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Review This Story || Author: Ryan

Zac - The Unlucky One

Part 5

Keep moving.

The Americans will have someone on the trail of their missing marine. The Iranian regime likewise, albeit less competently and with different motives. The hostage taker must know his territory, and stay one step ahead physically and tactically.

In the late afternoon sun, a small group are assembled in the yard. Master, captive, and a posse of Arabs.

“Do you ride, Zachary?”

“No, Master.”

The kid has adopted the pose without prompting. Legs wide apart; arms folded tightly behind the neck; back straight; chest puffed; butt pushed back. Naked, but for the metallic gleam of his steel chastity, and polished perfection of his black boots.

The intensity of the sun, and his prolonged exposure to it, is transforming the youth from light tan to bronze. It is fortunate he is dark-haired, and advantageous he was brought up in California, rather than Alaska. The burning would have been inevitable, and unattractive.

Master turns up his nose.

“Too bad. Fortunately, you will be riding with an experienced horseman.”

As if on cue, through the gates comes a young, muscular black stallion. The kind of horse that in the west would, temperament dependent, be racing, breeding, or gelded. Out here, gelding is viewed as unnecessary and unnatural, at least so far as horses are concerned.

The feisty beast is drawn to a stand by its white-robed rider.

“Do you wish to use some of your remaining lubricant, Zachary?”

The young marine looks puzzled for a moment. Master nods towards the horse, where the rider is seated near the back of a long saddle. There is plenty of room for two, with Zac to take the forward seated position. From a point in the middle of the saddle, just in front of the be-robed riders groin, protrudes a shimmering stainless steel plug, all of 6 inches in height, and a cruel 2 inches in diameter.

The kid looks at his Master, shaking his head more in despair than defiance. By way of response, Master nods with dramatic emphasis, his lips curling into a grin. He retrieves the precious and depleted tube of lubricant, and throws it over to the marine, who deftly catches.

“On the assumption you have never mounted before, Omar will help you up.”

An olive-skinned forearm extends down from the beast. It is a leaner, younger-looking forearm than Zac had expected, richly covered in short, very dark down.

The marine requires all his physical agility, and most of his courage, to scale the vast beast and throw one leg astride the stallion. Guided by Omar the horseman, he perches on the front ledge of the saddle and finds his stirrups. Relieved, perhaps, he has got this far with the horse remaining placid, the kid closes his eyes for a moment and audibly exhales.

“There is something else you need to mount. Onto the plug please, Zachary.”

Master is directly below him, now with cattle prod in hand. Where the fuck does he keep getting these instruments of torture from, as though by magic? It was as though he could be in two places at the same time.

“The plug, Zachary, or we start this horse with a jolt, and forget about your gentle introduction to equestrianism.”

The boy understands. His hands are already reaching behind, squeezing lube and smearing it liberally over the solid steel plug. The metal has been in full sunlight for too long, and is almost unbearably warm to the touch. The lubricant loses its viscosity almost immediately upon application, and runs in tears down the sides of the industrial-looking impaler.

“I help you.” Omar the horseman says, without objection from Master.

Zac half lifts himself, but is assisted by two young Arab hands on his hips, pushing him up with greater strength than he had expected.

The kid gingerly edges back onto the saddle, and positions his hole over the demanding plug. He glances at Master, watching this scene with great interest.

“Down, Zachary. Ride the plug.”

Zac throws his head back and prepares to descend.

“Here. Grip my hands.” Omar offers.

Not knowing where to safely hold the animal, Zac accepts, pushing his arms back to meet Omars extended limbs. The two young men lock palms together one dry and unfazed, as though this happened every day the other slick with perspiration.

Push out; relax, Zac tells himself, as he asks his sphincter to accept the girth of the metal intruder.


The lube fries in the sun as the kid pushes down over it.

Master is now diagonally behind this odd little duo, watching the extent to which the straight boy bung hole is stretched to accommodate his chosen plug. Chosen very deliberately. Chosen to be stretching physically; stretching mentally; stretching emotionally.

“Tell me how your plug feels, Zachary, whilst you push down.”

“Awww…..heavy, Master…….full.”

Master nods.

“Solid steel, Zachary, not hollow. I was intrigued to understand whether you could feel the weight.”

“Yes, Master!”

“No more talking, Zachary. Continue to push. I would like to see a little more greed in that hole, and a little more speed.”

The kid closes his eyes; grips Omars hands ever tighter; grunts repeatedly, and tells his rectum to accept defeat and swallow the steel phallus.


The convoy pushes on through the semi-arid vastness. Master, in the front passenger seat of the lead Land Cruiser. The horse. Arabs in a further Land Cruiser to the rear.

Omar handles the frisky stallion expertly. He has shown the animal who is boss, and it affords him cautious respect.

Occasionally, Master tells his driver to hold back, and the big 4x4 pulls to one side, allowing the horse to draw level. Master wishes to drink the sight of the metallic column splitting the butt cheeks of his boy; stretching his anus far too wide; causing him to screw his facial features in anguish as the steed jolts unevenly over the rough terrain.

Master lowers the window.

“Omar, is the horse ready for a gallop?”

“Yes Sir!” The boy responds eagerly.

Zac is less keen. He looks over to the Toyota, to the cruel man in the passenger seat with his unrelenting demands, his constant tests.


“I know Zachary, I know. Im taking you to places where so few young men have been, and where none should have to go. Just live the experience, Zachary. Just enjoy the ride.”

In a cloud of dust, the Land Cruiser pulls cleanly ahead of the horse, and Master raises the window to return to his air-conditioned cocoon.

Omar tightens his grip on the reins, and with a click of the teeth and a sharp nudge to the belly of the animal with his boots, it launches forward in hot pursuit of the car.


Zac is dizzy, disorientated. He no longer sees, or cares about, the direction of travel and sparse features of the flatlands. All he is required to do is sit tight, but the youth is exhausted, every muscle seemingly in spasm.

With every long stride taken by the horse, the kid is propelled an inch or two off the plug, only to slam back down upon it, as hooves make fleeting contact with parched earth. This is manic, almost mechanical, forced fucking. Zacs knuckles are white as he clasps the reins for dear life, but his neck is red, veins engorged, and his head rolls, drool running down the sides of his mouth. 

As the animal strikes unevenness, it sends harsh virbrations through the steel plug. Master can hear the resulting guttural roar from his boy quite clearly, over the low hum of the diesel engine. He checks the rear view mirror and admires the work he has done on this young man, epitomised by the visibly muscular tightness in Zacs abdomen, back kept ram-rod straight by the unforgiving intruder in his anus.

The Land Cruiser slows the procession to a canter, then walking pace. Master motions for the horse to draw level and, once more, lowers the electric window.

“Can he ride, Omar?” He shouts over to the young Arab jockey.

“Yeah Sir, he ride well!” The grinning kid replies, teeth beautifully white against his olive skin. He slaps the white boy, perched in front of him, firmly on the thigh. The loud panting and recovery of breath is coming from Zac, not the horse.

The caravan proceeds towards a known water hole, initially in silence. Zac has come to cherish silence. Where there is quiet, there is rest; time to think; time to deal with this, emotionally, and get his head straight. It rarely lasts long.

Zac feels the tickling sensation on his thigh and calf before he is spoken to. He looks down to see that Omar has drawn a riding crop from a sheath on the saddle. The Arab kid circles Zacs thigh meat gently with the leather shaft, pushing his light, wispy down back and forth.

“How many years are you, Zachary?” Omars English is imperfect, but he speaks confidently.

“21…..Im 21.”

“Ahh….you have two more years than me.” Omar observes. That figures. If anything, the dimple-featured Arab kid looks young for his age.

“You like boys, or you have girlfriend back home?”

“I have a girlfriend, Im straight.” This is boring the young marine, already.

Omar laughs.

“What girlfriend say, when she see you in metal?!” He points at Zacs chastity.

“Well, I wont be in this long.” Zac retorts.

Omar tuts and shakes his head.

“Master want boys in metal ALL the time. Master likes boys, how you say……hot…….frustrated!?”

“Yeah, that figures.” Zac responds sarcastically to the jerk.

The circling of thigh with crop continues.

“You mind if I use?” Omar says, tapping Zacs leg with the shaft.

“On the horse?” Zac asks, already fearing the answer.

“No! Horse is good….does what I want. On Zachary, I mean.”

The American hesitates. Can he say no to this teenage wannabe?

The horseman leans forward, his mouth just an inch from Zacs ear.

“Master is ok…….says is good for me to do this!”

Well, that was predictable.

“Why? Why you too? What do you all get from this?” Zac wails.

“I like red marks on white boy. I like to see boy crying.” Omar speaks quickly, and with certainty. 

“Just fucking whip me then, if thats what youre going to do!”

“You like hard?” Omar grins.

“Just fucking whip me!” Zac repeats.


The crop is raised, flicked and impacts in barely a second, stinging Zacs thigh like a bee, and leaving a bright red calling card.

Omar is thorough, and harsh. He works his way down Zacs leg methodically, ensuring the kid hurts from every blow. His other hand retains a grip on the reins, ensuring the stallion does not bolt when it hears the repeated whistle and crack of the crop.

When one thigh and calf set is suitably punished, Omar swaps hands and sets to work on the other side.

“Is okay, Zachary?”

“Yeah……whip me.” Zac sobs, knowing he may as well ask for what is inevitably coming his way.

“You ever try this……kink stuff……with girlfriend?” Omar asks.

“No. We just do normal stuff. Ive only had to do this perverted shit since Ive been here.”

Omar nods.

“You take well. Master wants to see more, I know. Master like it VERY hard!”

With a short laugh, the whistles, cracks and light welting of young American thigh meat resume. From the rear view mirror of the Land Cruiser, Master counts each strike, and watches a youthful head thrown back, features in agony at the multiple stings rippling down lean legs.


The moon illuminates the desert oasis quite brilliantly.

Masters little posse is gathered at waters edge. The Arabs have made a fire, and busy themselves brewing strong, sugary tea. Omar tends to the stallion. Zac has been permitted to sit. The marine squats butt naked on the sand, head drooped, panting. Master gathers himself close to the kid.

“Loss of control can be frightening, cant it Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

The captor reaches out with a single finger, and feels the definition in the boys right calf.

“See how dusty your legs are, with the sand and grit thrown up by Omars horse. Was it uncomfortable travelling at that speed, Zachary, with the plug wedged tightly inside you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I thought so. I could see your pain. I could see your fright. And yet, Zachary, here you are still, ready for the next challenge.”

The kid looks up, and half-turns his head towards Master, but says nothing aside from whatever emotions are conveyed by his tired, gritty eyes.

Master moves his finger to Zacs pectorals, and traces the U shapes on each side, from pec cleft to underarm.

“Youre still drenched in sweat, Zachary. So tell me the gallop; the heavy steel butt plug was it physically challenging for you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And now tell me, was it also sexually challenging for you, Zachary?”

The kid looks out to the mid-distance, perhaps to where the moonbeams hit the oasis, thinking not just of the right answer, but also the truthful answer. Perhaps they are, in fact, the same.

“Yes, Master.” Zacs voice has become small. Little more than a whisper.

There is a deliberately engineered silence for a minute or more.

“Is your chastity starting to become a burden, Zachary? The spikes, the urethral plug, the sheer tightness of the cage. Does it make it more difficult to manage the sexual challenge, Zachary?”

Zac thinks for a moment.

“I know what youre trying to do to me. I know what youre trying to make me. I dont accept you, or any of the stuff youre making me do. Ill manage with the cage until Im free.”

Master grins. He has seen some fight in the kid. He is dealing with a feisty one, at last. His hand moves to the angry red lashes on Zacs thigh, where he stops and massages the skin for a while.

“If you ever change your mind, Zachary, you know who holds the solitary remaining key.”


The young marine is bathing, with Masters consent, in the warmth of the oasis. His heavy boots stand neatly by the camp fire.

The kid sinks to his knees and submerges to the top of his neck. He closes his eyes and gently rubs tired muscle with long fingers. The water is heavenly therapeutic.

Occasionally, unchallenged by the party on the shoreline, Zac bobs entirely underwater for twenty seconds or so, extracting the grit from the marine buzz cut atop his head and massaging his scalp. He rises, and punctures the surface of the water with a splash.

Master beckons the boy back with a simple finger movement. Nothing is said. As he wades out of the oasis, the moon catches his steel chastity, and it glows like a jewel. The reluctant focal point of the young man.

“Bend over and hold your ankles, Zachary. Legs wide. Butt facing me.”

Master likes bending boys over. Straight boys, that is.

Boys change when they are bending occasionally, then once a day, then several times a day. The cruel and the perverted becomes the norm. Rape becomes something mechanical. Some boys break, others learn to accept.

“Reach back and get that crack wide open, Zachary!”

The marine pushes his hands towards his crevice, and pulls apart his muscular globes with masculine force. The hole that was, just a few days ago, ringed with dark hair, is now bare, in common with the rest of his crack. It went at the same time Zacs pubic bush was reduced to a desultory brown flash. It is part of Masters planned regression, for Zachary, from his fixed view of manhood to something more ambiguous, more servile, more pliable.

The kids ass lips are puckered and sore from their enforced accommodation of the butt plug. The lips pout red as though lipstick had been applied.

“Omar. The crop!”  Master shouts, and the young horseman obediently retrieves the sheathed weapon.

“Sometimes, Zachary, when we come to know something more intimately, we appreciate it a little more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You will not move a muscle, Zachary, whilst I kiss your lips with our new toy. All you need do is hold very tight.”

“YES, MASTER!” The confidence and volume of Zacs answers is, they both know, a performance to demonstrate he will not be intimidated. It is not an act of submission yet.

So again, the crack of leather against boy flesh can be heard over the desert floor. Heavy, methodical, evenly timed blows, struck right at the centre of Zacharys private crack. The kids hole becomes the bullseye, and the epicentre of ceaseless pain. Those lipstick-red lips quiver, then begin to cry crimson tears that run over the 21 year-olds perineum before dropping to the sand, where they are absorbed like blotting paper in rings of fading colour.

Zac complains a great deal. He grunts. He screams each time he is viciously stung. He hurls random expletives. He puts on a good show for the Arabs, and the laughing teenager Omar. But, though his knuckles whiten to a deathly pale, he hangs in there. His feet, sinking into the sand as they take the referred force of each blow, do not move.

Neither does Zac move when Master throws aside the riding crop and unfastens his pants.

As the piston that is Masters dick punches back and forth, he speaks to his boy.

“The freedom you speak of must seem a world away, Zachary?”

The kid does not answer. He is in the zone; holding on; taking it; dealing with what feels like the wreckage of his prostrate. Teeth gritted and grinding, eyes closed.

Then, the unexpected.

Master pulls out on the threshold of climax, and spins the kid around and onto his knees. His hosepipe drenches Zacs face with the most decadent creamy pie. Cum drips from his eyebrows and glues the eyelids. More shoots up his nostrils and back-flushes like gloopy snot. But most goes into the boys open mouth, gasping for air after the savagery of the last twenty minutes, but receiving only a torrent of semen. Squeezing his last few drops onto the kids loose tongue, Master pulls the young man to his feet.

How to explain the next bit? Surely not tenderness?

Master bends his knees a little to put his face level with that of Zachary. Grabbing the kids neck, tightly, he forces his tongue into Zacs mouth. Lips mesh. Suddenly, Zac is wide-eyed, startled and oddly panicked. Masters tongue pushes to the darkest recesses of Zacs mouth, and into his throat. The kids face blushes, involuntarily, as he is forced to breath through his cum-drenched nose.

Then, Masters tongue lashing becomes more restrained, as he cleanses the youths teeth and gums of his own virile load.

Finally, Master lapses to a plain vanilla kiss. One hand leaves Zacs neck and reaches around the boy, whereupon a solitary finger finds its way up the kids sore rectum. The kiss and the prostrate massage proceeded in tandem.


“Your chastity hurts, Zachary?”


Sure enough, the proud and ample boy dick is swelling, and as it does so, the internal spikes create multiple points of pain, as they were intended to do.

“Would you like me to do anything about it Zachary? Would you like me to end your pain down there? Would you like to accept what Im making you into?”

“No, Master!” Zac sounds as certain as ever.

“Okay, Zachary. I understand. I hope, in that case, the cage gives you some comfort that you remain the young man you always were.”

Master touches the tight little cage, and runs a finger over the steel backbone that imprisons his boy.

“As you remain so resolute, so sure that you are, actually, the unlucky one, it is time for us to discover how badly the United States Marine Corps want you back.”

To be continued.



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