Previous Chapter Back to Content & Review of this story 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 10

Zac The Unlucky One

Chapter Ten

The boy has chosen to stand in the corner, facing the walls: the submissive spot. He gave the matter some consideration before deciding that was the humblest and most respectful place to posit his torso.

Zacharys compact, steely butt mounds flex just a little. Those globes are ready to be damned with faint praise if all is well, but equally to be welted if imperfection is found in this bathroom. The almost imperceptible twitching of ass meat forms sub-conscious preparation for the latter scenario.

United States Marine Efron sees Master by his shadows alone: Impossibly tall clouds stationary for minutes as they inspect, with rubber soles squeaking on tile as urinal grates are probed for unnoticed microfibers of tobacco.

The man of shadows wears a thick belt and boots, and nothing more. From that belt hang appendages, one per hip. The captured soldier, feverish and disoriented, attempts to make sense of those dark images projected onto the wall. One is almost certainly a furled flogger, but what of the second? It might be a prod, because Zachary knows Master likes the combination of electricity and military meat. Equally it could be a baseball bat, ready to crunch hostage abdomen if the job is judged to lack quality control.

Zachary prays that he might pass Masters test of perfection, even as a dark sliver of his core craves to fail it.


The pail of cream cleaner is not only empty, but scraped as a child might devour a bowl of cake mix.

The brush head is flat and frayed.

These props started the job but of necessity the task was completed by hand and mouth, fuelled by rage, driven by terror and riddled with inexplicable sexual desire.

Is love the kiss of a girlfriend, or the diagonal embrace of a mans whip from thigh to opposite hip, taking out both buns en route?

The old certainties have long gone.

Buttocks clench preparedly; impatiently.


The shadow lingers in the stall.

Master uses the white porcelain toilet bowl to check the state of his semi-hard, such is the mirror-perfect reflection of the cleansed surface.

“Tell me what you found in the bowl, Zachary.” Masters voice booms deep around the bathroom.

There is a silent stand-off, broken by a boy petrified of reaching an impasse with this man.

“Aww… fuck! Dont make me say it, Master!”

“But I want you to say it, Zachary,” the captor insists and the clump of his boots, one exaggerated step every five seconds, marks his closing-in on the boy.

“What did you find, Zachary?” the sadist presses.

“Loads of toilet paper, Master.”

“Dry, or soaking in the pan, Zachary?”

“Both, Master.”

“I see. And had that toilet paper been used, Zachary?”

“Yeah… it had all been fucking used, Master!” The boys voice rises an octave, suddenly shrill.

“I suppose some folk had economy in mind and used only three sheets. But theres always a selfish few who insist upon unrolling the tissue as though it were a banner, and tearing off twenty squares. Is that what you found, Marine Efron?”

“Yes, Master!”

“And what happened to all of that used toilet roll, Zachary?” Master delivers the first real blow.

“You fucking know it already, Sir! You fucking know! Dont make me say!”

The boy shakes and rages, as Masters hand reaches between his spread legs from behind with a key: The key.    

The key that holds the soldier in chastity, and has done so for weeks.

The chastity that applies a crown of painful thorns to Zachary Efrons every involuntary, misguided erection.

The chastity with which Master, not content merely to torture the boy physically and mentally, has wrought utter havoc with his youthful sexuality.

With a simple hand movement the small bronze key slides into the padlock and turns. Cradling the ribbed steel cock cage Master eases it off military dick, extricating the hollow tube from the kids urethra and noting the soreness of his piss slit.

The device is discarded to the floor, with a sharp clink of metal on tile between the Marines sturdy limbs.

“Ahh… fuck!” The boy sighs as his genitals taste freedom and find it strangely unfamiliar.

“What happened to the fucking toilet tissue in the pan, Zachary!” Masters tone is amplified and aggressive.

“I ate it, Master! I fucking ate it! I ate every crap-streaked sheet, Sir! Fucking satisfied, now?” the boy wails, still facing the corner, trembling and indignant.

“Why the fuck did you eat it, Zachary?” the sadist continues.

“Because it makes you happy, Master,” the boy admits, his sentence tailing off into sobs.

And now Masters cold hands are working Marine buttocks, alternating between caresses and stinging slaps. 

“What else was in the bowl, Zachary?”

“Aww… you fucking know, Master. Please dont make me relive it!”

“Tell me, Marine Efron. I need detail, and I need it fast!”

The smacks of muscular soldier butt land in high speed volleys of six, and the meat tenderises.

“There was fucking shit logs, Master!” the boy cries.

“That gives me no idea of quantity, Zachary. Were there a few floaters, or more?”

The kid sucks air through his teeth, furious, every muscle tight and each vein prominent as elaboration is demanded.

“Im waiting, Zachary,” Master prompts, boots tapping and fingers clicking.

“The bowl was full, Sir,” the compact American mumbles.

“Full to the waterline, or beyond?” Master pushes.

“Beyond, Master.”

“I see. Theres no need for bashfulness, Zachary. Id like to think our bonds are stronger than that,” Master says, squeezing impressive Marine bicep and wondering whether it was cast from stone.

“So, would piled be a fair description of the state of crap in that bowl, as you started cleaning?”

“Yeah… fucking loaded, Master,” the boy agrees, forehead wet with perspiration at the intrusive questioning from the man inches to his rear.

“Would you like to guess how many man you were scooping up after, Zachary?”

“I dont know, I dont fucking know!” the soldier whines.

Master runs a finger from Zacs damp armpit, over his slippery trunk and down to his hip.

“More than five, do you think?” the man suggests.

“Yes, Master,” the boy whispers.

“More than ten, perhaps, since that flush was disconnected?”

“Yes, Master. But less than fifteen,” Zac offers, not wishing to prolong the obscene guessing game.

The Marine feels his butt meat being pinched, gently.

“Good guess, Zachary. You were doing the dirty work for twelve Arabs: and your Master, of course.”

Confirmation of the boys own horrific estimate envelopes him in goose-bumped ghostly pale.

“Hard or soft turds, Zachary?” Master is relentless in his pursuit of the full story.

“Both, Sir!”

“Any flies on them, Zachary? Perhaps those stacked high?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Any semi-liquid diarrhoeal stuff in the mix, Marine?”

“Why the fuck are you humiliating me like this!” the boy shouts, spinning without consent to face his sadist, who does not recoil but continues the interrogation.

“Did you get your face wet and pissy, Zachary? Did you stare into the bathroom abyss and half-drown as you extracted shit from the depths of the pan?”

“Yes!” he responds petulantly, fists clenched. 

“Ah yes, I can still see moisture on your freckles and dampness in your eyebrows. Now, tell me what happened to that bowlful of Arab turd, Zachary?”

“I fucking ate it! I ate it because I didnt have any fucking choice,” the soldier spits.

The much taller man traces the boys pectorals by finger, over the broad sweep from underarm to cleft.

“You had a choice Zachary, and you made the right one,” Master comments, and the soldier is silent for a moment. “Now, prove to me you ate from the bowl.”

Temporarily unsure how he might offer evidence, the boy fixes his oppressor with blue eyes that have variously pleaded and hated since that first desert run, but never hinted at outright defiance.

Marine Efron opens his mouth and lets his lower jaw hang. There, between each sparkling white tooth, is confirmation of his consumption in the form of shit fixed like brown grout. 

“Open wider,” Master instructs and sure enough traces of sodden toilet tissue are stuck to the kids shit-streaked molars. 

“Breath out, hard,” Master demands, and the fetid odour wafts under his nose. There is no doubt this was an intensive episode of toilet cleaning by mouth.

“How long, before your deadline, did you get down to serious shit chowing, Zachary?” Master asks.

“Umm… about fifty minutes, Master,” the boy mumbles.

“So I gave you all night, and it ended up as an essay crisis?”

“Yes, Master.”

“When I arrived, you were breathless. Was it a little frantic at the end, Zachary?”

“Yeah…,” he whispers. Chin sunk, the kids tears fall upon his chest with one hanging like a diamond from his molested right teat.

“Tell me just how close it was, Zachary? When did you have that toilet bowl sparkling to your satisfaction?” Master continues his line of enquiry, enjoying this deconstruction of task.

“Umm… I guess four minutes before you came, Master,” the Marine confesses.

With a finger, Master raises the boys chin.

“Maybe theres a lesson to take away if I ask you to clean not just one stall but a block of six sometime soon, yes?”

“Fuck no, Master!” The boy looks devastated.

“Never wait to start the degradation, Zachary,” Master guides his charge. “If I set a task to crush your spirit, and to test your resolve to treat the outrageous as though it were routine, you should scurry straight into action with visible enthusiasm, and ideally a smile.”

“This is so unbelievably gross,” the kid whinges, but Master cuts him off.

“However, you did an exceptional job, Zachary.”

The tension is palpable, amidst the silence of the squeaky-clean bathroom.

Marine Zachary Efrons dick, now at liberty, responds immediately to his Masters unexpected words.

“Umm… thank you, Master,” he whispers, meekly.

“Kiss me, Marine Efron. You lead, and make it vigorous,” Master orders.


Both tongues work frantically, eating face as heads twist and turn. The boys hands rest lightly on Masters hips, whose own pair roam freely over soldier-boy torso meat pinching and slapping until the kid accepts the two will be joined in the very tightest of embraces, he on tiptoe reaching up to his man.

Master tastes shit as the boy exhales, and puke as he probes dark oral cavities with his tongue. 

Zac and Vanessa, smooching carefree, was about puppy love. Zac and Master is all about an erotic charge the boy can no longer deny, because the evidence is to hand in the form of his stiff stalk.



The offensive contents of Zacs stomach and intestines discharge further noxious gases, and the Marine is overcome immediately by violent nausea. He heaves and spews into Masters mouth as their lips remain locked, and they exchange boy puke by tongue as the donor shakes at the episode.

The sadist withdraws and watches the boy bubble with feverish perspiration as he turns ghostly pale.

The second turbocharged ejection of vomit arcs through the air and splatters brown-orange upon resplendent tile, ultimately pooling in a single vast mess.

Zachary bends and holds his knees as he retches first wet, then strings of drool only and finally dry.

“Oh fuck! Oh, fuck me!” the boy cries, high-pitched as he regards his recent meticulous work, undone in a few seconds.

Flecks of shitty detritus are lodged in the hollow below his bottom lip, and sticky drool runs from his chin to the floor.

“How many times did you sick-up during your task, Zachary,” Master asks.

“Six times, Master,” the boy pants his answer.

“So how did you clean that mess, Zachary?”

“By tongue, Sir. By my own fucking tongue!” the boy confesses the obvious.

“And how did mopping puke compare, in awfulness, to chowing Arab shit log?” Master taunts.

“It was no different, Master. This is all my worst nightmare,” the soldier says.

“Get onto your knees beside the vomit pool and masturbate, Zachary. Add your cum to the mix, before you clean up again,” Master orders.

“Oh fuck. Oh jeezus, fuck.”


Knees in his own filth, Zac jerks off for the first time in weeks.

As he pumps his shaft, Master whips the boys broad upper back with what was, indeed, the flogger fastened to his belt.

The Marine wanks harder and, as though in tempo, the flogger unfurls from a greater height and with higher frequency. Background noise is provided by the crackling of palm around hardening cock sausage, lubricated with pre-cum, whilst the overlay soundtrack is hide slamming into taut military flesh.

“Ahh… no, ahh no, gonna cum!” the boy warns.

“Who are you thinking of with your cum face on, Zachary?” Master asks.

“Ahh… ahh fuck… please dont stop whipping me, Sir!” The boy encourages, but evades the question.

“Who do you see when you close your eyes and squirt your tadpoles, Zachary? Vanessa, maybe?”

“Ahh... fuck, oh shit. I cant describe the feeling… I see only you, Master!”

“Good boy, Zachary.”

The whip continues to rain blows in a frenzied assault as the kid shoots a garnish of cream on top of his sick pool.

“Ahh… fuck!”

The boy squeezes every last drop of juice from his sensitive unplugged dick crown. 

When the flogging ceases abruptly, the sweat-soaked soldier knows it is time to position himself on his muscular haunches and start lapping the mess his mess with his tongue. Zac slurps greedily, nose to the floor like a dog and ass high in the air, as his Master watches the pond of vomit and semen reduce in scale.

Finally, all that remains of the projectile episode is floor tile streaked wet in long strokes the width of a boy tongue. Marine Efron rises to his shaky feet and unasked resumes his place in the corner, facing the walls. Locking palms behind his neck, the kid remembers to tauten his biceps, buttocks and thighs in inspection pose. He burps noisily and more sick fills his mouth, but there is self-control this time.

“Thank you, Master,” the captive says in loud, clipped, military style.


The weighty tome rests on the table, almost nine hundred crisp pages bound in dark blue hardback.

In gold leaf the title is inscribed on the spine, for there is no dusk jacket on this encyclopaedic work:

Rules for boys: sexual slavery for expendable youth.

The book is without an ISBN identity, and those curious about Zacharys fate should not waste their time searching Amazon, for this exclusive reference work is in the hands of a select few. Most of these sexually accomplished men and a few women retain their copies in small private libraries, imparting the guidance within to their boys verbally. Some, however, leave the book with their young slaves to be read under the scant illumination of forty watt bulbs in bare cells, their acquired knowledge tested practically or by way of exams with ninety-five per cent pass marks.

Rules for boys was authored with care for a very specific target audience of 16-25 male youth, and assumes inexperience and a degree of sexual naivety. Any boy of twenty filling the toughest of long term slavery assignments, voluntarily or coerced but most likely the latter, should be able to open this volume and discover, in the first twenty pages, how to relate respectfully to their sadist. In the next thirty pages they will learn, with diagrammatic assistance, how to hold their fresh torso meat in one of a dozen perfect poses awaiting inspection.

Boys are not patient readers, however, and many will succumb to curiosity and turn to the final few chapters in short order. There, from page 774 onwards, they will be taught about wading through filth and consuming it eagerly, and about knives drawing pools of blood from their hard-worked bodies.

Only the very last chapter (The End) holds back from specifics and, subtly, seeks to rally the boy reader and prepare him psychologically for his vaguely-sketched glorious demise. The End is about reflection, not rules, because some boys in these programmes face a final naked journey sandwiched between a posse of booted and armed captors, never to return to their cell.

Within the first third of the book is the longest chapter of over ninety pages, and also that with the shortest title: Anal.

Marine Efron squats at one side of the table, knees bent and standing as tall as the eighteen inch steel chain joining his new scrotal collar to a D-ring fixed in the concrete floor allows. 

The boy eyes the other items on the makeshift desk of splintered wood. Master has been through his military kitbag and retrieved two wallet-size photographs of girlfriend Vanessa that the kid carried on active service. In picture one the girl is alone in a short cream dress with matching clutch bag, beaming for the camera and oozing long-legged radiance. Perhaps this was an outside the prom image, or some other classy party.

Picture two has Zac (shirtless) and Vanessa (in skimpy swimming costume) on the beach, hand in hand against a backdrop of towering cliffs in what is probably a Californian sunset. Of course both are smiling, and the sight of the boy relaxed and happy strikes both occupants of the room as strange and, for Master, inappropriate.

Joy in Masters heart is stirred at the sweat and tears of a naked young man, not his contentment. Master raises his own smile at agonised youthful grunting and the petrified look of a tortured boy who knows refusal and failure are not options. Master does not wish ever to see Zachary waste energy in turning the ends of his lips up into a grin.

“No ransom has been paid, Zachary,” Master informs the crouching piece of military muscle.

Although the boy had no expectation of good news, he still sighs audibly and breaks into fresh perspiration in the pectoral cleft.

“So, I have no option but to make calls to my international contacts, informing them of fresh meat ready for collection,” Master continues, as though this were no big deal.

“No, no, no!” the boy responds immediately. “Please, Sir. Theres another way!”

Instruments of corporal punishment displayed provocatively in a metal bucket by his feet, Master stares out Marine Efron.

“Tell me the other way, Zachary,” he pushes.

“Just let me go, Master. Ill ask the guys at home… the politicos and my officers… not to track you down, and thats a pledge,” he suggests audaciously, voice strained.

“If youre going to waste my time, Zachary, I shall ask you to stand up. Do it!” Master shouts.

“Master, I had to try it, please understand! Im fucking desperate and half delirious!” the boy whines.

“Get out of your squat and stand up straight, Zachary. Let me see the degree of elasticity weve trained that nut sac to provide,” Master says, voice devoid of emotion.

“Aww… fuck!” the kid protests.

“Hands behind your back as your legs push you up, Zachary,” Master persists.

The modest slack in the chain disappears smartly, and now Marine Efrons gonads wish to stay low as his body inches higher.

“Aww… fuck!” the boy repeats, as the leathery flesh above his scrotal collar stretches thin.

“Theres some lead in your pencil, Zachary,” Master observes sarcastically and, sure enough, as he self-abuses his testes the blood is flowing thick and fast in the fighters cock.

“Why not straighten your legs some more, and show me you really enjoy the stretch,” the sadist teases.

“Aww… hurts so fucking much!”

The root of the scrotum is horribly extended, and the sac now a seemingly trivial pommel below the ring of steel.

“This does things to you that smooching through Disney musicals with that bitch Vanessa never could, Zachary. Im right, arent I?”

“No! I mean, I just dont understand myself anymore,” soldierboy wails.


“Well I understand you, Zachary. The scales are falling from your eyes as you strive for sweaty, painful and perfect sexual service. The genuine risk of damage no longer inhibits you. This is the other way, Marine Efron.”

“Aww… shit!” The boy tries to extend his legs to vertical, continuing as though his Master had not spoken, but he heard alright.

“The other way is with you, yes? Just you and me?” Zac enquires, puffing as he strains his nuts almost impossibly.

“Thats the essence of it. I will not always be available to train you personally, of course, but my inner circle will ensure your development is constant,” Master explains.

“Aww… fuck… you always want more than I think I can give, Master.”

“I know, Zachary, but Ive never doubted your capabilities,” the sadist says, sliding the faded and crumpled photographs towards the boy whilst pulling a cigarette lighter from a squeaky drawer.

“Burn these, now.”    

“Aww… please, Master!”

“Burn the fucking things!” Master booms, and with shaky hands Marine Zachary Efron lights the flame that turns to ash all visual prompts of freedom and heterosexuality.

The boy sobs, and slumps to his haunches. He has much still to learn around focus and stoicism if he is not to remain trapped in a permanent state of narcissistic boyhood.

Zachary will not receive the book yet, for there is one final evaluative exercise to be completed.


The boy finds the tin familiar, for his mother was a cake and pie maker of some repute in San Luis Obispo. Crisco was her shortening of choice, and likewise that of Master.

The sadist smears the white fat liberally over the latex glove that sheaths his left hand and continues to just beyond his wrist. Where the black glove runs out, Masters strong arm covered with shimmering blond down presents a contrast of colour.

In the yard the desert sun beats down, causing the Crisco to liquefy and run in streams from glove to bare arm as Master prepares. Around the sling hewn from the heaviest saddle leather and hung from an improvised metal frame, a gaggle of Arabs from early teens to fifties watch, point and giggle.

Does the boy understand this test, yet? How could he not, given his hole has been similarly treated to a generous coating of baking fat, and given the height at which he is suspended and secured, legs raised and spread wide?

Yet whilst Zacs eyes follow developments closely, there is little visible emotion: no evident fear, and certainly no eager anticipation. Perhaps he is resigned to this, or just totally befuddled. Whatever, a fist in the anus will get him singing slave tunes.

The Land Cruisers are packed and ready to transport Master and his roadies to the next safe house, twenty miles away. Beyond that final staging post lies passage to long term lodgings and the most comprehensively equipped boy training facilities imaginable, for Master is growing tired of makeshift toys.

Zachary will not run behind the lead car with tethered testes this time, for more rapid progress is required. His transport rests against the compound wall in the form of a battered BMX bicycle where the small saddle has been lowered and holed. That hole has been filled with an eight inch wooden dildo, secured directly via a support to the frame below.

The boy will race over compacted sand behind Masters Toyota at a steady fifteen miles per hour, and whether he chooses to stand on the pedals all the way, or rest his aching legs and back by allowing his anus to sink deep onto the solid phallus, shall be no concern of the boss. Zacharys oppressor will watch the silent open-mouthed screams contentedly through his rear view mirror as the sweat-drenched ex-military grunt pedals frantically to maintain the pace, whilst surface undulations cause agony to his spine and violent jolting to his wedged rectum.

The twenty miles shall be reeled off in little over an hour, the boy collapsing exhausted and dehydrated in yet another Middle Eastern quadrangle. Yet a pail of freezing water will be thrown over his shattered torso, and electric prods deployed to direct blue sparks at his genitalia until the kid rises to his feet and a humble position of attention, for all of this is Zacharys choice, now.

Of course, by the time the journey commences a fake dick of eight inches shall feel akin to a teenage training plug, because Zachary is now to be used as Masters hand puppet.



Two gloved and lubed fingers, joined together straight like a pistol, slide back and forth at Zacharys back door. The long digits probe the boys outer sphincter but venture no further, thus far.

Once anally used by another man, can a boy return to his girl or any girl and resume life as though nothing has changed? Master suspects not, and reinforces the point daily by human or machine plowing of hetero dump chute.  


Despite the last few weeks the boy retains a steely grip, reluctant to yield, at his rectum. It is a boycunt in progress, suitable for more sustained battery when this duo settles at their permanent home.

Master curls his thumb into his palm and now four fingers are inside the boy, up to the second knuckle.


The soldiers noises change from vaguely pleasured to those of exertion and concern. His prettily puckered ass lips, pink amidst the grey of his crack, are forcibly separated by Masters invasive fingers. The slick crackle of oiled insertions and withdrawals increases in tempo.

Zac has undertaken some degrading and excruciatingly painful activities in this desert hell, but for violation can anything compare with watching helpless as a strong man pushes his greased fist into the darkness of your private cavern? The boy runs with sweat from every muscular plane and grabs the edge of the sling for support as Master inserts his hand whole, to the wrist.

“Ahh… fuck, no!”

“Ahh… holy shit!”

The sounds of boy fisting are as much about sheer terror as the pain of being split and punched, inside.

“Relax your sewer, Zachary. Im coming in,” Master says quietly but assertively.

The Arabs are silent as they observe the sturdy American form, pale and muscles clenched as his Master makes a fist ball that levers his inner sphincter wide. Lower jaw hanging limp, Marine Efron watches the olive-skinned men in a mix of traditional and modern dress as they become excited at his defilement and utter vulnerability.

“Ahh… no, no, no!” the boy cries as Master pushes on through considerable rectal resistance, enjoying the warmth and vice-like grip of Marine innards. 

The kids hairless hole has been opened obscenely into a broad circle, made to fit Masters forearm.

Molten Crisco drips to the sandy earth, and softening shortening collects in a ridge between boy hole and Masters hairy limb.

Zacs hitherto silent screams are now vocalised, but surely the startled women washing clothes in the river, three-quarters of a mile distant, could not begin to imagine the sexual perversions ongoing in this quadrangle.

“Youre flaccid, Zachary. Is this too hard to be hot for you?” Master asks.

“Ahh… fuck… yes, Master!” the boy answers, head flopping and jerking as he keeps a watching brief on the progress of the plundering hand.

“And does it matter that this is frightening rather than arousing for you?”

“Fuck… no Master. Its not relevant.”

“So youre happy for me to continue, arm fuzz tickling your rude lips, Marine Efron?”

“Ahh… yes, Sir!” the boy responds crisply, though his facial expression and the tortured writhing mess of his damp torso tell a different story.


Millimetre by millimetre Master has lodged himself inside Zachary, much nearer the elbow than the wrist.

The smeared Crisco lubricant has been augmented by Zacs shit, streaked over Masters upper forearm.

The boy puffs, cheeks red and inflated as he battles to cope with the giant invader placing pressure on his organs.

With his free hand Master scoops up perspiration in the ridges of the kids smooth six pack, tasting boy sweat finger by finger. The bound piece of military meat begs silently and semi-consciously, with his eyes only, for Master not to distend his insides further.

“Im going to punch fuck,” the sadist announces without ceremony.

“No!” the hoarse boy whispers, but the strength to fight has gone and, in his sling bondage, resistance is futile. 

Masters arm commences anal withdrawal and re-insertion that out-turns Zacs sore ass lips, then stuffs them back brutally into the dark hole. The quantity of muscular limb worked like a piston in boy ass increases with time, as does the speed of the quasi-mechanical process.

The Marine shudders and shivers as his greased rectum squelches under the harsh assault.

“Fuck… oh my God… fuck!” the boy cries, and Master takes him literally.

“I want you to start reading Rules for boys when we reach our next safe house, Zachary. I could test you formally on what you learn, but instead I think well schedule regular quality time together, Master and masochist, to agree your targets week by week, hey?”

Silence ensues, but slaps to bare and slippery young flesh rouse the youth. 

“Yes… Im gonna be the best I can, Master!”

As one fist punches rectum the second makes a ball and drives into Zacs tight scrotal parcel, a dozen times in a minute.

The boy roars, thrashes and for the first time in the sling watches his dick stiffen to half-mast.

Master extracts his arm and the anal seal breaks with a pained pop. He ejaculates hands-free onto the waiting glove, allowing his thick shaft to spray semen over the long fingers.

One digit at a time, Master feeds Marine Zachary Efron a potent cocktail of Crisco, rectal gunk and cum. As the thumping of his heart subsides, the boy sucks and gobbles greedily whilst the voyeuristic posse of Arabs make their own sticky mess. 


To be concluded


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