Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Will
I wasn’t sure Davy could keep his legs straight and remain in position through what was coming, and the object of maintenance is to keep from having to punish your slave, not to give you a reason to do so.
Eventually, I’d train him so he can stand and take a lengthy caning or belting, but we had years to get there. Or, I hoped we did.
I gave him the first ten cane strikes paced at one every five seconds, which is pretty fast for the level of pain I was doling out, but I wanted to make a point. No warmup and a whole lot of pain and heat, applied faster than he could manage to get on top of the pain.
I stopped and rubbed his ass oh-so-gently at the end of the first ten, and then gave the next fifteen at a rate of one every eight seconds. Still fast since I was hitting harder, and my boy was in tears when I stopped and rubbed his ass again.
“Some maintenance sessions I’ll only chastise two body parts, others will be three or four. Rarely will you get this kind of session, but I feel it’s important to show you how each body part can feel during this first example session.”
I truly don’t enjoy having to punish, when it’s all about pain with no enjoyment. Scheduled maintenance, on the other hand, I can get into — a reason to hurt my boy worse than a normal session, and the power trip that goes with it. The screams, moans, and especially the tears go straight to my balls every time.
I stepped back and took aim again, but determined he needed another thirty or so seconds, so I gave him some more explanation.
“How I come up with the base number will vary. Sometimes it’ll be done like today, other times I’ll write numbers from twenty-five to forty on folded pieces of paper and have you draw one for the number of cane strokes, and then use multiples for other implements. Or I might come up with something completely off the wall.”
His breathing was smoothing out a little despite his tears, so it was time for his final eight strikes. I gave him five just a little harder than the previous ones and watched the clock over his head to be certain he had a full ten seconds between them.
For the last three, I hit him as hard as I dared without risk of splitting the skin, and waited thirty seconds through his screaming and crying before giving him another. I waited a full minute before giving him the last, and then I lifted the glass of ice water, walked to his side, squatted, and held his dick so I could raise the ice water to immerse his still rock-hard dick.
Another scream, this time shrill and long. I held his dick in the frigid water until it was soft enough to fit into the jailbird.
When the scream stopped, I told him with a voice full of sympathy, “I know it’s cold, and you weren’t expecting it, but such is the life of a slave.” I caressed the root of his cock, the part not in the ice water. “What is a sex slave supposed to be focused on above all else?”
“Master’s pleasure, Sir.”
I gently patted the side of his ass, below his hip, brilliant white without any cane marks because I’m a good aim. “Exactly right.”
I removed the ice-water glass and refrained from caressing his now-soft cock, though it was tempting. Instead, I walked the glass to the edge of the room so I could put it on a worktable, and then walked back to him with my footsteps echoing in the stark room. The room has Bluetooth speakers in all four corners, but I usually prefer silence for both maintenance and punishment.
Music can help set the tone for regular scenes, but I enjoy the austerity of only the sounds of implements hitting flesh and then the screams and moans of my slave for scheduled maintenance as well as punishments.
I removed the locked-straight knee braces and the spreader bar, disconnected his wrist cuffs, had him stand, and then walked him to the cross, where I situated him facing out. He walked decent with me leading him while blindfolded. There was certainly room for improvement, but that could come later. This was maintenance, not training.
Next would be cock and balls before I belted his ass and the backs of his thighs. Having some time between the caning and belting would make him feel the latter so much more.
First, though, the jailbird. He moaned and whined a little while I put it on, and his sounds made my dick throb in my jeans.
I removed the clamps from his nipples and looked at the clock. They’d be free around fifteen minutes before I put different clamps on.
I grabbed one of the industrial clamps from the roll-around as well as a smaller clamp, and I lifted them and told my still-blindfolded boy, “Tongue out, slave.”
He complied, and I put the smaller clamp on the tip so I could pull his tongue out a little farther, and then I put the large industrial clamp on the side of his tongue. I switched hands with the small clamp, grabbed the other industrial clamp, put it on the other side of his tongue, and then took the small one off the tip. The clamps going sideways wouldn’t restrict blood flow to the end of his tongue, meaning they could stay on a touch longer.
Again, I didn’t want to have to punish him, and he isn’t so good at not telling me how badly his balls hurt when I play with them. No way could he form any words this way, plus, it was a fitting way to punish his tongue and remind him he speaks when allowed and not at his whim during scenes. A small wedge behind his head to tilt it forward came next, assuring any saliva would spill out the front of his mouth rather than going down his throat and choking him.
It took me several minutes to get the ball crusher on so I was happy with the placement, and then I screwed it tight enough he felt it, but only at the level of discomfort and not pain.
“Twenty-two minutes, slave, and it’ll get a little tighter every thirty seconds for the first eleven minutes.”
The first four minutes were more about anticipation than pain. I mean, he absolutely felt it get tighter each time, but he wasn’t in true pain until the four-and-a-half-minute mark. By the time we hit eleven minutes, he was blubbering and crying, and would’ve been begging for relief if he could manage it, but he couldn’t.
He has a safe signal he can use — snapping his fingers over and over, but he understands it’s only if there’s something wrong other than ‘it hurts’.
My initial game plan was that in ten months’ time, about six months after I return from our tour, we’ll discuss changes to our contract, and at that time I expect he’ll give up his safeword. Or rather, he’ll still have it, but he’ll agree that whether I alter what I’m doing based on his communicating the safeword or safe signal will be entirely my choice.
I wiped his chest down to remove the saliva that had dripped from his mouth, put even harsher nipple clamps on at fourteen minutes, and then put the smaller clamp back on the end of his tongue at fifteen minutes because I didn’t want to leave the industrial clamps on much longer.
“No speech, slave. It’ll be hard with the single clamp on, but not impossible. I fucking know your balls hurt. You don’t have to tell me.”
I carefully took the side clamps off and watched his tongue go into his mouth as far as he could manage.
Six more minutes of the crusher, and I debated on how to make sure his cock stayed where I wanted it while it was punished. I’ve been known to sew a slave boy’s dick to his stomach before whipping it, but this was a long session without adding to it. Plus, I’d rather do that for the first time during a regular scene. It’s extreme, sure, but I didn’t want him to get the idea it was reserved for something beyond scenes.
So, I took the stitching kit back to the drawer it went in and retrieved a ball of twine.
I kept the alcohol, cotton balls, and hypodermic needles out, though. He was still going to feel needles today, just not in his cock.
I released the ball crusher slowly and delicately removed it. Torture during maintenance means being gentle between the bad parts. I was just as careful removing the jailbird, trying to keep any contact with his balls to a minimum, but gentle when unavoidable.
Next came the twine, wrapped around his torso and flaccid dick six times, three to hold it up just below the head, and three in the middle of his dick. I had medical scissors handy, so I tied the knot good without worry of what it would take to get it off. Two snips and it’d be gone.
First up was clothespins all along his dick, easier to put on at first while there was extra skin, more difficult once he was hard. I also had to replace a few that popped off on the way to his erection.
Once the pretty, colorful clothespins lined both sides with a few on the front, I pulled out the hair dryer and heated his balls up until they hung low and relaxed.
At which time I lifted a small bowl of ice water until his balls were immersed, and since my boy was still blindfolded and totally didn’t expect it, his screams once again filled the room.
When he calmed down from the second ice-bath to his genitals, I reminded him he wasn’t to speak any words before I removed the smaller clamp from the end of his tongue.
He pulled his tongue all the way in and wisely remained silent.
I removed the wedge from behind his head so he’d be more comfortable, and retrieved the wooden spoon.
I didn’t hit his dick with the spoon, I hit the clothespins. Some came off after two or three hits, others took a dozen to hit just right. Again, my boy’s screams and yelps went straight to my cock.
When every clothespin was off, I switched to a paint stirrer and methodically beat his cock until it was bright red, with a few super-gentle swats here and there to his balls, though his noises told me he didn’t think I was being the least bit gentle.
And yes, I gave my own cock a few strokes over my jeans during this part, because damn I enjoy doling out CBT to a helpless boy.
Next came his nipples, nice and tender from the clamps. Long ago, someone told me if you continually keep your slave’s nipples sore and tender, and work on them more every chance you get, they’ll snuggle up to you even more every moment they can, and I’ve found it to be true. I pinch and twist them multiple times a day so they’re nearly always sore.
I glanced at the humbler on the mat and smiled. We hadn’t told Davy or Matty, but Razor and I had plans for our boys in a couple of days, and part of that involved putting them both in a humbler and then crawling around the yard looking for glow-in-the-dark golf balls. I have a huge tent my people can put up, to be sure no one from outside the property gets any pictures. When Matty or Davy found a golf ball, they’d have to crawl back to us and put it into a basket before going to look for more. There’d be seventeen balls hidden, and the one who gathered the most would be allowed an orgasm at the end of the night. Later, we’d take them to the playroom and play with them side-by-side for a while, then bind them facing each other, and we’d each flog our respective boy’s back and then paddle their asses a little before untying them and fucking them. We’d end the evening with a movie. Or rather, Razor and I would watch the movie while our blindfolded boys licked our balls and dicks, and then we’d face-fuck them when the movie was over.
And finally, the boy who’d won the race would be allowed to beat off and orgasm while the rest of us watched, and the other boy would either go home with his daddy to be fucked and go to sleep without an orgasm, or would go upstairs with his Master to be fucked and go to sleep without an orgasm.
But the humbler wouldn’t come into play tonight.
I started on my boy’s nipples by removing one clamp and then flogging that nipple with a small plastic flogger until the entire area was bright red. I replaced the clamp and then did the same to the other nipple.
And then went back to the first nipple with the flogger on a naked nipple, back and forth until I grew bored with it, which I’m certain is long past when my boy thought he’d reached his limit.
Finally, it was time for the needles, and my cock throbbed in my jeans in anticipation.
Alcohol first, and then I wove needles into the skin above each nipple first, coming from the top down, so the needle traveled towards his nipple without reaching it. And then three more on each, going clockwise at three, six, and then nine o’clock.
And then, finally, a needle all the way through his right nipple, then his left. My boy was far enough into subspace by this time, I didn’t feel I needed to worry about him using words.
I took the needles out a few minutes after I finished the pattern, sprayed the holes with an antiseptic I knew would burn, and I tossed a clean towel onto the bed for him to lay on before I released him from the cross.
I’d originally intended to handle the final belting on the fucking station, but he was exhausted, so I took mercy on him and ordered him to stretch out on the bed and get comfortable.
Major bondage probably wasn’t necessary, just some loose restraints to his wrists so he couldn’t reach back and get hurt, but not so much he couldn’t rub his face and just generally try to stay comfortable.
I didn’t want to take another two hours to finish, but another forty-five minutes to an hour sounded about right, so I gave him five licks of the belt at a time, one after another, and then I sat with him, rubbed his back, and said things like, “I know it hurts,” and “Breathe through it,” and “I’m here with you.” I kissed his shoulder a few times while I rubbed his back, and halfway through, I removed the fat-necked butt plug and put a thinner vibrating plug in, set to a random pattern with different strengths and wave patterns to be sure he didn’t get used to it.
When we got to fifty strokes I gave him ten at once, and then five minutes later I gave him the final six with one every twenty seconds.
And when I finished, he got a special treat — I removed the plug and crammed my dick in without making him go to hands-and-knees. For the first time, I fucked his ass while he was lying on the bed, and told him to feel free to beg for an orgasm when he was close.