Previous Chapter Back to Content & Review of this story Next Chapter Display the whole story in new window (text only) Previous Story Back to List of Newest Stories Next Story Back to BDSM Library Home

Review This Story || Author: Ryan

Zac - The Unlucky One

Part 2

Zac The Unlucky One

Part Two

15 June 2009


Marine Zachary thought he knew how to stand to attention, and hold a formal pose, but the Arab insisted on a different kind of perfection. As he circled the boy, he instructed countless micro-adjustments.

“Tuck the abs in a little further, and push the chest out to the same extent.”

“Spread the legs another inch, boy.”

“Raise and tighten your buttock mounds, please.”

“Push your elbows back a little, to tauten your bicep lock, Marine.”

As he issued orders, the Arab guided Zac in implementing them by prodding the relevant part of his torso with a cane, or running the cane over a stretched limb. Finally, he appeared satisfied.

“Zac, there is a point to all of this. Shortly, you will be meeting a man who will become very significant in your life. He is the reason you are here. I want you to get along with him, Zac, and I want to help you by telling you a few things about him. So are you listening?”

“Yes, Sir” The youth replied crisply, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, three days of stubble now adorning his fresh-featured 21 year old face.

“Ok. Well, whilst the rest of us will remain Sir to you, the man you are about to meet will wish to be addressed differently. You will call him Master, without fail.”

The kid continued to listen, with no visible emotion.

“Now, Master is whats known as a sadist. You might understand already what that term means, but if you dont it doesnt matter you soon will. Master will extract pain from you, be sure of that, but also understand that if you perform with perfection, you may occasionally see leniency. That state of perfection includes the ability to hold a pose, and on that note I see your chest has deflated a little push it back out, Zachary.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Thats better. One further point. Master will only expect you to speak when spoken to - ever. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy. Did you get much sleep last night?”

“Some Sir.”

“I can still see the imprint of the bed springs on your back, it must have ached when you got up?”

“A bit, Sir.”

“Well, I guess a Marine is accustomed to uncomfortable sleeping quarters. You may not see a mattress again for a while.”

“No, Sir.”

“The early start is a necessity. We needed to pose you perfectly for your Master. He is due here by 8am.”

“Sir, what time is it now?” Zac asked, disorientated.

“Its nearly 5am, Zac.”

The kid was silent, as was the Arab for a few moments, but something was missing.

“Oh, I almost forgot the finishing touch. The boot!”

Zac took a few seconds to absorb the news.

“Why????!!!!” He cried, shaking abruptly.

The Arab tugged at the kids raw testes, making a little pommel above which the boot laces were, once again, tied.

“Why you, or why the boot?” He asked, as he worked.

The kid understood this was a pointless debate. He tautened up, back to the perfect pose, and grimaced as the sand-filled boot was released as a dead weight, dramatically pulling his reluctantly-elastic balls halfway to his knees.

As the Arab left the room, he spoke into Zacs ear.

“Do not move a muscle. Do not make a sound. We will be watching. Be ready to greet your sadist, your Master.”


As promised by the Arab, the wait was three hours.

As suggested, the kid stayed rooted to the spot, in the middle of the basement room. Bare concrete floor. Bare rendered walls. No furniture whatsoever. Light provided by a single 100 watt bulb directly overhead. Just a naked boy, legs spread, hands clasped behind head, gaze fixed straight ahead, a combat boot hanging, very still, between his legs.

Total quiet was not achieved. Zacs tears were silent at first, but, as one hour rolled into two, and he let his mind wander into what little he understood of sado-masochism, his sobs became audible, and his puffed-out posed chest gave deep heaves.


Zac did not hear the approaching footsteps in the corridor outside, but he heard the metallic jangling of the key searching for the lock, and he heard the barrel turning, slowly.

Instantly, the young marine was covered in a sheet of sweat. Head to toe. And though he thought he could tauten his muscles no further, he somehow found an ability to tighten-up here and there; tuck in the tummy a little more; raise and narrow his butt mounds.

Squeak. The door opened. The kid kept looking at an indeterminate point on the wall in front of him, as heavy boots entered the room. One step at a time, very deliberate. Now the boots were somewhere behind him, and there they stopped.

An eternity of silence actually three minutes. He was still there, watching; assessing his captive, his project. 

A further movement of the boots.

Zac felt hot breath on the back of his neck. He longed, now, for an ice breaker, for this torture of silence to end.

The man in the boots has placed a palm upon Zacs right butt cheek. A fucking huge palm, but not a clammy one this man is cool and collected. His long digits reach almost to the kids crack.

The man squeezes, very, very hard, as though grabbing a hunk of bread to tear it off a loaf. But this is butt flesh, not bread. He squeezes and lifts, and the boy is abruptly thrust onto tiptoe. Somehow, Zac remains composed enough to hold the pose.

The booted man holds Zac by his butt mound, on tiptoe, for three minutes, in silence, before lowering him.

Now there are forearms encircling Zac from both sides of his torso. White, muscular forearms with a dusting of blond hair that stand in contrast to Zacs dark pit hair and pubic trail.

Two fingers on each hand grab Zacs tit nubs  - the nipples modest in diameter, the juicers compact but plump. The nubs are compressed, first between flesh, then between fingernails. Then they are twisted a full 360 degrees. Finally, they are pulled up and out.

Again, the grimacing boy is forced onto his toes, but now his whole centre of gravity is forced forward. He wants to place his arms by his side, to help steady himself, but knows he must keep them clasped behind his head.

The man mashes and twists and pulls and scratches Zacs nipples for a further three minutes, then lowers him once more, silently.

The boots retreat.

How far?

Maybe a few paces.

“Do not move a muscle, boy. I warn you.”

Some ice-breaker. The voice is deep -  this is going to be a big guy. But what is the accent? Zac is unsure. The kid is now visibly trembling, losing it a bit.

The scissor kick, when it comes, is delivered with such force that the kicker himself gives an audible ahhhhhh. His boot strikes target with perfect accuracy the tan combat boot hanging between Zacs legs.

Zacs boot bolts on its pendulum of laces, and swings up violently, crashing into the kids abs with a rubbery thud.

The boy lets out an anguished, guttural cry. His testes have been torn clean from his body or so it feels.

The arc of the swinging boot gradually diminishes, its own motion carrying it backwards and forwards for some time.

Zac is crying freely, chest heaving, tears dropping from his face and mingling with nervous sweat in rivulets over his pec meat. His hands remain locked behind his head.

“Hello, Zachary.” The deep voice says.


The kid sniffs and tries to regain his composure.

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay kid, I understand. We can do something about that. We can get to know each other. Get down on your knees, facing the same direction, then get your hands back behind your head.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Dont you fucking dare look up, kid!”


Zacs knees graze the concrete floor. His view of the far wall has gone, replaced by a very substantial set of male genitalia. The dick must be nearly eight inches, flaccid - a long pale tube with a contrasting raspberry head. The leathery balls hang low.

“Your girlfriend, Vanessa, has sucked you off I guess?” Said the deep voice.

They had been through his rucksack contents thoroughly, Zac realised, and found the letters he carried around from her, back in California, full of sweet nothings and lovey-dovey stuff.

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay kid, well here the tables are turned. Youre the one wholl be doing the milking with your mouth. I have four rules. No teeth; no gagging; no hands; make it deep. Now repeat them, marine.”

“No teeth; no gagging; no hands; make it deep, Master.”

“Ok, so reach for it and get started.”


Had Zac ever sucked before? He would probably deny having done so, as all military men would. Put it this way he had enough experience of receiving, or giving, to know roughly what to do. He wet the head carefully with his lips, and took it in his mouth. Within about thirty seconds, Master was impatient no different to most men and Zac knew what to do. He took the rest of the shaft.

Oral sounds so vanilla, doesnt it? Sex for wimps who are scared of anal. It doesnt feel that way, however, when youre a straight young man, on your knees; impaled with 10 inches down your gullet; thinly-spread lips mashed against a mat of blond pubic hair; unable to release because he is forcing you onto his dick through the application of hands to the back of your neck; frightened to gag because he has warned you not to; knowing you must continue to massage his weapon with your tongue; feeling your own face go red or is it blue as your nose struggles to do all the breathing.

Infrequently, he lets you surface for air and you desperately fill your lungs, before he pulls you back onto him for another five minute deep throat session.

He grows ever-bigger inside your mouth. Your lips struggle to make a circumference wide enough to accept him. Your throat chafes as it pushes reluctantly open. Drool runs uncontrollably down your chin like youre some kind of dementia-ridden fruitcake, not a 21 year-old in your physical prime. Your mop of hair is wet with sweat.

Twenty-five minutes in, he starts to throb, like a road digger inside your mouth.

“Youre here to be bred, Zachary. Take every single drop of my cum, kid, or we go straight to punishment without passing go.”

This is a torrent. Has he been saving himself for weeks, or is it always like this? His bitter-sweet cum soon clogs your throat, and the vicious way he is mouth-raping you leaves you unable to swallow and clear the sticky goo. So, instead it fills any vacuum between his dick and the wall of your mouth, and it feels as though his eruption is like wallpaper paste, attaching his dick to your throat permanently. Cum starts threatening to leak from your lips, but somehow you pull it back in, expertly, with your tongue. This is hard, physical work. Your chest heaves, your breath is short.

“Clean my dick, kid.” He says.

Somehow, you muster up the energy to wipe down each surface of his weapon with long, artful, tongue strokes. You curl your tongue to give proper attention to the crevices of his head.

He withdraws, clean and satisfied. You bow your head, anxious not to look at him. You still have a mouthful of cum.

“Swallow now, Zachary.” He says.

You have been waiting for this opportunity to clear your throat, and greedily digest his man juice. You are straight, and unsure what to make of the taste and texture. It doesnt matter, because familiarity will literally breed understanding.

“I very, very rarely give praise Zachary. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“But, I feel, even though we have just met, that you may understand the meaning of the word submission. I feel you may also understand what submission means for you. Am I right, boy?”

Suddenly, Im not sure from where, Zacs eyes are full of tears.

“YES, MASTER!” He shouts, his voice simultaneously clear and full of raw emotion.


Zac is standing in the corner, facing two walls. He has yet to see anything of his Master bar his genitals and forearms, and Master wishes to keep it that way, for the time being.

“When did you last wash, kid?”

Zac had to think for a moment.

“Four days ago, Master.”

Masters boots were still. Zac knew he was being observed, carefully. He held the pose.

“You stink of sweat, cum, piss, and fear boy. What we know as raunch. A boy in your position will smell raunchy much of the time, but for now, one of my friends will take you to the river to wash. Then you will be issued with your kit. Then you will see me again. Understand, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.” 

The ten minutes Zac spent with a bar of soap, in the gurgling stream behind the safe house, were his best ten minutes since capture. He felt the tension in his aching muscles ease somewhat. The guards allowed him to sit on the river bed whilst he lathered his upper body, taking the weight from his feet. The young marine submerged his head in the free-flowing water, and scrubbed his scalp vigorously, removing copious quantities of desert sand. The finest sensation, however, was felt before he entered the water, as the guards undid the boot laces around his scrotum, and the sand-packed dead weight combat boot was allowed to fall to the floor. Just for a moment, Zac felt free again so long as he avoided looking at the gun-toting Arabs surrounding him.


The yard of the safe house has been brought into use as an improvised drill square.

Zac dries rapidly in the morning sun, proudly wearing his new kit - one pair of black patent leather combat boots. Also just issued:

One tin of boot polish, and one boot brush.

One pair of bottle green boot socks not to be worn unless authorised. 

One tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

One tube of personal lubricant use as yet unexplained.

Thats it. Thats kit here. It barely warranted the setting up of the makeshift table upon which the items were displayed. 

Zac is being drilled by the guards. 

Quick marches around the yard. Slow, rigid marches legs flung theatrically high with each goose step. Standing to attention, then at ease, and back again every few seconds.

With every call to attention, the captive is required to call his full name:

“Marine Zachary David Alexander Efron, SIR!”

“Not loud enough, marine. Again!”


Then off again, new boots pounding the hard surface of the yard. One or two guards alert, guns at the ready; the others relaxing a little, enjoying the spectacle, taking drags on illicit Western cigarettes, asking Zac to goose step his legs a little higher.

At 11am, Master is ready to see Zac again. From the house, he gives a signal to the lead Arab. The captive is marshalled between two guards, quick-marched back to the basement room, and through the open door.

The light is off.

Zac assumes the pose in the centre spot, and the door slams behind him.

Two minutes silence. Then the boy is startled by the deep voice, behind him. He was in the room from the outset, in the dark corner behind the door.

“Hello again, Zachary. I hope you like your new boots?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will be in them during work, rest and play. But especially play. I think you understand, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Your uniform is not quite complete, however. In fact, the most important component is missing.”

Zac had no idea what the deep voice was talking about.

“Zachary, it is time to fit your chastity.”


To be continued.  

I would appreciate you comments:



Review This Story || Author: Ryan
Previous Chapter Back to Content & Review of this story Next Chapter Display the whole story in new window (text only) Previous Story Back to List of Newest Stories Next Story Back to BDSM Library Home