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Review This Story || Author: Ryan

Zac - The Unlucky One

Part 8

Eighty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds.

The Marine pounds back into the compound with just over a minute left in reserve, after his nine mile timed run.

The kids compact, muscular torso is a tale of two halves. His legs, from above the boot line to his lower thighs, are caked in fine granules of dusty soil thrown up from the compressed earth. Let that be your guide to Zacharys effort; his speed of travel, and his desperation.

Above the waist, lines of sweat run black with accumulated dirt. On Zacs solid pectorals, the streams run determinedly vertical, creating an odd ripple effect on his bronzed skin.

Just below the kids belly button, a ridge of dark fluff with a pronounced central spine forms a youthful treasure trail. Yet the treasure at the end of that trail is nothing but cold, hard, steel chastity. The tummy wisps simply accentuate the filth now caking Marine Efrons machine of a body.

Was it a forced run?

That is, perhaps, the most profound question yet in the story of Marine Efron.

Yes, he had his orders, and yes, Master was never more than twenty metres distant, in the Arab-driven Toyota jeep.

Yet this time, there were no whips. There were no scrotal chains attaching the kid to the rear fender. No electricity was transmitted.

The kid made the run himself, head thrown back majestically as he pelted along, boots scraping and buckling on the uneven surface.

There were many oh fucks over those nine miles, but please dont assume they were a consequence of the kids repeatedly twisted ankles, or a curse on the substantial weight on his back. The oh fucks were in contemplation of ninety minutes, elapsing far too quickly, with nothing in sight but an endless track of hard earth, disappearing into a shimmering haze on the far horizon.


The boy is on his knees in the centre of the compound, despite the burning heat of the sand. His boots are folded beneath him, soles facing Master who stands behind. His face is buried in the open palms of both hands, and he sobs very loudly, with periodic sharp intakes of breath, as he fills his lungs ready for the next chorus of wailing.

“Just under eighty-nine minutes, Zachary.” Master interjects, over the cacophony.

Abruptly, the sobbing ceases as though Zac were regulating it by way of a switch. The kid replays Masters words a second and third time, punch-drunk with exhaustion and physically, so very nearly broken.

“Target achieved.”

As Master repeats his simple message, he moves within six inches of Marine Efrons reared-up bubble butt. The boy no longer needs to see or hear Master to judge his position. His presence the sadistic connection can be felt as a chilling breeze amidst the otherwise insufferable heat.

“Target. Achieved.”

Once more, slowly, syllable by syllable.

As Master enunciates, Zac rises to his feet and adopts the formal pose with an absolute perfection that surprises the sadist behind him.

And as the kid adopts that pose, blood pulses through the veins in his dick; sleeping sex muscles awaken; and the pretty, uncut Marine member is cruelly speared by the internal spikes in his chastity.

And as that youthful erection is made as painful as it rightly should be, the free-flowing sobbing recommences.

Master waits several minutes for the worst to subside.

“Confusing feelings, yes Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

The Marine mumbles through a throat stuffed with snotty catarrh, but the admission is clear enough.

“So tell me, Zachary. If I were to ask you to repeat immediately - that timed run, but on this occasion with your scrotum weighted as it should be, could you do that for me, do you think?”

“Yes, Master.” The diction is clearer, more strident already.

“Because you will be running the desert again for me, Zachary, and there is one other challenge for you.”

Masters hands reach around the Marine, graze his pectorals and are immediately coated in a surface film of grimy filth, before latching on to his proud, erect tit nubs. With two fingers on each hand, boy nubs are crushed, twisted and pulled.

“Mmmmm.” The youth protests.

Or was it a protest?

“You see, Zachary, when you run for me in future, one minute will be shaved from your target time, on each and every occasion. The distance shall remain the same nine miles. The only change will be in my expectations of you, Zachary. Eighty-five minutes, before too long, with your testes weighed down.”

The twin demons are back. Uncontrolled tears, and hard very hard - caged erection, testing the constraining bars of steel. Master watches, interested, as pinprick-trails of blood criss-cross the engorged flesh.

“I sense you are ready to give me your breath, in exchange for a period of sexual freedom, Zachary.”

The snivelling youth gives a single, yet definitive nod.


Office of the Secretary of the Navy

Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

The balding ginger crop of Navy Secretary Shane Collins ends well above what is, by any standards, a high-backed leather desk chair. He must be all of 66”.  

“The Defense Department have two inviolable principles in this scenario. Number one, an absolute commitment to find and repatriate our soldiers. Number two, we dont pay ransoms, ever. We go in and pick em up.”

“When we know where they are.” 

Under Secretary Simon Lorkins, ten years the senior of his boss, and much overlooked for that final big promotion, injects some reality as he peers over the desk in his thin-framed spectacles.

“Hmmm yeah, well, were closing in. Bit of a bugger theyre hiding him in Iran, but look, weve snatched folk out of Pakistan and Afghanistan before. Just a shame the big guy has eluded our spooks thus far.”


“Yeah. But hes in a cave some place in the mountains. The desert is easier terrain to search, and the average Iranian can be bribed to tell all far easier than the Taliban. No ideological principles to make things complicated.”

“It worries me we still havent told his folks in San Luis Obispo about the video. This is high stakes stuff, Shane. If we can spring the kid over the next few days, nobody will care. Should the worst happen, and its established we withheld news however painful from the family, there will be hysteria.”

Collins a perpetual fidget plays with a stapler on the desk

“Im quite clear on this, and so are the Defense Secretary and Deputy President. That is not a video we wish to be distributed. It wont help get the kid back home, in fact, the reverse might be true. All sorts of nutters will go vigilante on us. There will be reprisals against anyone who looks olive-skinned in downtown New York.”

“Give the people some credit, Shane. We could just say a hostage video exists, and we are aware of the contents.” Lorkins suggests.

“Maybe ten years ago, Simon. These days, there will be campaigns on Facebook and Twitter demanding release, and suggesting all kinds of stitch-up until we do so. Its utterly corrosive, this new media crap, but thats the way it is.”

“So, what do the timescales look like?” Lorkins asks.

“Weve narrowed his location to a fifty mile radius in Khuzestan province, but theyre mobile. There was nothing at the first hide-out but the embers of a camp fire. Still, were confident the area is locked down. He wont get out by air without us knowing and tracing the chopper, likewise by sea. And were watching the villages for road convoys. Theyre probably safest staying put, now, given we cant do house-to-house in enemy territory. But the net will still tighten.”

Collins doodles a topographical map of southern Iran, from memory, as he speaks.

“And then what?”

“We send for the SEALs, Simon.”


Southern Iran

06.00 hours

Master is going to do this early, before the heat builds.

The kid stands just behind the cell door, eyes glazed and focused on the mid-distance.

Those eyes are increasingly tired-looking, and whilst this detracts a little from his masculine beauty, it pleases Master, because here are the eyes of a boy shattered at the pace he is being pushed. A boy near collapse with finishes in the early hours of the morning, and starts coincident with the rising of the sun. A boy whose life perspectives have narrowed to relentless forced physical and sexual performance. This is boy as machine, and it both fascinates Master, and motivates him to push harder still.

Master reaches out, and with the knuckles of two fingers, tests the sandpaper-like quality of too many days facial fuzz.

“Get the boots off. Now!”

How long has it been since boy and boot were disunited? Is it over a week, already?

The kid makes to sit on his sleeping platform, all the better to gain leverage between hand and boot. As he crouches, however, he reads Masters eyes daring him, just daring him, to sit down on duty, and in a flash he is standing again.

The Marine hobbles, hops and grunts as he tries to prise the leather from his ankles. He knows it will only be seconds before Master loses patience, and then what? The electricity, perhaps, or the cane? Or worse the very worst he may issue a simple verbal chastisement.

“Too slow, Zachary. Pull it together. Get working for me.”

Those, for reasons he cannot yet adequately explain, are words the Marine no longer wishes to hear.


The kid wrestles with the second boot, Master pacing and at the very edge of his tolerance of delay caused by the compact, struggling young torso.

When the boots are lined up neatly against the wall, Master selects one, turns it upside down and shakes. On the cell floor, a mound of desert ranging from mud particles, through sand, to small stones, piles up. Master observes the kids feet, raw; blistered and scratched, yet fundamentally intact and not unattractive.

“Get moving to the yard, Zachary.”

As has become the norm, before Master has finished his name, the kids bare soles are slapping against concrete, and his creamy mounds join in the muscular effort of at-speed stair climbing.


The Arabs have made the Marine into a tight little bondage cylinder.

His legs are roped together at the ankles and above the knees, and his wrists tied behind his back, elbows bent, up between his shoulder blades.

The noose is made not from rope, but chain link, and is lowered by hand from a makeshift crane arm, fashioned from whatever mechanical detritus the Arabs have been able to find, borrow or plunder in these bad lands. They have done a very good job. 

The circle is placed over Marine Efrons skull, and the loop made smaller around his neck, veins prominent and pulsing.

“A little tighter.” Master instructs Karim.

Metal bites into neck flesh in a constricting circumference.

The sadist nods in satisfaction, and the Arabs retreat to the quad walls, mere but very interested spectators. Master takes their place, alongside boy.

“You know how this will work, Zachary?”

“Yeah……Yes, Master.” The kid croaks.

Master pulls out the Hex key the sole remaining copy of that precious key and attends to Zacs chastity, easing the long steel urethral tube from the hole it has called home for the last fortnight. Spikes are lifted off punctured penile flesh, and the zoo cage of skeletal steel lies flat in Masters palm.

“I guess you realised you wouldnt be allowed to touch yourself?”

The boy is silent, yet Master can see wells of moisture at the corners of his eyes, and the answer is immediately, and surprisingly clear.

“You didnt realise, Zachary? Fuck!”

And for a moment, Master is at Zacs flank, gently palming his tied, packaged upper thigh meat, genuinely seeking to console.

“Boys in it this deep, this dark, operate hands free or not at all, Zachary. Simple as. Im surprised, given how far weve been together, you thought youd be stalk-jerking this morning.”

A clump of ass meat is grabbed, and immediately the mood is grave, once again.

“Try and enjoy this brief release, even without your hands. Enjoy thoughts of Vanessa hands-free if you must, or, perhaps, your mind is erasing those memories, and you will reflect on your time here when you harden.”




Wordless struggling sounds, as Master takes Zac from the soles of his feet, to the front, and then to his toes alone. Not just once, but in a repetitive cycle.

The highly geared pulleys allow for precise manipulation of the chain gripping Marine Efrons neck, into which metallic imprints are burnt.

Master has been going for almost an hour, with each cycle giving the boy more breathless toe time, and less recovery sole time. He observes the kids pupils, glazed and bloodshot. He notes the horribly engorged blood vessels in the neck, taking far too much weight and strain. He spins the control wheel a little more, and the Marine is back to a perfect toe-balance, at the very limit of what is possible before the scene becomes much darker still.

During sole time, the kid wheezes noisily, his breath short, fast and laboured. He coughs, because he is getting bunged up. A danger in itself.

Master makes physical contact for the first time in this most intense, edgy hour. In sole time restricted to sixty seconds, he runs a palm over pectorals dripping with sweat, and rubbery tit nubs erect and reaching out for the early morning desert breeze. The heart is thumping far too quickly.

Master leans in, and whispers.

“Good boy. Very good boy.”

His hand returns to the wheel, yet Zacs eyes are no longer following him. The sound of chain running over pulleys warns of another lift.


The pulley is stopped in toe time.

Advanced toe time, really, as the kid dances on nothing more than the largest digits on both feet, pushed arrow-straight into the burning sand.

He dances to the tune of the 20 plait signal whip, which Master is applying merciless to his rear. When Marine Efrons upper back is comprehensively striped, including his bound forearms in the process, Master adjusts his sights to the open invitation that is the kids meaty ass mounds.

Cracks of rawhide on boy flesh bounce around the quad. No sooner has one echo rippled away, than another fires through the air in a volley. The Arabs watch carefully, enthralled.

When the force of a blow is too much, or the whip strikes an already-welted spot, toes leave the floor in agony, until rapid so very frightening strangulation forces those toes back to the sand.

The Arabs see what Master cannot, yet already knows. The perpetual rump-whipping and savage, deliberate denial of oxygen; the closeness, in every sense, of Master and boy in sweaty, filthy union, has forced the kids dick to a pulsating half-mast.

Drool runs in twin strings from both corners of the young mouth, onto flat tummy muscle, every sinew of that six pack strained as it tries to relieve stress elsewhere in the Marine torso.

Master breaks off.

He wrenches the kids head backward with an unkempt clump of dark brown hair, and a petrified gurgle from the boy. 

“I think you get it now, kid, dont you? This is your life. Neck lifts a couple of times a week, lasting hours. Timed runs, with constant improvement and heavier scrotal weights each time. Unlubed, passive anal in thirty different positions on rotation.  My fist up your rectum, and slammed into your nuts. Recycling your own fluids.”

Master stops to catch breath, and observe the reaction.

“Do you get it, Zachary?”

“Mmmmm.”  It is just a sound, through drool, snot, and this tiptoe-ed precariousness.

“But also, Zachary, if you choose it, my sadistic love, and the knowledge I work at the very edge of sanity. Think about that very carefully, Zachary. Consider, instead, how insanity might feel.”

Master steps back, and the kid can hear the resumption of practise strokes.

“Think about everything, very carefully.”  Master re-iterates.

It is the turn of thigh flesh to be sliced.

The chain links creak in their pulleys like unoiled barn doors, as the Marine swings with, or from them.

Upper legs are lacerated with blood-letting welts.

“Good boy, Zachary. Excellent boy.”

The kids eyes are shut firm.

His dickhead grazes his belly as it stands perpendicular, above a ball sac drawn in to almost nothing. The raspberry crown pokes the fluff around his button, as Master allows him occasional, brief inhalations that rattle the kids chest.


Boy feet have been untied. Master requires access to Zacs anus. Dry, bun grabbing, to-the-hilt access.

The control wheel has been adjusted a fraction in the kids favour. All ten toes and the very front of the soles are touching sand, when Master allows it.

The Marine swings like a pendulum under Masters rape-fuck attack, his torso a sweat-slick free weight. Chain and pulleys unite in squeals of metallic protest.  

“Get that fucking hose juicing, Zachary.” Master orders, as his nails bite into white hip flesh.

Yet the kid is past the point of no return, anyway. This is an ejaculation Zachary cannot comprehend. His convulsions are not merely sexual, or a consequence of the punishing denial of oxygen to his brain. The boy is shaking at what he is becoming.

Marine cum hoses the yard, and sizzles audibly on the sand. Just when he appears spent, another wave flies in a parabolic curve. 

The kids third and final load, perhaps his strongest, is in perfect union with Masters own orgasm, in the darkness of his over-stretched rectum.

Master remains buried to his wiry pubes inside the boy, yet he has allowed the Marine back onto his soles. Both males pant, one long and heavy, the other short, wheezy and purple-faced.

Master ensures the front of his torso mashes against the kids smooth back.

“Forget about Vanessa. Forget about family, and the Marines. Just wallow in the filthy, sticky shamefulness of this for a moment, Zachary.”

The sadist pauses.

“Then, when I remove the chain from your neck, come to attention immediately, where you will stay until every last drop of my milk has back-flushed from your tight little boy snatch. Is that understood, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Work your cunt muscles around my dick as you wallow, then.” 


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