock. Nowadays, it serves as the farm's center of punishment. I have precisely zero interest in the dismemberment of my property (nor would I ever do business with someone with such unsavory appetites), but the aesthetics of the building are not lost on the merchandise.

I've left the large metal shack mostly untouched from the days when it served its original purpose. I've even retained many of the original butcher's tools, bone saws and skinning knives and cleavers and the like lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling alongside my actual tools of instruction, the various paddles and canes and whips that I find more useful. I'd never use any of those barbaric implements on my boys, but they add an undeniable touch of drama to what can be the otherwise tedious act of discipline. (Former actor, remember?)

In the center of the building Jake and Tyson hung Bongo and Sparky by their cuffed wrists from two meat hooks, adjusting the hooks' chains so my slaves were standing on tip toes. Sunshine knelt next to a steel chair between them.

On one side of the room are a few large steel cages; originally used to hold livestock awaiting the slaughter, they make excellent cells for a captive audience witnessing their brother's punishment. I directed Tiny and Icarus to take Pollo and Cinnamon into one cell, while JoJo and Cubby took Awol and the twins into another. The older boys were responsible for making sure their little brothers observed the punishment due, with Cubby taking charge of the twins while their older brothers and his little were disciplined.

"I hope you boys enjoyed your little tour. Before your training begins in earnest, it's important that you understand the consequences of disappointing your master. Sunshine, Bongo, and Sparky have all let me down. Whether through willful disobedience or simple failure to meet expectations, disappointing its master is the worst thing a slave can do. Your owner punishes you not out of malice or spite, but rather to help you be the best slave that you can be. Is that understood?"

"Master, thank you, Master!" came the reply from the boys in the cells, as well as Bongo and Sunshine. Sparky was silent. I walked over to the suspended slave. My face from his, my voice low, I asked again. "Is that understood, Sparky?"

"Master, thank you, Master." It was barely more than a whisper, but already I could see the wheels turning, the understanding that would one day become acceptance.

"Good." I smiled. "Sunshine, I believe you are owed a spanking," I called out, settling into the chair. I patted my knee and the naked teenager laid himself over my lap.

Jake and Tyson favor paddles for delivering spankings; I personally prefer to use my hand. Few things are as intimate as the act of using one's own extremity to deliver punishment, feeling a boy's smooth, pert cheeks heating up like an electric blanket with each swat, watching them turn crimson beneath your fingers.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

Some masters make their slaves count strokes of punishment.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

Some masters inform their slaves how many strokes they will receive or how long their punishment will last.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

I simply demand that my slaves thank me for each correction.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

Whether a slave receives five strokes or five hundred makes no difference.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

All that matters is that he understands why he is being punished and chooses to be better.

SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!"

By the time I had finished spanking Sunshine, his twin globes were an appealing, rosy red. I may have spanked the slave twenty times. I may have spanked him fifty times. I simply stopped when I knew the slave had learned his lesson.

"I think you're done, Sunshine," I said, giving the boy a little tap on the ass to urge him off my lap. "What have you learned?"With tears in his eyes and hands massaging his stinging buttocks, he replied, "Master, to always come as soon as you call me, Master!"

"Good boy. Now it's Bongo's turn. Go fetch the cat o' nine tails."

I could see the regret in Sunshine's eyes, but he knew better than to argue. The little muscle twink trotted off to fetch the whip from the wall, jogging as fast as his burning ass would allow. Upon his return, the boy knelt in front of me like he'd been trained, head bowed, presenting the whip with both hands like a supplicant offering sacrifice to his god.

"You misunderstood me, Sunshine," I said with a smile as I placed one finger under his chin and lifted him up to a standing position. "I'm not going to whip Bongo. You are."

The slave's mouth dropped open in mute disbelief, not knowing what to do but not daring to talk back. "You heard me boy. You helped earn him his punishment, and now you will help deliver it. Is further explanation required?"

"M-master, no, Master!"

The Boys in the Box Ch. 34-36

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

34.

Unbeknownst to Sunshine, a client had placed a significant holding bid on the boy. He was interested in buying Sunshine to serve as a new alpha for his pack of slaves; the man had a kennel of several obedient slaves, but his current alpha was getting a little long in the tooth. The idea of bringing a new alpha into the pack, both smaller in stature and several years younger than the master's other slaves, appealed to him, but he insisted on proof that Sunshine was up to the task. Part of that training involved doling out discipline. (I'd even heard discreet whispers that the client in question personally enjoyed being dominated by young, virile slaves. A former member of the House of Lords, the Eton-and-Oxford-educated old man would supposedly kit them out in English-style prep school uniforms and have them spank him with a ruler or even deliver a proper caning before making violent use of their master's holes. Of course I would never repeat such tawdry gossip, but I had to admit that Sunshine would look rather fetching in tight shorts, a blazer, and a schoolboy's cap.)

Sunshine crept up behind Bongo and raised the whip. He proceeded to bring it down twice half-heartedly on the slave's flanks. Once could be getting a feel for the tool; twice was willful.

"Sunshine! Have you ever been whipped?"

"Master, yes, Master!"

"Do you think that you're whipping Bongo like I've whipped you?"

"Mas-"

"I know the answer, boy. Do it properly or I'll strip both your hides bare. Stop when you feel that Bongo has learned his lesson, no sooner. And Bongo, I expect you to thank Sunshine for the his attention."

"Master, y-yes, Master!" His lip quivering, Sunshine began to properly lay into Bongo's back and ass.

CRACK! "Sunshine, thank you, Sunshine!" A tear rolled down Sunshine's face.

CRACK! "Sunshine, thank you, Sunshine!" Another.

CRACK! "Sunshine, thank you, Sunshine!"

Sunshine gave up after twelve strokes. It was probably more than was absolutely necessary, but fewer than Bongo could have taken. A few strokes more and I'd have stopped him myself. His final stoke just barely broke skin, and a tiny rivulet of blood ran down Bongo's back. I was pleased that Sunshine took that as an appropriate signal to let up. Some masters beat their slaves bloody, but I find that rather distasteful and, frankly, indicative of poor ownership; a master who brutalizes his property in such a way either doesn't understand that a boy can be effectively controlled without being maimed, or has appetites which are unsavory, to say the least. I try to avoid business dealings with individuals of such temperament. (It of course goes without saying that, as a dealer, I am also keenly aware that any action that results in the disfigurement of my merchandise will also adversely affect my bottom line.)

Despite his initial misgivings, it was apparent to me that Sunshine had a natural facility for punishment. Ignoring his tears, anyone observing the slave would notice his well-formed chest slightly puffed with pride. His recently unlocked prick, too, had grown to its full glory, standing straight up against his tight little belly. I had no doubt he would make an excellent alpha.

"Good work, Sunshine. You may help Bongo down and tend to to his wounds.""Master, thank you, Master!" Sunshine cried. It was the most genuinely grateful I'd ever heard the slave.

He gently pulled his brother down from the hook and slung the taller but lighter slave over his well-muscled shoulder, carrying him to the corner where I keep cabinets of ointments, bandages, unguents and painkillers. As he massaged soothing balms into Bongo's battered flesh, I turned my attention to Sparky.

35.

I had given quite a bit of thought to the appropriate punishment for Sparky. I considered a simple caning or whipping, but they seemed too pedestrian. I considered leaving the boy chained up in the slaughterhouse for a few days without light, food, or water, but I was eager to begin his training and I didn't want to put any more physical stress on the merchandise. I considered fitting him with a chastity cage lined in small spikes doubly punishing his erections, but I wanted something more demonstrable and immediate. Eventually I decided on a punishment more subtle, but decidedly more painful, than simple physical discipline.

At my signal, Jake rolled a projector into the middle of the room, hooked up to a laptop. He turned it on and it shone against an empty section of wall, opposite the cells and behind Sparky. I spun the boy on his hook so he could have a proper view.

"I had a good look at your cell phone, Sparky. Seems like you were quiet the lady killer in your day." I began projecting a slideshow of several of the sexually explicit images he'd received from various young women in the weeks preceding his capture. I clicked through the pictures until I landed on a pretty young redhead named Erin, the girl who seemed to occupy most of his online attention.

"Here we have Miss Erin Malloy. I believe you and she were quite close. Of course you'll never see Erin again, but unfortunately, neither will her family. Because as of this morning, Erin is..."

I clicked the slideshow forward, revealing the same girl stripped, collared, and caged in a fashion remarkably similar to my boys.

"...Rosebud! You see, Sparky, everything you do affects other people. When you disobey me, you upset me. When you upset me, you're not the only one who pays the consequences. My associate Miranda picked up Rosebud here yesterday and will be selling her soon enough, just as I will sell you. We tracked her down using the information on your phone. Just like we found information about Sarah, Mandy, Jessica, Britney..."

Sparky began to sob. I clicked through the photos of other girls, until I landed on a picture of a family, young Ryan Connor smiling with his mother, father, sister, and brother.

"...and the rest of your family. Your fate is sealed, Sparky. Theirs are up to you. Will you disobey me again, boy? You may speak freely,"

Sparky's eyes were wide. The slave whispered, "Master, no, Master."

"Good boy! I believe you've learned your lesson. Keep watching. You won't want to miss this."

I clicked over to an image of Erin Malloy working at her summer job, serving up cones at an ice cream parlor in Ohio. The photo had been shot yesterday morning by a private detective I keep on retainer, but she was fully clothed and free as could be. I clicked again to the first picture of Erin in the cage, juxtaposed against a picture that was identical, save for the girl's face. It was a simple cut-and-paste job.

"I'm afraid I fibbed a bit, Sparky. A friend whipped that up in Photoshop as an example of what I can do. Erin, Sarah, your family - they're all as safe and as free as you used to be. For now. But try my patience, and I'll send my friends to 494 Morton Avenue. Or 9037 Chariot Drive. Or any number of other addresses where your friends and family can be found. Have I made myself clear?" "Master, thank you, Master!" cried a visibly relieved Sparky, sniffling as his tears abated.

"Good," I said, helping the slave down from his hook. He collapsed to his knees in front of me. "Then suck my fucking cock."

36.

Lacing my fingers through Sparky's shock of unruly brown hair, I pulled his head towards my crotch, mashing the straight boy's face against the black leather flap of my jock. The calfskin pouch was rapidly expanding against the pressure of my inflating cock, the few centimeters of leather all that separated Sparky's face from his master's member.

"Worship my jock, slave. Lick."

The trembling slave tentatively stuck out his tongue and licked. Slowly, even tenderly, at first, then gaining momentum as the heady essence of leather and oil and manhood filled his mouth and nose. Pushing his face deeper into my crotch, my full tumescence strained to escape and fill the slave's suckhole.

"Open my jock and release your master's cock, slave."

Sparky reached up with his cuffed hands, but before he could touch me I sent a sharp warning shock to his balls.

"No, slave. With your mouth."

I guided his face to the top corner of the pouch and bade him gently bite down where it snapped on to the strap. Pulling his head back, the leather flap popped off and my full nine inches tumbled out, slapping the quickly learning slave across the cheek, leaving a small smear of precum just under his left eye.

"Kiss it, slave."

Sparky recoiled involuntarily. Grabbing his jaw firmly and jerking his head up so that he could look me straight in the eye, I said, "I will not tell you again, slave. Kiss. My. Cock."

The straight teen swallowed hard, then leaned in and gently kissed the tip of my manhood.

"Again."

He obeyed.

"Now open up and start sucking. Maybe you've never sucked a cock before, maybe you've never even had that little dicklet hanging useless and locked between your legs sucked before, but I have no doubt you've watched enough porn to understand the basic mechanics. Go to."

To the slave's credit, Sparky opened up and made a genuine attempt to service my cock. Being his first blowjob, it was obviously amateurish and sloppy, but he dutifully took the first several inches of my manhood into his pink mouth and suckled, bobbing his head back and forth on my meat.

Now was not the moment to teach the boy proper fellatio technique; there was more than enough time for that in the months that lay ahead. This was simply an object lesson in ownership, in domination and submission, for Sparky and his brothers. And so, dispensing with subtlety, I placed my meaty hands on either side of Sparky's head, lacing my fingers through his wild hair and grabbing his adorably outsized ears like handlebars, and began to face fuck the slave in earnest, forcing more and more of my cock into his mouth and throat with each pump as he sputtered and gagged.

Soon I was ready to come. I pulled Sparky's face into my crotch, thrusting my full nine inches down his straight throat and smashing his button nose into my ample bush, my pubes invading his nostrils as I unloaded my seed down his gullet. He began gagging - more than he had been, anyway - but I held him firmly in place.

"Swallow, boy. Swallow it all."

And he did, his undulating throat muscles massaging an extra spurt or two out of my cock. Once I had finished, I slowly disengaged, giving him ample time to suck every last drop of goo from my spit-slick member. I wiped it a few times on the slave's cheeks and hair, then put it away. To his credit, Sparky hadn't cried.

What Sparky didn't know, and what I'd never reveal, is that his family and friends couldn't have been safer; one disappearance is a freak occurrence, but two is a pattern. If Erin Malloy, or Ryan Connor's little brother, or anybody that could be connected to the boy went missing a week after he did, law enforcement would be all over the case. The feds would probably get involved. It simply wasn't worth the risk when there was so much more beautiful slavemeat just waiting to be caught that had no connection to the rest of my stock.

"Good boy. We'll work on your technique later, but good boy." The doors to the metal cells where the rest of the slaves were watching slid open. "You may join the others."

Sparky ran to Cubby and collapsed into him, the bigger boy wrapping a thickly muscled arm around the smaller. It was a lovely sight; I'd paired them well.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 37-39

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

37.

By now it was nearly two in the afternoon and the big boys still had not been fed. None of them had complained, of course, but I could hear their tummies rumbling. I dismissed my stock; the big boys with Jake for feeding, and the new boys with Tyson to return the wagon to the garages, with instructions to reconvene in the barn at three o'clock and spend the remainder of the afternoon exercising.

For the first week or two, I like to focus on training the new slaves physically, rather than sexually. Getting in the habit of sleeping, bathing, feeding, and exercising every day helps the boys apart to the routine of life as a slave, gets them used to the structure of their new lives and softens them up for the more emotionally challenging prospect of learning to serve as sex slaves.

Even Pollo, by far the most well-toned of my new stock, had a long way to go before his body was ready for sale. What passes for "fit" in the outside world is unacceptable for a teenage slave offered for purchase as a sexual plaything. By the time I finished with my merchandise, they would be taught, toned, and practically fat-free. Sparky and the twins had ample baby fat to lose, and all of the freshmen required extensive strength training. The seniors were much further along in their development, but they still had a ways to go before they reached the level of perfection my buyers expect.

JoJo and I headed back to the big house for lunch.

As I was finishing my meal, a salad of leafy greens with Asian vegetables and lightly seared tuna, Bongo came crawling into the dining room on all fours. I had instructed Jake to excuse the boy from working out; after his punishment not two hours earlier, I felt some less strenuous training was in store. So after we had both had our lunch, and I had changed out of my leathers into my traditional black tee and jeans, he and I made our way to the yard behind the house.

On the patio, I kitted Bongo out for some puppy training, fitting him with rubber fist mitts (designed, unlike the one's he'd worn the evening prior, for durability rather than luxury), kneepads, and a black rubber tail plug.

Since I'd first acquired him, Bongo had taken immediately to dog training. All of my slaves are trained to take pleasure in serving their master, but when it came to pup play, Bongo had needed no encouragement. Something in the boy's nature lent itself to performance as a playful, happy-go-lucky pup, and today was no exception. Despite his raw hide, or perhaps because of it, no sooner was he was geared up than he was bouncing around on all fours, tail wagging frantically, yipping happily and trying to climb up my leg like a dog greeting his master just home from work.

"Down boy!" I said laughing, brushing him off my leg and back onto the patio. I picked up a rope toy and waved it in front of Bongo's nose, keeping it just out of reach while the slave nipped at the end. I tossed it a good thirty feet across the yard and Bongo followed it with his eyes, hopping from paw to paw as he looked first where the toy landed, then back at me, then back to the toy, and so on. After a moment I said, "Go get it, boy!" and he was off like a shot.

Soon he came trotting happily back to me looking very pleased with himself, the length of braided rope hanging from his mouth. He dropped the toy at my feet and again I flung it away. We repeated the process countless times. Sometimes he wouldn't want to give his toy back, and I'd have to chase the pup down for a bit of tug-o-war. Every so often he'd make his way to the metal bowl at the edge of the patio and lap up some water.

After about an hour or so of play, I noticed the slave visibly fidgeting.

"Do you need to do your business, boy?"

Bongo yelped and nodded.

"Go ahead, then!"

The slave scampered off to a large oak tree abut twenty yards from the patio, one of his favorite marking spots. Lifting his left leg, he loosed a long, steady stream of piss onto the trunk. After he finished, he came padding back to me, happy as could be, beaming up at me as I have him a good hard scratch behind the ears.

I could have spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Bongo, but there was more pressing business that needed tending. Happily, Jake had brought his golden retriever, Sadie, to the compound that afternoon in anticipation of his extended stay dealing with the new merchandise (Jake and Tyson live off of the property, but it's important to keep a round-the-clock watch on the new boys for their first week or so, so I put them up at the big house when necessary.) I brought her outside and let Bongo and Sadie play in the yard, wrestling, fighting over the rope toy, and just generally whiling away the rest of the daylight while I read and replied to dozens of messages on my phone, dealing with clients, contractors, and someone I hoped could help me with my Icarus problem.

38.

The first week is, in a way, the easiest on the slaves but the most taxing on myself and my assistants. I like to keep a twenty-four hour watch on the new boys, which means that Jake, Tyson, and I trade off spending the evening awake in the stables to keep an eye on the new merchandise and make sure they don't try anything dumb. It's mostly unnecessary; by the end of their day each boy is so exhausted that he passes out as soon as he hits the hay - in this case a literal description of the lodgings, rather than a metaphor - and as such doesn't really have the opportunity to attempt escape or self-harm or conversation with his neighbors. But I believe there is value in the boys knowing that they're being monitored in any case.

During the daytime, the boys are pushed to their physical limits, spending hour after hour training their bodies to a salable state. This means different things for different boys. The twins, for example, spent most of their time lifting weights and doing exercises designed to develop their tits, abs, and asses, as they were likely to be purchased by someone keen keeping them on display when they weren't being used to satisfy the sexual desires of their owner or his guests. Cinnamon, on the other hand, spent most of his time running on a treadmill or elliptical and developing his lower body in training for likely sale as a pony.

All of the boys spent time every day developing their flexibility and grace studying yoga and ballet; Tyson, although you'd never guess it, was a former member of the Joffrey Ballet and spent an hour or two each morning turning the boys from awkward teenagers into poised and pliable slaves. Like any discipline, some boys were better suited than others; while Pollo was of course already an adept dancer and could twist his body into seemingly impossible contortions, Sparky struggled desperately to get into a simple "downward dog" position. Like Cubby, the boy was almost improbably ungraceful, but he always made an effort.

Since that first afternoon, Sparky had, in fact, been a model trainee. All the other boys had acted out at least once. Awol had refused to eat until he discovered that I was more than willing to shove a tube down his throat and force feed him like a duck being raised for foie gras. Cinnamon had made a break for the fence his first day training with a practice cart outside; Jake didn't even bother bringing the boy down via his cock ring, but simply allowed the ginger slave to lay a finger on the fence and get knocked back a few feet by the electric shock. On the second day of training, Flipper refused to leave his stall until he heard his brother screaming with pain. I suspected, and was proven right, that punishing one twin for the other's misbehavior would be more effective than punishing the perpetrator; Flipper soon fell in line to spare Flopper any further pain.

On the third morning, Pollo refused his enema; Tiny was helping him in the showers and the bigger slave could have easily overpowered the boy and forced him to clean himself out, but I told him to let it be. After showering and shaving I replugged Pollo with a thicker-than-usual training plug and locked him into an old-fashioned iron chastity belt that kept the plug tucked immovably inside Pollo's ass. By the middle of the day the boy was begging to relieve himself. By the time he was allowed back to the stables to clean himself out properly, I had no doubt that he would avail himself of the opportunity every day going forward.

In addition there were the usual ploys on the part of the new boys to talk their way to freedom, the empty threats, the attempts to bargain. Promises that their families would pay whatever ransom I demanded. This always made me chuckle; even if their families could afford to pay the astronomical sums these slaves would fetch, which they most certainly could not, turning a slave back over to its family would inevitably expose my operation and buy me a one way ticket to prison (or, likely, six feet under ground, as many of my clients would attempt to have me eliminated lest I implicate them.)

I allowed these minor infractions with m usual graciousness, electing to simply eliminate the noise with a thick, six-inch rubber cock gagging the offending mouth for the rest of the day. By the end of the week, nobody was trying to talk his way out of anything.

Sparky, though, hadn't slipped up even once. I was tempted to accept that he was simply an ideal slave, that his inclination to protect his friends and family and perhaps a discovery of his own natural submission had allowed him to embrace his role. I wasn't convinced though. I might have expected it from a less intelligent slave; neither Cinnamon nor Tiny, for example, were very bright, and had either of them simply ceased all resistance after his first punishment, I might have bought them as shrugging their proverbial shoulders at their fate. Sparky, though, was always thinking. His eyes were always alive. He wasn't smart enough to actually escape, but he was smart enough to look for a way out.

39.

Near the end of the first week of the new slaves' training, Icarus finally crossed the line.

While the other boys were exercising in the barn, I had Icarus and Cinnamon training outside, racing each other back and forth the north edge of the compound with traps weighted down to simulate a rider. Icarus, having trained as a pony for the past several months, always bested Cinnamon, even while pulling a heavier load, but the new slave was making an admirable effort.

There are few things more beautiful than a slave at his physical peak completely exerting himself for his master's pleasure. It was a joy watching the slaves running back and forth across my property, Icarus' recently released cock flopping heavily against his thighs as he ran, Cinnamon's locked equipment bouncing up and down and glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Each slave was covered in sweat, their lean bodies positively glowing with their exertion under the scorching mid-June sun.

At half past two, Icarus collapsed.

I immediately rushed to the slave, and Cinnamon, realizing what had happened, halted his run when he his fallen brother. Icarus was breathing shallowly, and was completely unresponsive to my voice or touch. I unloaded the weights from Cinnamon's trap, pulled Icarus up into my arms, hopped into the driver's seat and ordered the redheaded slave to carry us to the big house - the only air conditioned building on the property - at double speed. While Cinnamon strained to get us there as fast as possible, I called Jake, who had training as an EMT, to meet me at the house as quickly as possible.

Jake met us in a guest room. I had laid Icarus out on the bed and was applying a cool, damp rag to his forehead. Jake gave the slave a quick once over and determined that he had collapsed from heat stroke and was dangerously dehydrated. While I had availed myself of the slave's throat any time I felt the need to piss, he had been too proud to beg Jake or Tyson for a drink and had finally paid the price for his pride.

I keep the compound stocked wth basic medical supplies; obviously I can't just run my merchandise to the local clinic if they hurt themselves or fall ill. Jake made short work of hooking Icarus up to a saline drip to replenish his electrolytes. Assured that the boy would be alright once he was rested and rehydrated, I dismissed Jake to continue with the other slaves' training.

Once my initial frantic concern for Icarus' health and well-being subsided, I got angry. I was livid at myself and my assistants that we were so preoccupied with the new merchandise that we could be so neglectful of the health of one of the older boys, and I was I was livid at Icarus that he would be so deliberately disrespectful to me that he would cause to damage my property, potentially at the cost of his own life. I called JoJo into the room and the two of us strapped Icarus down onto the bed with thick leather straps, ensuring that he couldn't run off, remove the IV, or otherwise further harm himself or any of the rest of my property once he came to. I then instructed JoJo to see that the slave was fed and watered when he came around, spoon-feeding him his slave chow if necessary. I would see to my own dinner; Icarus was to join me in my study once he was lucid and strong enough to walk.

Icarus' recalcitrance had heretofore been a nuisance. Now he had become a danger to himself and those around him. I would not allow it to continue.

I had business to attend to.

The Boys in the Box Ch. 40-42

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

40.

Shortly after eight o'clock there came a soft rapping at the door to my study.

"Come in," I answered. The door opened and there stood Icarus, looking somewhat shaky and more than a bit peaked but otherwise recovered. He wasn't wearing his plug; I'd removed it while he was unconscious, figuring his body could do without the additional stress of a foreign object up his rectum. "Please, have a seat," I said, gesturing to the plushly padded chair on the other side of my desk. He eyed the chair, and then me, uncertainly. "This isn't a trick, boy. Sit down. We need to talk."

He stepped into the room and lowered his naked body onto the chair.

"How're you feeling?"

"Master, much better, Master," he mumbled.

"I think we can dispense with this 'master' nonsense for the time being, boy. Frankly, it's a little insulting, since your recent actions have made it clear that you don't see me as your master at all. Your captor, certainly. Even your owner, perhaps. But not your master. Isn't that right, boy?"He gritted his teeth and looked down, refusing to meet my gaze. When he answered, it was barely more than a whisper. "Yes."

"Very well. While we are in this room, you may speak plainly. I won't pretend that we are equals, but I will promise you that you won't be punished for anything you say tonight. Now," I said, rising, "would you like something to drink?"

The uncertainty and mistrust on his face was apparent, but all he said was, "Yes, please." I poured the olive-skinned teen a glass of water and placed it in front of him. When he reached for the glass, I caught his wrist. Icarus flinched, but instead of striking him, I simply retrieved a key from my pocket and removed his cuff. I repeated the process on his other hand, then his ankles, and finally his collar. I placed them on the desk in front of him and sat back down.

"Now, Icarus, you've placed me in a very difficult position. I honestly can't remember the last time a boy gave me so much trouble. I understand that I've put you through a lot, and that adjusting to your new life is difficult. Some boys acclimate more quickly than others. I don't fault you for learning more slowly than, say, Cubby or Sunshine. You are who you are.

"But who you are, Icarus, is a slave. I need you to accept that. Until recently I was confident that you would come around and make me proud, just like your brothers. Today, you hurt yourself. When you hurt yourself, you damage my property. When you hurt yourself, you very literally cost me money. Do you know how much money I have invested in you, Icarus?"

He shook his head.

"Between your acquisition, transportation, feed, lodging, trainers' salaries, utilities, medical expenses," I said, giving the last two words added emphasis, "and countless other costs associated with taking care of you, I've already invested well over fifty thousand dollars in you. By the time a slave is scheduled for sale, my out-of-pocket costs on him approach six figures. I invest this money happily knowing that I will make it back many times over when he is are sold.

"You, however, have jeopardized that eventuality. Frankly, I don't see how I can sell you in good faith; even if I managed to bamboozle someone into paying good money for you, how long until you pull another stunt like this? Hmm? How long until you try to hurt yourself, or your master, or his other property? How do you think that would reflect on me? And how much longer do you think I could remain in business once word got out that I was peddling inferior goods?

"So I'm rather at a loss, here. What should I do with you, Icarus?""You could let me go."

"Oh, come now, boy. You know that's not possible," I said with a hearty laugh. "No, it seems to me that you've left me with only two options. I could dispose of you. It makes me sick to even say that; I'm not a murderer, and I'd rather not become one. It seems the better option is to cut my losses and sell low. Of course I can't offer you to my usual clients, but I could recoup maybe fifteen or twenty percent of what I've spent so far by unloading you to a whorehouse in Africa or Asia."

I pulled an iPad out of my desk, pulled up a video, and handed the tablet to Icarus. On the screen in front him came images of impossibly skinny, ragged-looking boys and men, chained to bare beds or crumbling walls in positions that presented their asses and open mouths to anyone who paid the price of admission. They weren't much older than my stock, but hard use and abuse had aged them well beyond their years. Some screamed, some struggled, but most of them simply lay there limp, their fight beaten and fucked out of them long ago. His eyes widened as he saw the patrons lining up to use them over and over, saw their bodies savagely serving as nothing but receptacles for the jizz of a seemingly endless parade of filthy old men.

"It's not pretty, I know, but I honestly can't think of any other solution. So, what do you think, Icarus? I've been on the phone with a friend who can have you out of here in a day or two. Fancy a trip overseas?"

Icarus shook his head vigorously. "Please, no. Please, I'll be good."

"I wish I could believe you, Icarus," I sighed. "I really do."

He started to cry. "Please, sir, I'll do anything you want. I'll suck your cock, I'll -"

"Here's what we're going to do, Icarus," I said, cutting him off and handing him my handkerchief. "Tonight, you're going to warm my bed. Tomorrow is Saturday. You and I going to take a little road trip. We can revisit the topic of your future on when we return. In the meantime, focus on the present. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded vigorously, his raven-black curls bouncing as he sniffed and wiped his eyes.

"Yes, Master."

Whether it was fear or a desperate attempt to please me that put the word in his mouth, it wouldn't be quite so easy. I was amused, but not convinced.

"Do me a favor, Icarus. Don't call me that until you mean it. Okay?""Okay."

41.

I informed JoJo via intercom that I wouldn't need him tonight or in the morning. Although he spends nearly every night with me, he does technically have a small sleeping quarters of his own to use when I'm away or otherwise occupied. I asked him to prepare meals for our upcoming trip and leave them in the fridge, and then to otherwise occupy himself for the weekend, helping Jake and Tyson with the new boys as necessary. I knew the slave would be disappointed to be separated from his master so soon after my return, but at the moment Icarus took priority.

I stripped and brought Icarus into the shower. Instead of turning on the water, though, I grabbed my electric clippers and went to work on the boy's hair. It had occurred to me that I'd made a mistake allowing him to maintain his free boy hairstyle; as charming as I found his unruly mop of curls, leaving them meant that every time he looked in the mirror he saw the same boy he'd known before his capture. They had to go.

I buzzed down the sides of his skull completely, leaving a mohawk about as wide as my hand running down the middle and tapering to a point at the nape of his slender neck. With a large tuft of curls just at the top of his forehead quickly fading into a number two buzz, he was left with a 'do that looked more like to a horse's mane than a man's hair. Pleased with the results, I turned on the water. His curls, his last reminder of his old life, disappeared down the drain.

Icarus let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure as warm water washed over his tired skin for the first time in more than three months. I slowly began soaping both of us up, running my rough hands over every inch of his smooth flesh. To my surprise, he didn't shudder at my touch but closed his eyes and allowed me access to every inch of his body. Even if he was only trying desperately to avoid being shipped off to some flea-ridden brothel, it was a welcome improvement.

I grabbed a razor and began to remove his pubic hair. The boy was capable of shaving himself, but I wanted to do it. Wanted him to let me do it. Soon the curls that had sat so proudly atop the boy's cock followed the curls that had sat atop his head down the drain.

When we were done bathing, I let Icarus take a good long look at himself in the mirror. "What do you think, boy?"

"I think...I think I look like a slave, sir."

If JoJo had said it, it would have been a statement of pride. If Awol had said it, it would have been a statement of defeat. From Icarus, it was simply a statement of fact.

I chuckled. "I think so, too. Let's get to bed."

I led Icarus to my bed and turned out the lights. I pulled his slightly taller body into mine, spooning him, my half hard cock finding its way into his warm, smooth crack. We laid together for maybe twenty minutes without a word, our breath slowly finding each other's rhythm. Eventually I brought my muscled arm around him and began to fondle his prick, feeling the uncut tube of meat swelling at my touch. His breath quickened as I idly stroked. I slowly circled the tip of his moist mushroom head, poking curiously, hesitantly, out of its sheath.

"Do you want me inside of you, boy?"

A moment, and then, "Yes, sir."

I gave him a little squeeze as I gently laughed. "You're a shit liar, boy. Don't worry. I have no intention of fucking you tonight," I said as I continued to play with his manhood.

Slowly, very slowly, I increased the grip and rhythm of my fist on his cock until I began to notice the telltale signs of his impending orgasm, the steady flow of Cowper's fluid, the elevated heart rate, the curling toes. Before he arrived, I released my grip and turned him over on his side, bringing his face into mine.

The room was dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the open window. By now our eyes had adjusted to the relative darkness and we spent a minute staring directly into each other's eyes, inches away from each other. It had been some time since I'd really looked at the boy. Now I drank him in, admired his perfect olive skin, his high, sharp cheekbones, his rich, mahogany eyes. His round little onion of a nose somehow complimented his almost impossibly thin, exquisitely drawn lips. A mixture of confusion, anticipation, and longing for release replaced his usual scowl. He was breathtaking.

I brought my hand up behind his head, feeling his freshly shorn scalp under my fingers, and pulled him across the narrow chasm between us. Or lips met, and then our tongues. I pulled him in closer, tighter, our bodies tangling in each other, his rock hard cock pinioned between his smooth, olive abs and my broad, hairy barrel of a stomach.

As my tongue explored Icarus' mouth, his did the same inside mine. Eventually, I broke off the kiss and began to explore the rest of him; he moaned and squirmed with pleasure as I lavished attention on his ears, nibbling on the lobes, washing my tongue around and behind and inside them. I followed the path of his body, enjoying his gasps as I slurped my way from his neck to his chest, pausing briefly to let my lips discover the valleys of his clavicle. I worshipped his newly developed pecs, tweaking one tit with my fingers while I slobbered and chewed at the other. I landed at his navel, caressing and gently tickling his taught abs while I tongued his bellybutton like it was an asshole.

It occurred to me that Icarus had probably never spent a night of passion with anyone before I found him. Probably didn't know the ecstasy of a lover's attention. I was pleased to provide it.

Eventually, I found my way home to his eight inch tumescence. In one dive I took the entirety of his member into my mouth and down my throat, swallowing on it while my fingers toyed with his tender brown anus.

I worshipped his cock for the better part of an hour, always backing off just before he had a chance to come. When I felt him getting close I would pull my face off his shaft, focusing instead on kissing his balls or the insides of his strong, well-developed thighs as he tiptoed back from the brink, engulfing his meat again as soon as he'd recovered.

Finally, it was time. "Do you want to come, boy?"

"Oh, god, yes! Please make me come, sir!"

I took his cock all the way down again, taking him into my throat while my tongue massaged the veiny underside of his turgid shaft. I felt his balls tighten in my hand as he unloaded his thick, steaming seed into my gullet. He continued to spew forth spurt after sticky spurt while I slowly pulled away from his crotch, milking his shaft with my fist and leaving just his head behind my lips as I collected a good mouthful of his jizz. I brought myself back up to meet his eye. Our mouths met again and we traded his spunk back and forth between us until he finally swallowed it down. Closing our eyes, we collapsed into each other, laying in silence with our foreheads resting atop each other.

Eventually I spoke. "How was that, boy?"

"That...was...amazing!" he panted. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Now get some sleep. We have a big day ahead."

42.

I woke up first. I got out of bed and left Icarus to sleep while I performed my morning ablutions. It's funny how even a shower, the simple act of washing your body, can become alien to you when you get used to being attended to. Fifteen years ago, I knew dozens of phone numbers by memory; now that I have a smartphone, I can't remember anybody's number. Fifteen years ago, I showered every day without giving it a second thought; now that I have a slave, I'm surprised how strange it feels to clean my own body. It's not that you can't do it, it's just that you get used to not having to.

Wrapping myself in a robe, I headed to my bedroom door to to grab some breakfast downstairs. When I opened the door, however, I saw that the ever diligent JoJo was once again one step ahead of his master. Waiting in the hall was a tray of fresh fruit, bacon, toast, and a steaming pot of coffee, as well as a bottle of feed for Icarus. If JoJo were an employee, I'd have made a mental note to give him a raise; as it was, I simply smiled at his thoughtfulness.

Once I'd eaten and dressed, I gently shook the boy awake. It was charming the way he took a moment to absorb his surroundings, then tumbled out of bed and onto his knees in presentation position. Even more charming his confusion when, instead of giving him his training assignment for the day, I simply tossed a pair of jeans and a Lacoste polo at him and told him to get dressed. The jeans landed on his freshly-shorn head.

"D-dressed?" he stuttered, uncomprehending, pulling aside the denim legs that were hanging in front of his face like a pair of curtains.

"You heard me. I told you we're taking a road trip, and I can't very well go driving around Montana with a naked teenage boy in the passenger seat, can I? Now hurry up, we're already behind schedule."

I tried, and mostly failed, to stifle a laugh watching the boy stumble his way into the clothes; I suppose that, just as I get out of the habit of cleaning myself, dressing oneself becomes strange after three months wearing nothing but a collar. Eventually, though, he managed to put on the clothes I'd provided, along with a pair of flip flops. He looked every inch the free boy, despite the doofy hairdo.

"We have a long drive ahead and, for obvious reasons, I'm afraid I can't trust you to take any pit stops along the way. I suggest you use the rest room now; I'm afraid the master bath isn't equipped for enemas, but I trust you remember how to use a toilet?"

He nodded eagerly, still with no idea what the day had in store, and excused himself. A few minutes later I heard a flush and he returned to the bedroom. I tossed him his bottled breakfast, which he drank down as we made our way for the garage. On our way out the door, JoJo presented me with a cooler containing a weekend's worth of libations: sandwiches and beer for me, more slurry for Icarus, and plenty of bottled water. I took the cooler, kissed my slave on his forehead, and headed out.

I tossed the cooler in the back of my Jeep and gestured for Icarus to settle into the passenger seat. Before I started the engine, I pulled a small atomizer out of my pocket and turned to the boy. "If you would be so kind as to say 'Ah?'"

When he obliged, I leaned in and spritzed several good sprays of the stuff down his throat. "Thank you. If there's anything on your mind, you should let it out now. That was a bit of local anesthesia courtesy of the good doctor; in about five minutes, you'll find your vocal folds completely paralyzed and you won't be able to communicate except for the odd grunt or moan for about, oh, thirty-six hours. It's not that I don't enjoy your conversation, it's just that I can't exactly afford to have you talking to strangers about your unique situation. So. Anything you'd like to say before your little vow of silence?"

He furrowed his brow a little. "Good morning?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Good morning to you, boy. Away we go."

The Boys in the Box Ch. 43-45

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

43.

We'd been on the road for about four hours when I had to stop for gas. Honestly, I hated that damned Jeep; it got truly abysmal mileage, and while I could obviously afford the gas, it made me sick to burn up all that gasoline and pollute my beautiful home state. Every so often I considered getting something electric, but remaining inconspicuous is an important part of my business. That included my vehicle, so I drove what my neighbors drove. Driving around the state in a Tesla Model X would attract all kinds of unwanted attention from my neighbors and the cops patrolling the interstate; I may as well have a team of six pony slaves cart me around. Maybe I could upgrade in a few years.

For now, though, I hopped out and filled the tank. While the gasoline flowed, I grabbed some snacks from the attached convenience store. The clerk was stunning; well over six feet tall, he had a beautifully chiseled face and the obvious beginnings of adolescent musculature underneath his boxy uniform, complimenting a narrow waist. With shoulder length black hair and unblemished skin the color of dry clay, it was clear that he was some flavor of Native American. He might have been seventeen, he might have been twenty-one. Out of habit, I began mentally appraising him as other men might a horse or a home, considering various alterations and adjustments, how to train him, how to market him. I quickly dismissed the thought; beautiful as he was, I never hunt so close to home. He remained free as far as I was concerned. Free to be a slave, not to me or my clients, but rather to the petrol corporation.

I paid, returned to the Jeep, and buckled in next to Icarus, setting the bag between us. I was gratified to see that he hadn't tried to make a break for it while I was inside. Probably he simply realized that escape was impossible; even if he were able to talk, the GPS and electrical shock system in his cock ring would have made the attempt both painful and futile. Still, smarter slaves had done stupider things given the sniff of a chance at freedom. As we made our way back onto the road, I reached down and handed Icarus a bottle of Coke. He let out an inquisitive grunt and stared at me. I shrugged. "Thought you might be thirsty."

We drove the last few hours in companionable silence, sipping Cokes and sharing a bag of potato chips. Around half past three, we turned off the interstate and began winding our way up the Montana mountains on increasingly narrow backroads. Around half past five, we reached our destination.

From a distance, the scene was positively idyllic - a large log cabin on the side of a mountain, surrounded by towering pines on one side and a vast, crystal blue lake on the other. Being June and so far north, there were several hours of sunlight left, and the lake positively glittered as we approached.

As we pulled into the driveway, the image was somewhat marred by the sight of scores of empty beer cans, cigarette buts, and various discarded articles of clothing strewn about the property. The boys of Phi Alpha Gamma had rented the cabin as their summer party pad, and tonight would be the highlight of their summer. I'd been in contact with them over the past couple of weeks, explaining that my "boyfriend" and I were interested in a group of horny young frat boys using him as their fucktoy for the night, and that I would be happy to pay for their indulgence. I'd made overtures to several groups of young men summering in the area, and most refused outright. The Gamma boys were interested, though; apparently they were more evolved than most fraternities and counted quite a few gay and bisexual boys among their membership. A few discreet whispers even suggested that the "straight" boys amongst them tended to dabble when the beer was flowing and pussy was scarce. I promised five thousand dollars in discretionary cash to spend as they saw fit; I suggested starting a scholarship but I imagine they spent it on pot and beer. A few kegs of PBR delivered to the cabin sealed the deal and all that remained was to set a date.

Despite his antipathy towards me, I cared deeply for Icarus, just as I cared for all of my boys. I try to avoid such indiscreet pronouncements of emotion, but I suppose some would even say that I loved him. Part of me was so pleased with the night we'd spent together, so gratified by his sudden shift in attitude, that I wanted to spare him from what was ahead. But I can only do so much to protect my boys; even if I tried to place him with a doting, fond old master, once a boy is out of my hands he's out of my hands. If I don't properly prepare a slave for everything that may be asked of him, I fail not only my clients but my boys.

As I parked, I attempted to explain as gently I could. "There are just about twenty young men inside that cabin, Icarus. They're having a party tonight. You are the entertainment. Is that going to be a problem?"

He shook his head 'no.'

"Nobody is going to hurt you," I said, indicating the small pistol strapped beneath my jacket. "I can't promise that in the future but I will promise that tonight. Understood?"

He nodded and we made our way up he path to the cabin.

44.

The inside of the cabin was even filthier than the outside, if that was even possible. Empty beer cans and pizza boxes were everywhere - who even delivered out here, I wondered - along with the occasional cashed bottle of Stoli or Jack Daniels, perched on a mantle like a trophy. We were greeted by an Abercrombie model wannabe, about five foot ten, all pecs and biceps and backwards ball cap, who bounced up half-drunk with a red Solo cup in one hand. He wrapped his free hand around the back of Icarus' neck and pulled the boy into him, giving him a deep tongue kiss before turning to me.

"So I guess you're the guys? We were starting to think you wouldn't show. Shit, he's hot. I'm Cory," he said, sliding his arm down Icarus' back and into his jeans. The look on Icarus' face indicated that Cory's fingers were exploring even deeper.

"That's right. I'm afraid my boyfriend doesn't talk much, but he's eager to get started. Aren't you, boy?"

Icarus swallowed and nodded vigorously, his black curls bouncing on his forehead.

"Good, then. Just remember our rules. No bareback, no marks, and no cameras. I see a cell phone and it leaves with me, at which point I'll alert your frat's national office, your dean, and your parents to just what you've been up to. Otherwise, have fun."

That was all the encouragement that Cory needed; almost immediately Cory had Icarus down on his knees, slurping the frat boy's cock. I fell back to the corner of the room, the small camera in my horn-rimmed glasses recording everything, while several more frat boys moved in on Icarus, their hard cocks out and pointing at him like a of ring of swords around a captive in some medieval fantasy.

Soon Icarus' hands were up, attending a cock on either side of his face while he bobbed up and down on Cory's member. In short order, though, the greedy boys ringing him weren't satisfied with watching or the attention of his hands, and the standing boys were grabbing at his hair, pulling him from one cock to another, slamming away at his mouth. It was less than ten minutes until one of the boys, a dark-featured, stocky kid who was probably about nineteen popped off, shooting his spunk all over the side of Icarus' face as the boy next to him pulled him onto his own cock.

As that kid was spurting his seed, Cory and one of his pals decided to take things to the next level, lifting Icarus from under either elbow and bending him over the back of a sofa, the anonymous little jock kneeling on the cushions in front of him filling Icarus' mouth with his cock while Cory began lubing up his hole. As he was preparing to dock, I walked up behind him and gave him a not entirely gentle pinch on the neck.

"Forgetting something?" I said, handing him a condom with my free hand. "Remember, boys," I announced, "If you're fond of keeping your nuts attached to your cocks, nobody fucks my boy without a rubber. Understood?"

They slurred their agreement. There wasn't actually much danger; as a matter of course, I keep all of my boys on a steady regimen of pre-exposure prophylaxis (I'd never insult a prospective buyer by asking him to wear a condom, but precautions are necessary), but who knew what these little horn dogs were carrying. The last thing I needed was to fly Dr. Bohrman out for a regimen of penicillin. As Cory stuffed his freshly wrapped dick up Icarus' fuckchute, I emptied a paper bag of condoms over the Icarus' back, ensuring their availability to anyone who wished to avail himself of the boy's ass.

At one point, someone pulled out the duct tape, ingeniously wrapping Icarus' wrists together behind his back with his hands meeting to form an impromptu cup holder, allowing him to hold the beer or cup of whomever was fucking him. He got plenty splashed on his back as they bucked, but it was an entertaining visual if nothing else.

The evening ebbed and flowed. At one point, ten of the boys taped Icarus, kneeling, on a spinning desk chair, playing a perverse version of spin the bottle where the boy was spit-roasted by whichever boys his cock and ass landed on. There was a brief lull around nine o'clock, when most of the boys were taking whatever the teenage equivalent of a disco nap is, and one very slight boy took Icarus up to his room. I followed, of course, making sure nothing untoward went on. The boy simply sat Icarus down and asked - actually asked - if he could kiss him. Icarus nodded his assent, and the boy, red of hair and no more than five and a half feet tall, gently kissed the lanky Greek boy on the lips for the better part of an hour. Icarus seemed uncomfortable at first, but eventually brought his hands, heretofore practically glued to his sides, up and around the smaller boy, pulling the lad into himself. Eventually the boy made his way from Icarus' lips to his chest, then his stomach, and eventually his cock, sucking him off until Icarus rewarded him by spraying his sticky seed all over the boy's face. It was very sweet.

Not long after, Cory and his crew, apparently recovered, came stumbling into the room to retrieve their party favor.

Around midnight, I announced that Icarus and I were feeling a bit tired and that it would be best to wrap up the fun. In short order, four little muscle jocks (nowhere near the level of physical perfection I demand from my slaves, but charming enough for a bunch of free eighteen-and-nineteen-year-olds) hoisted Icarus by his four limbs and laid him down unceremoniously on what passed for a coffee table. About fifteen boys of various shapes and sizes, tall and short, rail thin and absurdly overweight, sunburnt pale and beautiful ebony, gathered around him pumping their cocks. One by one, they busted their nut, spraying their seed across the beautiful, taught olive body of the boy beneath them.

When they were done I handed Cory a large manila envelope full of cast and collected Icarus, wiping him off with a towel and leading him, naked and barefoot, back to the Jeep. I had neither the expectation nor the interest in keeping track of his clothing once the boys in the cabin had stripped him; there was fresh clothing waiting for him in the car. I helped him dress and then guided him into the passenger seat.

Icarus kept nodding off as we headed away from the cabin. I reached over and shook him awake.

"You're welcome to sleep the rest of the way home, but I won't have you dehydrated or malnourished again. Dinner before bedtime," I said as I handed the boy two bottles, one of feed and the other of water. Still unable to speak, he obediently slurped them down and proceeded to pass out for the remainder of our drive back home. For my part I was grateful for the thermos of now-cold coffee that JoJo had packed with the sandwiches. By the time I was parking at the compound I'd been up for just over twenty four hours. I lugged myself out the Jeep and carried Icarus, fireman-style, back up to my bedroom. I laid him into my bed still in his clothes, barely having the strength to remove my own before collapsing next to him.

45.

I woke up just before noon. As exhausted as I'd been when I passed out, it took a moment to get my bearings. Especially since, instead of a fully clothed boy next to me I found a naked Greek slave curled up at the foot of my bed.

"Master, good morning, Master."

"You remember what I told you about calling me that, boy?"

"Master, yes, Master." He crawled up to me and began worshipping my cock. I noticed that he was once again wearing his collar and cuffs. I gently reached down and laced my fingers through his tuft of black curls, puling him up to face me.

"Am I to assume you've chosen to accept your situation?"

He gulped and nodded.

"I'm proud of you, Icarus. At some point, every slave has to submit; most of my boys accept their role more or less subconsciously, giving in to their station without ever really realizing it. You, on the other hand, spent the past three months fighting your fate. Two nights ago I helped you you understand that you could enjoy, even love, your new role in life. Last night, you were forced to face one of the most difficult aspects of slavery, serving as an indiscriminate fuck toy to whomever your master allowed, giving your body up completely to the whims of your owner. The moment you accepted that was the moment you truly became a slave.

"To whom do you belong, boy?"

"Master, I belong to you, Master."

"And when I sell you? What then?"

"Master, I will serve whomever buys me as best I can. I'll make you proud, Master."

"Do you want to be a slave, Icarus? Be honest."

A moment's hesitation.

"Master, no, Master. But..."

"But?"

"But I am a slave, and there's nothing I can do to change that. I've accepted that, Master."

"Good boy," I said, really meaning it, as I led Icarus' face back down to my crotch, his pillowy lips engulfing my rapidly expanding cock. He couldn't understand it now, but the question of his "want" would soon enough be irrelevant, not only to me, but to himself. Once a slave accepts what he is and learns to serve, he comes to understand that the only thing that matters to him is his master's pleasure. He wouldn't suddenly become gay. He wouldn't suddenly like what had been done to him. But had accepted his lot. If he chose under duress, opting to be a valued possession rather than a disposable whore, was immaterial; he chose to obey, and at the end of the day both he and I were happier for it. He still had a long way to go, but he was on the right track.

I allowed Icarus to suckle at my cock, his velvety tongue servicing my member for the better part of an hour before I pulled him off and flipped him over onto his tummy, giving me ample access to his dark brown boyhole. I was gratified to see that he'd showered and given himself a proper cleaning while I slept, his ass still smelling of soap.

I dove down between the tan cheeks, exploring his tight sphincter with my tongue, occasionally slipping in a finger to keep his anus occupied while I allowed my mouth to wander down to the boy's ample balls, licking and nibbling at his smooth coin purse. He moaned in pleasure and anticipation of what was coming next.

Presently I extricated my face from his smooth, spit-slick anus and began to tease at his hole with my engorged cock. I whispered in Icarus' ear.

"To whom does this hole belong, boy?"

"Master, it belongs to you, Master," he whispered back.

"And what should I do with it, boy?"

"Master, whatever you want, Master."

I smiled at his cry when I rammed the full length of my member inside his impossibly tight pussy. As I thrusted away, his moans slowly turned into gasps of pleasure. We fucked for at least an hour in any number of positions. I was especially pleased when, bouncing up and down on my cock in a squatting position as I laid on my back, Icarus lowered himself onto the full length of my manhood, tightened his sphincter, and leaned forward, kissing me passionately as I continued to pummel his hole. His complete surrender brought me over the edge and I unloaded my seed inside him as we embraced.

Once I finished with Icarus, we both had plenty of work to do. No rest for the wicked, as they say. I sent him off to find Jake or Tyson and continue training. I called for JoJo, who was in my rooms to attend me almost immediately. Before he had a chance to drop to his knees and worship, I caught the slave around his slender waist, pulling him into my naked musculature and kissing him deeply. I had missed him, and knew he had missed me.

He bathed me, which was a true pleasure. I never feel really clean without a slave properly attending to my body. After, I dismissed JoJo to prepare me a sandwich; something I could eat en route to the stables. I called Jake for an update on the weekend's activity. Apparently the seniors were spending the afternoon with Tyson; now that their cocks had been unlocked, they were learning proper topping techniques by practicing on each other under his guidance. I almost felt sorry for whomever was buddied up with Tiny. The freshmen had spent the morning working out and were with Jake in the slaughterhouse, where Awol was about to be spanked for some minor infraction or another. It's important to punish new slaves frequently, sometimes even when they haven't done anything wrong. It helps them learn their place.

I instructed Jake to beat Awol's ass nice and pink and then to bring all the new boys back to the stables. It was time to begin phase two of their training.

he Boys in the Box Ch. 46-48

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

46.

I stood in front of my six naked, kneeling teenage slaves. Each was on his knees in presentation position in front of the stall that had become his new home. Each kept his eyes on my boots as I paced back and forth down the line, inspecting my property and allowing their muscles to tire and cramp as they awaited my pleasure. I was pleased with their progress; in just over a week, they were well on their way to becoming proper slaves. True, they were only behaving because they feared punishment, but they were behaving. I decided it was time for a pop quiz.

"Pedro?" I called out casually. A flash of recognition crossed Pollo's face and his body tensed, but to his credit, the slave made no response and maintained his posture. "Oh, yes, of course, how silly of me. There's nobody named Pedro here, just me and six slaveboys," I said as I casually scratched Pollo behind the ear.

"So far you boys have exclusively spent your time here, with the notable exception of your first morning, exercising to make your bodies more visually appealing. Of course you've likely guessed that much more is required of slaves of your caliber. Today we will begin your training in earnest, preparing you to properly serve your future owners. Aren't you grateful I'm taking time out of my day to train you, boys?"

"Master, thank you, Master!" came the expected reply. Save for Sparky's punishment and a couple of occasions when the twins had spoken out of turn (and were suitably punished), none of my stock had said anything else since their first morning. It was time to expand their vocabulary.

"Well, you're certainly welcome, boys. That reminds me; from here on out, you may speak...well, not freely, but more freely than before. Everything you say is to begin and end with 'Master' if you're speaking to me or 'Sir' if you are speaking to another free man. And obviously you are only to speak when spoken to, or when failing to do so would cause harm to myself or my property, which of course includes yourselves. Do you understand, boys?"

An arhythmic round of six "Master, yes, Master"s came from the kneeling slaves, seemingly learning to speak again. I prefer unison responses, but they would learn in time.

"Excellent. Today you're going to get to know your assholes. Presently, they're plugged up, as is proper for a slaveboy in training; I'll need to take care of that. It's time for you boys to learn your anal presentation position. I'd like each of you to turn around with your backs to me."

The six boys each shuffled around on their knees until they were facing their stalls, providing me with a lovely view of their backsides. I could already see the effects of their relentless exercise and regimented diet; waists were slimming, muscles becoming more defined, shoulders broadening.

"Very good. Now I'd like you to bend forward so that you're on all fours."

They did.

"Very good. Now lower your faces and chests to the ground."

They did.

"Very good. Now, this part may be a bit tricky. Take your arms off the ground and bring them around to your rears. You'l want to twist your head to the side and put most of your weight on your chests and shoulders. Grab your asses"

It took a bit of grunting and fidgeting and shifting, but they managed it.

"Now, pull your cheeks apart, boys."

This proved too much for Awol. The slave stood up, shouting, "This is bullshit, I'm not about to open my asshole for you you fucking fa–" before I dropped him with a simple press of a button, his stream of obscenity twisting into a scream of pain as his cock ring sent wave after wave of electric pain through his taught young frame. I allowed a full forty-five seconds of punishment before I let off and helped him back to his knees, pushing his face into the dirt.

"How disappointing, Awol. I thought you'd learned to behave, particularly after your punishment earlier today. I know this position isn't very comfortable, and you've made your brothers hold it for the better part of a minute because you couldn't be bothered. Now kindly spread your cheeks, slave."

The slave did as he was told.

47.

I took a moment to enjoy the sight of my six eighteen-year-old slaves spreading their asses and waiting for what would come next. Then I walked to the corner of the stables and retrieved a large metal pail. Starting with Awol, I reached down and yanked each boy's plug free and dropped it in the bucket.

POP! plop. POP! plop. POP! plop. POP! plop. POP! plop. POP! plop.

I walked to the showering corner and left the pail and the plugs until they were ready to be cleaned and reinserted. Then I made my way back to the line of slaves, their empty assholes slightly agape and twitching. I stuck my index finger down Awol's hole; the slave shuddered, but he was done fighting for the day. I gave my finger a sniff; he was mouthy, but at least he was thorough when it came to hygiene. A credit to JoJo, no doubt.

"All right, boys, back on your knees, facing me."

The six young bucks complied.

"Clean this for me, boy," I said as I casually stuck the finger that had just been inside his asshole into Awol's mouth. I let him suck on it for about fifteen seconds before I removed the digit, wiping it dry on his close-cropped hair.

I made my way to Cinnamon; since his quickly thwarted escape attempt, he'd been remarkably docile and pliable. "Tell me, Cinnamon. How does your hole feel? Be honest."

"Master, it feels...empty, Master?"

I smiled. Call it what you will; Stockholm Syndrome, familiarity, the simple physical reality of stretched tissue adjusting. Whatever the cause, after more than a week of being almost constantly plugged, an empty asshole suddenly feels very alien to a slave.

"Excellent answer," I said, reaching into my pocket and rewarding the lanky redhead with an M&M, which he greedily gobbled up. "And we can't have that, can we? Perhaps I can help. Flipper, Flopper," I called as the toe-headed twins leapt to their feet. "There are two bags in the corner. Please bring them to me."

They toe-headed twins jogged to the corner and returned to me with the large black tote bags in tow, holding them out to me. Still standing. A quick shock to the balls brought them both to their knees.

"This is a learning moment for you, slaves. When you bring something to your master, unless otherwise instructed, the proper position to take is on your knees, head down, holding the item up to your master in a proper display of supplication. Boys?" They adjusted their posture. "Thank you," I said, taking the bags, "You may return to your positions in line. Boys, put your hands out. I have a present for each of you."

I walked down the line of slaves, handing each his very own bottle of silicone-based lube.

"As you boys have no doubt gathered, one of your most important features is your pussy and what it can do. For the next few hours, you're going to get acquainted with your assholes. Pollo, I bet you've had plenty of things stuffed up your hole before. Am I correct?"

"Master, yes, Master!" the Puerto Rican slave replied, turning from caramel to crimson.

"Good. Then why don't you crawl over here. You can help me teach your brothers." The little brown slave crawled over with his lube. "You boys can all sit down. Spread your legs, lube up your fingers, and start exploring your holes, one finger at a time. I'll tell you when to add another."

Pollo was immediately down, his legs bent and splayed out, leaning back and shoving his lube-slicked index finger into his hole, starting to loosen himself up. The other boys followed suit, albeit with less initial enthusiasm.

"Flipper! Flopper! What, are you scratching an itch?" I shouted at the twin slaves, neither of whom was even a knuckle deep in their asses. They saw me pull out my phone to send a signal about what I thought of their efforts to their balls, and before I had the remote control app open they shoved their whole fingers up inside of themselves, squealing in unison as their blue eyes grew wide beneath waterfalls of curly blond bangs.

I grinned. "Better."

48.

I've always considered it a great tragedy that the vast majority of heterosexual men never learn what a source of pleasure their asses can be, that their fragile sense of masculinity and manhood and straightness is so wrapped up in the terror of penetration that they never discover the joy of having their holes licked, sucked, teased, and, yes, fucked. Even I enjoy a good fucking every once in a rare while, and I never tire of an obedient slave worshipping my asshole with his tender tongue.

These six boys in front of me, on the other hand, were quickly learning just how much pleasure their pussies could provide. It helped, of course, that they were all incredibly horny; it had been more than a week since they'd been allowed to orgasm. Day after day, Cinnamon and Sparky sported a slender drip of precum hanging from the end of their cages like a strand of spider's silk. And while playing with their holes would eventually leave them more frustrated and aroused, for the moment they were finding that any stimulation was better than none.

By now the boys had been working at their asses for more than thirty minutes, each working three or four silicone-slippery digits up their tight teenage holes. I had activated their cock rings, sending a gentle, almost unnoticeable vibration into their caged equipment to help horn them up even more. Most of the boys probably didn't even realize what I'd done; all they knew was that playing with their asses felt really fucking good. I grinned down at the six slaves laying on their backs, legs splayed, hungrily working their holes as perspiration made their lithe young bodies shine, their evaporating sweat filling the stables with the scent of sex. Every so often a finger would dive a little deeper and alight on that secret spot, a little gasp slipping out of Flipper or Awol as he accidentally pinged his prostate. I decided it was time for the next part of the lesson.

"Now, boys," I said, picking up the second sack, "For part two. Now that you've learned what a few fingers up your cunts can do, you get to move on to the real thing. Well, almost real, anyway."

I walked down the line of slaves, from Sparky to Awol, handing each boy his very own dildo, a perfect silicone replica of my own nine-inch cock. Each was attached to a flared base six inches in diameter (I'd learned my lesson a few years prior when a slave "lost" his training dildo up his rectum; it was a literal pain in the ass to retrieve) and a handle that made them look like the world's least-child-appropriate toy swords. Returning to the spot where Pollo was on his back in front of the other boys, I handed him his dong and instructed him to show the others what to do with it.

The flexible boy squirted some lube onto the dildo, then practically tossed his legs behind his head, turning into a human pretzel and putting his ass in perfect position for a good fucking. He was showing off, but I didn't mind. He began working the rubber cock into his hole, slowly at first, then abruptly thrust it all the way in, literally to the hilt, as he moaned with pleasure. As he continued to fuck himself, I instructed his brothers to follow his lead.

Apparently I was somewhat unclear in my instructions, as the five less anally-experienced slaves, to a man, attempted to contort themselves like he had before hoisting themselves not their own petards. Cinnamon, more flexible than I'd realized, actually managed the pose without any difficult. I chuckled at his struggling brothers, and informed them that they were welcome to take whatever position allowed them to most comfortably fuck themselves.

Soon each slave was working my substitute cock in and out of his tender hole. Pollo and Cinnamon with their legs wrapped behind their heads, Flipper and Flopper with their legs splayed out in the air, Sparky opting to hook his right arm around his knee to pull his ass open, and Awol fucking himself more or less doggy-style. There would be plenty of time in the coming months to work on various positions; for now, I was pleased just to get the boys used to the proper purpose of their rectums. Judging from the pools of precum collecting under each slave, they'd all passed today's test with flying colors.

"On your knees, Pollo," I said to the slave at my feet. He untangled himself and got up, still working the dildo in his ass. "This display is getting me pretty worked up. I wouldn't trust any of these other slaves to put his mouth on me just yet, but my gut tells me you know how to give a decent blowjob. Would you like to suck my cock while you and your brothers keep fucking yourselves?"

He nodded. "Master, yes, Master."

"Have at it, then," I instructed, unzipping and releasing my full nine inches. The slave immediately went to work on my dick, deftly keeping his teeth off my meat, no small feat considering his petit stature and my above-average girth. He clearly had plenty of practice; I pride myself on self-control, but it was a struggle not to unload my seed down the boy's throat almost immediately. I suppose the sight of five straight boys exploring their assholes for the first time, eagerly fucking themselves for my pleasure, had made me even hornier than I realized.

I regained my composure and allowed the boy to worship my cock for more than an hour while I answered emails from clients and checked on a few business interests via my phone, while the six boys in my care continued to pound away at their bottoms, working themselves into a sexual frenzy. Near seven o'clock, Tyson returned to the stables with the older boys. It was nearly time for dinner. I brought my hand down to Pollo's head, willing the boy to bring me to completion. He vigorously deep throated my meat, taking the full nine inches and swallowing on my member, massaging it with his throat. It was more than enough; I unloaded down his gullet, sending thick, hot streams of my sperm into the boy's belly.

"I think that's enough for today, boys," I remarked as I removed myself from Pollo's attentive mouth. "You may keep these; feel free to practice before you go to sleep at night, not just on your ass but also your mouth. It's important you all become as practiced at taking a cock as Pollo here."

Tyson had filled the trough and the seniors were already eating; I dismissed the freshmen and they raced over to elbow in and get their fill. As the eleven boys jockeyed for position, I excused myself. I was rather hungry, too, and eager for a quiet night in.

On my way out of the stables, I turned to Tyson. "After dinner, have Sparky cleaned and instruct Cubby to escort him to the big house."

The Boys in the Box Ch. 49-51

by ! ©

Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)

*****

49.

The late Montana twilight was creeping in through my parlor window when Cubby arrived with Sparky. Both boys were freshly scrubbed and looking rather cherubic. Sparky was looking more and more like his big brother every day as his baby fat melted away and his muscles puffed. There was one striking difference, of course; whereas Sparky's teenage cock was presently locked away safe and sound in its steel cage, Cubby's thick seven-and-a-half inches bobbed happily with each step. Since he'd been freed from chastity, the slave always seemed to be sporting at least half an erection. While not the largest, its impressive girth made it a joy to behold. If he felt any embarrassment about his erection sticking straight out like a dowsing rod, it didn't show. Like everything about Cubby, it seemed upbeat and eager to please.

"Hello, boys. Thank you for showing Sparky the way, Cubby. Why don't you go see if JoJo needs any assistance while Sparky and I have a little chat. I think I'd like you to spend the night this evening."

"Master, thank you, Master!" The big slave beamed as he trotted off like a labrador in search of a bone, his hard cock bouncing with each step.

"Good evening, Sparky. Please, have a seat," I said, patting the space next to me on the overstuffed settee. He hesitated. "Now, boy. I'd rather not ask you again," The boy gingerly sat down on the cushion. I grinned as he let out a little gasp and screwed up his face when he released his full weight onto the seat, the plug up his rear pinging his prostate and aggravating his rectum, all the more tender after the afternoon's lesson.

"Master, thank you, Master," he squeaked.

"No need for formality this evening, Sparky," I said, crossing to the bar. "I'm glad to see you know your place, but it does rather get in the way of conversation and I'd like to really. You may speak freely."

"Oh, um, okay, sir."

I poured two tumblers of whiskey and returned to the settee, handing one to Sparky. "Good. Cin cin," I said, clinking his glass and taking a drink. He followed my example, gulping down about half of it at once. The boy was clearly terrified. Like most new slaves, he had adapted quickly to his training, to the stables, to being treated like livestock, and what had once seemed insane and horrifying had quickly become mundane. It is always a shock how easily a man, or rather a slave, gets used to the previously unimaginable, especially to the slave. This, however, was something altogether alien to his new experience. Here he was, naked, alone with the man who had captured him, sitting in an expensively appointed parlor and being treated more like a houseguest than a piece of chattel. In the stables, he was surviving; here, he had no idea how to behave.

"How are you enjoying your stay so far?" His mouth dropped open dumbly, clearly at a complete loss and not knowing how to respond. I laughed gently and rubbed the inside of his smooth, milky white thigh, noticing his locked cock jump involuntarily at the intimate touch. "I'm sorry, that was a little joke. I know this is all still very strange to you.

"I want you to thrive, Sparky, in the time you spend with me and, even more importantly, with your eventual owner. I take great pride in matching my merchandise with the best possible buyers. My clients are men of incredible means and power and impeccable taste, but their tastes are just as varied as you and your brothers. It's not as simple as a preference for tall boys or black boys or skinny boys; each master demands very specific things from his property. Thus, once my new acquisitions get settled in here, I like to take a moment to get to know each of you better. So. Tell me about yourself."

"I, uh, well..."

"Do you have any talents? What makes you special?"

He fumbled for the words. "I can, um, dance?" He finally replied, blushing deeply.

"Oh, well that might well be marketable. Ballet?"

"No, sir," he said, staring down at his feet as if the answers to my questions were in his toes. "I tap."

"Tap dance?"

"Um, yeah, since I was, like, six I took lessons."

"I see," I said slowly. "Alright, give us a step."

His eyes went wide and he threw back the rest of his whiskey, but to the lad's credit he got up and rattled off an impressive little combination, even barefoot. I had a hard time imagining a sheik or tech billionaire taking much interest in a tap-dancing slaveboy; ballet or belly dancing, sure. Hell, I'd even once sold a sold a slender Asian slave to a famous rap mogul who paid handsomely for a boy who could pop, lock, and twerk like nothing you've ever seen. But tap? It was just so camp. But one never knows; perhaps Sparky would spend his days in nothing but taps and a little bow tie, shuffle-stepping while his prick flopped to the beat, his nights warming some rich theatre queen's bed. Stranger things have happened.

I chuckled as I refilled our glasses and beckoned him back to the couch. He sat back down, and I wrapped an arm around his slender shoulders.

"Alright, then. What else?"

50.

We spent the better part of the next two hours talking, the alcohol doing its job loosening Sparky's lips as he unloaded his life story. As cute as the boy was, I have to admit that I was a bit bored. He was, in a word, normal. Almost painfully so. B minus student, no especial athletic aptitude, no musical ability. Actually, worse than no musical ability; he played the drums in a high school garage band, which made tap dancing look like an absolute headlining feature by comparison. Still, he was cute as a button and clever and charming and even witty when he relaxed, and I had no doubt he would eventually make his master very happy, even if he couldn't recite sonnets or sing arias.

Sparky, I decided, was unlikely to be part of a harem. He wasn't exotic or unusual enough to stand out as one of a dozen or a hundred slaves, called to entertain his master's guests at parties or decorate a manse. Likely he'd end up a personal body slave like JoJo, serving a bachelor or a couple, maintaining their home and taking care of all their personal needs. Maybe he'd travel the world on some titan of industry's private jet. There were worse ways to serve. I made a mental note to see that JoJo took a special interest in the boy's domestic training.

Over the next week, my interviews with the other boys would prove slightly more fruitful. I already knew that Pollo was a (properly marketable) dancer and contortionist. He also spoke Spanish, as did Awol (in addition to Mandarin and French, both big bonuses.) Awol was also a spectacular pianist. Apparently his mother, a single undocumented Chinese immigrant, had taught him. She'd passed right before he turned eighteen, and with no money, connections, or prospects he'd landed (almost) in boot camp. Flipper played the flute and Flopper played the violin; I saw their selling price balloon. Cinnamon's only real talent had been running track, but as a pony, that'd be more than enough.

Tonight, though, was about Sparky. I looked at him conspiratorially, tousled his hair, and said, "How would you like to cum, boy?"

His eyes went wide. It had been more than a week since he'd had an orgasm – an eternity for an eighteen year old. Hell, an eternity for me. His inhibitions gone, he simply responded, "Oh my gosh, sir, really?"

"Really," I said. "I've had a long day and my feet could use some attention. If you do a good job, I'll let you come before sending you to bed."

"Master, thank you, Master!" he exclaimed, apparently so excited by the prospect of an orgasm he slipped back into old habits.

I retrieved a key from my pocket and released his cock from its steel cage. It immediately sprung to life; at six and a half nice, thick inches it, too, looked like a miniature version of Cubby's. "No touching yourself, until I say so, boy. Now remove my boots."

He eagerly took them off. As he began to remove my socks, damp and musky with the day's sweat, with his hands, I corrected him. "No, boy. You use your teeth to take of your master's socks." He hesitated a minute but then dove in, nibbling at the toes and rearing back to pull them off, shuffling backwards with them in his mouth and pulling like a dog with a chew toy. "Good boy," I said once he'd managed to get them both off, "now lick them clean."

He started timidly at first, gingerly licking at my toes, but quickly became bolder and more active in his worship. He took long, luxuriant licks up and down my sweaty soles, showered my arches and ankles in kisses, sucked extravagantly on each toe, tickling the crevices between each with his velvety tongue. The more furiously he worshipped, the more rigid his cock became, sticking almost straight up against his belly and leaking a steady stream of precum. Either he was immensely turned on by his humiliation, desperate to be allowed to come, or both. Probably both.

"You like worshipping your master's feet, slave?"

"Oh, yes, Master! Thank you for letting me worship your beautiful feet, Master!"

The kid was either a latent foot fetishist or a very good actor. In any case, after about twenty minutes, I was more than satisfied with his performance. "Good boy. You can jack off your little slave cock for your master's entertainment, boy. I want you to spray your seed on your master's feet. You have five minutes, or you'll get locked back up without release."

The time limit was unnecessary. He was immediately back on his haunches, kneeling before my feet and jerking his thick teenage meat, unloading all over my feet in less than sixty seconds.

"Good boy!" I exclaimed. "Now lick it up."

Panting, he paused ever so briefly. He hadn't anticipated this. But he collected himself and went to work, slurping every drop of his salty spunk from my feet. It felt absolutely exquisite. Once he'd licked it all up, I pulled him to his feet and leaned into his crotch, taking his still hard cock into my mouth. There was nothing subtle about the blowjob I gave him; I wasn't worshipping his cock like I had Icarus' two nights prior. Instead, I wanted to get him off again quickly and completely, sucking every last drop he had to offer and getting his cock soft enough to lock back up. (I could, I suppose, have just dunked his equipment in the ice bucket on the bar, but I didn't see the need to mar what had been such a lovely evening.) I grasped his shaft in my fist, pumping up and down and I sucked on his engorged purple cock head, running my tongue over his piss slit. In no time, he was unloading in my mouth.

When he finished, I released his deflating cock and brought him down to his knees, kissing him and delivering his warm seed back from my mouth to his, which he promptly and obediently swallowed.

I locked his flaccid dick back up.

"Very good, Sparky. Now, can you find your way back to the stables in the dark, or shall I have Cubby escort you?""Master, I can do it myself, Master!"

"Good boy. Go on then." He headed for the door. "Oh, wait, I'd nearly forgotten. Your cock ring seems to be malfunctioning." I tapped at my phone. "Did you feel that?"He shook his head. "Master, no, Master!"

"I thought not. Come here." He came over to the couch and I removed the ring, inserting a small key into a hole on the underside and popping it off. "I'll have Jake look at this in the morning. Good night, Sparky."

"Master, good night, Master!" he cried, trotting off.

51.

I found JoJo and Cubby preparing for the evening's activities in my bedroom; Cubby on his back on an ottoman, legs splayed, moaning while JoJo worked a dildo as thick as my wrist in and out of the younger slave's ass. Upon my entrance, JoJo shoved the dong all the way to the hilt, a full twelve inches, into Cubby's ass and both slaves leapt up, crawling to me and kneeling prostrate at my feet. I gave the command and the boys slowly disrobed me, kissing each inch of flesh as they revealed it. JoJo removed my t-shirt and worshipped my torso while Cubby, unable to stand properly with the huge silicone tool wedged firmly in his rectum, focused on my lower half, stripping me of my jeans and underwear and taking my nine inch tumescence eagerly into his warm, wet mouth.

I allowed the boys to worship my body for a time, and then made my way to bed. They followed, JoJo walking a couple of steps behind me, and Cubby trailing us both on his knees. I settled in and allowed JoJo to begin sucking my cock.

"Cubby, you may remove that thing from your ass. Give it a proper cleaning before you join us.""Master, thank you, Master!" the young slave exclaimed as he slipped the giant dildo out of his hole, groaning as the bulbous head made its way past his sphincter. Kneeling at the side of my bed, he worshipped it as if it were my own cock, licking every last trace of lube and anal juice off it. When he was finished, he reverently set it on my nightstand, looming there like some savage totem, as he eagerly climbed up onto the bed and joined JoJo in service of his master's manhood.

I allowed the boys to worship my cock for a while, enjoying the view as their mouths made love to my meat. They were a study in opposites. Neither boy had an ounce of fat, but whereas JoJo had the lean, lithe body of a soccer player, Cubby had the rippling musculature of a quarterback. Whereas JoJo was taught and tan, Cubby was broad and milky white, dotted with freckles across his shoulders. Whereas JoJo was golden blond, Cubby had a shock of unruly, light brown locks. What both boys had in common was a youthful beauty and an eagerness to please.

Eventually, I knew that if I allowed the boys to continue much longer I wouldn't be able to keep myself from climax, and I didn't want the fun to end just yet. I ordered them off my cock, bringing Cubby's ass to my face and allowing him to worship JoJo's eight inch cock. JoJo and I lay there in something like an "X", our crotches near touching, our feet on either side of the other's head. Knowing how enthusiastic JoJo tended to be with his little brothers, I ordered the alpha slave to go easy on Cubby's face. After several years together, I could sense his disappointment at being reined in, but he obeyed, funneling his excess passion into sucking on his master's toes. His ministrations had even more fervor than usual, slathering my feet in his spit like a dog leaping all over its master when it smells that said master has been playing with another dog.

For my part, I drove my tongue deep into Cubby's hole. I pulled his cheeks apart and lapped him up like a cat with cream. Loosened by the dildo, his normally tight anus opened to me, allowing me to tantalize his red velvet rectum with my tongue, tickling his hole with my facial hair. He moaned in delight, his cries of pleasure leaking out past the eight inches of slave cock inside his mouth, sucking at JoJo's dick while he gently stroked mine.

Soon it was time to fully enjoy Cubby, to celebrate the reason he was in our bed. I smacked the slave on the ass, bringing him up and around to me. As I pulled the straight teen's face into mine, lavishing his mouth with a deep, passionate kiss, I allowed him to gently lower his primed ass onto my full turgidity. I pushed him up into a kneeling position and allowed the slave to bounce himself up and down on his master's meat, his thick, rigid, slave cock swinging with each bounce. He rode me like that for about twenty minutes, alternately squealing and moaning as he impaled himself on my rod while I tickled his ribs and pulled at his tits.

Then I gave JoJo the signal.

My blond boy, my little golden demigod, pushed Cubby forward mid-thrust, bringing his face back to mine and exposing his hole, still stuffed with my cock. JoJo plunged his full eight inches in next to mine, matching me thrust for thrust as Cubby squealed like the stuck pig he was. I eased my pumps into the boy's hole as JoJo unleashed his full pistoning power, our cocks working against each other in Cubby's hole in delicious syncopation, leaving the slave's senses completely bewildered as his prostate was punched totally arhythmically, here gently, there with almost inhumanly force, leaving the eighteen-year-old in a state of disoriented erotic overdose as we drove away at his teenage hole.

I lay there, enjoying the cascade of emotions playing out over Cubby's face – pain, pleasure, disgust, ecstasy, confusion, gratitude – as my cock was massaged by his silky anus and JoJo's relentless thrusting. We may have fucked for two minutes or two hours; eventually, all the sensations overloaded my senses and I let loose into Cubby, unloading my seed into his tender, young hole. As I let loose, I felt JoJo do the same, his spasming meat matching mine as we filled Cubby with our seed.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. I dozed off shortly after unloading, enjoying the sight of JoJo slurping our sperm out of Cubby and rewarding the slave for his performance with a blowjob, bringing the muscular teen to a quick conclusion.

I woke in the morning with a slave clinging to me on either side. After JoJo and I let Cubby take our morning piss, we lay lazily in bed, the boys giving my shaft and balls a gentle tongue bath when the door to my bedroom flew open.

This was quite a shock; nobody should have been in the house but me and my two slaves, and anybody who had let themselves in for one reason or another should certainly have, at the very least, knocked before entering my private rooms. I'm no prude, but I do appreciate a certain level of decorum. Instead, Tyson stood before me, hand on the door frame, panting and panicked. Even the two boys, normally unflagging in their devotion to service, stopped what they were doing, looking up from my crotch to the doorway to see what all the fuss was about.

"What is it," I mumbled with annoyance.

"It's Sparky, sir! He's, he's – gone!"

––

Dear Reader:

I've had a wonderful time writing this story and have been overwhelmed by the response. But it's time to give the boys a breather. I have so many ideas for where this all will lead, but for the time being, I've decided to take a break from "The Boys In The Box" while I focus on some other ideas I've been kicking around. Fear not – the boys will be back! I'm not such a sadist that I'd end the story on a cliffhanger like this. You'll just have, like the new boys in their chastity cages, to wait a little longer for resolution. Thanks for your support and thanks for reading and I hope you'll enjoy what comes next just as much!

Cheers,

Jackson