Chris
Mer-Boy 5
by George Gauthier
Author's Note: This is the fifth tale in the Mer-Boy series, each with a different protagonist, so it is an independent story. You do not have to read the other three first. It is a tale of a charming and submissive young man's exploration of the darker side of his own sexuality. It is set eight decades in the future where STDs are completely under control, nudity taboos are almost absent from social life, and medical advances have extended the human life span to several centuries. The USA is also fully on the metric system.
It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body, of sexual activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is seventeen years old, and features moderate bondage and discipline. If any of this would offend a reader, read no further. This is not intended for persons younger than an age where they may freely and legally select their reading matter in whatever jurisdiction applies.
This is fiction, not reportage. None of the characters is intended to resemble any person living or dead.
Readers who like these stories might want to try my 'Daphne Boy' historical tales or 'Naked Prey' series, both in the Gay/Historical section of the archive. I also recommend my spoof of Hollywood in the 'Jungle Boy' tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section of the archive. Also, please try my futuristic 'Track and Field' stories in College. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.
Comments and feedback welcome.
Chapter 1. The Maldive Islands
The boat swung at anchor sheltered by the coral reef that ringed one of the small outer islands of the Maldives in the Indian Ocean. Wavelets made a slapping sound on the hull of the excursion schooner, but it was the light at dawn that awoke the naked youth stretched out on deck. By his slight stature he was only in his mid-teens.
An early riser anyway and a light sleeper, Chris Eaton drank some juice and water, then started his daily stretching routine. He was a slender lad but well muscled, with the taut and toned physique of an athlete. He sported a smooth skin graced with the unbroken tan of one who often went nude while out of doors. Like so many youths in that final decade of the twenty-first century he had used a one-time depilatory which left him permanently beardless and hairless all over. That was the look young males favored: smooth, hairless, and bronzed all over without any tan lines.
Shaking his long ebony locks, Chris dove into the sea and swam toward the island, actually a low coral islet crowned by a stand of trees and shrubs that screened one side from the other. The Maldive Islands had the distinction of the lowest maximum elevation of all countries, about two and a half meters (8 ft). Most of the 200 islands were islets barely above the waves and uninhabited for that reason.
Chris did not step ahore right away. He swam back and forth across the lagoon for the better part of an hour, relishing the feel of the warm waters touching him everywhere, exulting in the strength and power of his strokes, in his mastery of the watery element in which he felt so much at home. His boyhood friends back in Mississippi didn't call him Mer-Boy for nothing. He was always in the water, whether at the shore, the lake, or the pool. In between swims, he stretched out on the strand or the lawn, reading and studying his lessons. An athlete but not a jock, Chris was an intelligent lad and always kept his grades up.
After he splashed his way ashore Chris took a walk around the island admiring the way the colors of land and sea and sky complemented each other. It felt primeval walking alone on a deserted island hardly ever visited even by fishermen. Treasure Island probably looked like this to young Jim Hawkins. He tried to imagine how a shipwrecked sailor might have viewed the pristine scene, a green islet lost in a blue sea. Where would he have built the crude fort or buried the treasure? No work of man was visible. The island landscape was pristine. True, Chris was there, but a slender nude boy was hardly an intrusion of civilization.
The excursion on the schooner was just one of many clothing-optional vacation cruises and resorts available these days. Chris did not feel the least bit self-conscious about public nudity whether on the schooner or at any beach resort in the islands. A sexy pretty boy like him was always welcome to prance around bare especially among the tourist crowd. Of course folks in the settled areas of the Maldive Islands were Muslims who still insisted on fairly strict standards of personal modesty. How different things were in the Western world.
For many the oppressive heat from global warming went a long way to justifying casual public nudity or the loosest of clothing. Nudity taboos were disappearing almost everywhere else, even in America, the last holdout for prudery in the developed countries. Different attitudes, generational change, reform legislation, and court decisions essentially removed the legal stigma to casual public nudity -- in proper context of course. You didn't walk into the post office or a restaurant starkers. Of course females did not dare not take advantage to the same extent. Human nature being what it is, they had to be cautious about predatory males.
Chris was glad to display himself in the nude -- his trim body completely clean and smooth and free of body hair. The way the shaft of his manhood sprouted directly from his belly wall rather than from a wiry thicket made him feel that much more naked and sexy. Clean lines looked better for sports too. Most competition was held in the nude anyway, reviving the traditions of the ancient Olympians. Everywhere these days nudity was compulsory for boys in high school and collegiate sports like track and field and aquatics. The sight of nude youths running and training in public parks and open spaces no longer provoked raised eyebrows, it was so common. The only exception was for whatever winter sports survived after a century of global warming.
At home his folks had long since given up on getting him to wear clothing in his room or in the backyard whether swimming, gardening, chatting with friends, or just reading and studying. In his own room he never wore clothing even when his mom knocked on the door. She could stand in the doorway or come in as she pleased, but he stayed bareass and his friends with him. After all, legally he was an adult. He did wrap a sarong around his hips when he came out into the common areas such as for dinner.
Her husband was no help at all. He rather approved of the way young males these days could get away from old fashioned fussiness and female inspired standards of deportment. Maybe those in his generation were not be so free and casual about displaying the undraped male form, but he did enjoy it vicariously through his son. The boy was the apple of his eye. As far as he was concerned, his son could do no wrong. Chris got excellent grades and never got into trouble, obviously never any girl trouble. Yes Chris was gay. So what. He was unfailingly polite and respectful of his elders. If we was occasionally rebellious, that was no more than his birthright really as a teenager. So what if he couldn't seem to keep his pants on. With his fine physique, why the hell should he? He was a great kid.
The neighbors too were used to the sight of "that Eaton boy" stepping out of his house starkers and jogging down the lane to the park where the running trails began including the long path down to the beach. He seemed utterly unselfconscious when stopped on the street and chatted up, despite not having a scrap to cover his loins. He raised no objection if people wanted to capture stills or video, not after four years of running around naked.
Fans at the meets always wanted to snap post-race pictures, with Chris wearing nothing more than a smile. The fans especially like shots of him all hot and sweaty, looking as he might just after sex. You needed a degree of sang-froid to chat amiably with a group all of them fully dressed and all focussing their attention of your naked physique. Even females who knew Chris wasn't interested still wanted pictures of him bare-assed naked with closeups of face, buttocks and hairless groin. Sometimes, in the press of admirers, hands brushed against him "accidentally" in front cupping and weighing, or in back slipping into his crack, occasionally leaving the teen acutely self conscious of his nudity. More than once his cock had started to plump up and visibly lift off. Of course everyone was too polite to notice.
Pedagogical segregation by gender was the rule all across American. It helped both sexes learn and mature appropriately. In the high schools, girls and boy did not share classes, but they did share facilities like the library, auditorium, cafeteria, playing fields, and attended extra-curricular and social activities together. However only the boys trained and competed in nude athletics. The girls rather liked the chance that gave them to scope out potential boyfriends.
At the increasingly popular single gender colleges few students bothered with clothing in and around their college dorms, on the practice track or running trails or in the outdoor recreational areas like the swimming pool, soccer field, volley ball court. Many students showed up nude for classes held out of doors. It's not like you needed clothing for a class in conversational French or for a debate class or for intro to philosophy.
For indoor classes the students would slip on sarongs. These days sarongs were practically the student uniform on campus when boys bothered with clothing at all in the heat, what with global warming and all. Chris rather liked sarongs himself; they flattered his trim rump. If you couldn't go naked, the next best thing was a sarong. Still if he had his druthers, Chris preferred total nudity. As far as he was concerned, that should be the default condition when you were young and pretty.
As Chris rounded the tip of the island, the vegetation hid his view of the schooner. Now he felt truly alone, like a castaway or a sailor stranded by pirates. On his second circuit of the island, the ebony youth spotted a boat sailing close to shore, a real sailing vessel, a modern sloop from the look of her. A friendly wave invited him on board so he swam out the short distance and got pulled up on deck.
The crew of eight, all lascars with olive skins, wore sarongs.
"Nicobaris" he heard a voice behind him say. "The crew are from the Nicobar Islands."
Turning Chris saw a tall handsome man in his mid twenties, much lighter skinned than the crew, a Eurasian from the look of him and obviously the owner of this fine boat. Chris felt a sudden strong attraction to the dark haired man.
"Your puzzled look told me that you were wondering where my crew comes from with their brown skins and Caucasian features: straight noses, lithe physiques, and straight hair."
"Why, yes, I was. The Nicobar Islands, that's an archipelago at the southern end of the Andaman Sea. Part of India isn't it?"
"Very good. You know your geography. The islands lie some 800 miles (1300 km) across the Bay of Bengal from the mainland, so the tie with India is merely political not ethnographic or cultural. Nicobaris have little in common with India but originated in Southeast Asia. Did you know that the British Raj actually bought the islands from Denmark in the late nineteenth century, 1868 as I recall from my history class. At one time they were named New Denmark"
"I never knew Denmark even had colonies in Asia. Just Greenland and Iceland in the Atlantic."
"Actually the Danish East India company acquired small territories on the Indian subcontinent. At one time there were European factories, that is trading posts, from half a dozen countries there: England, France, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Portugal all controlled coastal enclaves. Austria briefly annexed the islands too. Even the Swedes traded in Eastern waters though they did not claim specific territories."
"But enough of the history of my homeland. I should have mentioned that my name is Ishmael Hydari, captain of this vessel. Tell me about yourself. Much as I might fancy the conceit that you are a pretty mer-boy fished out of your native habitat, the sea, I suppose you are really from that schooner we spotted?"
"Yes, I am" Chris admitted. "And you can say that I am a mer-boy too. At least that is what they call me back home in Pascagoula from all the time I spend in the water. My real name is Christopher Lloyd Eaton, though everyone just calls me Chris."
"As I shall then or maybe I will call you Mer-Boy. You are so smooth and sleek and naked, like a veritable creature of the sea. "
"Thanks for the compliment, but in case you are wondering, sir, I'm no kid. I turned seventeen last month, so legally I'm an adult. I know I do not look my age what with my slight build, especially all naked and hairless like this." he said, his hands indicating his trim body.
Only 163 centimeters (five feet four) and barely 50 kilos (110 pounds), little Chris was often taken for two or three years younger, especially when he was naked. Only his muscular development hinted that he was past his growth spurt.
Though only a month into his eighteenth year, Chris was a comely lad, short for his age and slender. He had a fawn-like physique but with a wiry musculature, toned and taut from so much swimming and running. Chris was pretty as a girl with fine-boned features, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and large grey eyes with a thatch of ebony on top, now plastered to his head by his swim from the island. His complexion was flawless.
From his tiny red nipples to a deeply indented navel, to narrow hips framing a surprisingly ample manhood for one so slight in build, the boy was real beauty. He carried so little body fat that his flat belly showed a tracery of downward pointing veins just under the skin. The beat of his heart was visible on the left side of his smooth chest. He was sleek and smooth and deeply tanned, his wiry physique a vision of youthful male pulchritude.
Besides his alluring physique, the boy had one of those faces that literally turned heads. Men and women did double takes and stared at him wondering how anyone could be that good looking. Like Rob Lowe for his generation.
"And yes, I am from the schooner, though, truth to tell, I wish I weren't or at least didn't have to go back there. Boy friend trouble," he added by way of explanation.
"I take it you mean that one of you has yielded to temptation and been unfaithful. Well, these things happen on a romantic cruise. All those fine young bodies and handsome faces. You shouldn't take it seriously."
Chris hesitated. This man was a stranger after all. On second thought, why not blow off some steam to some guy he would never see again. So he vented and told Ishmael what the problem was.
"I don't take it seriously but my boyfirend does. I'm the one who played around with a couple of other guys on the schooner. In his book, that makes me some kind of slut. I mean really. Can I help it if a lot of guys like my looks? I just don't think monogamy is natural for a guy. I can't see being exclusive with anyone, especially not at my age. Sandy can't see it that way. He called me disloyal. It's not like we're planning to get married. We're just a fun couple, or so I thought."
"Did he give you those bruises?" Ishmael asked, referring to the purple and yellow finger marks on his upper arms.
"Yes, he did, but only because he grabbed me hard during our argument. He doesn't abuse me, nothing like that. Oh maybe some spanking, but just as foreplay and I kind of like that anyway."
"Getting spanked, you mean?"
"Yes. I sometimes wanted him to go further, but he is too goody-goody. He is definitely not into kink."
"What about you, Chris?"
"I might be. I don't really know. I never had the opportunity, really."
"But you might be interested in exploring that side of your sexuality, eh Chris?"
Chapter 2. Seduction of the Willing
Chris wasn't sure what direction this conversation was taking. He had already opened up with this stranger more than he perhaps should have. After all here he was on a strange yacht, totally naked, while no one from the schooner knew where he was. What might he be getting into here. There were occasional cases of western boys abducted into sex slavery, though a rich man's yacht was an unlikely place for that. Still Chris could not help feeling excited, like he was at a fork in the road. He wasn't sure how he should answer the man, but decided a bit of recklessness was warranted on a vacation cruise.
"Am I into kink? Maybe. No, make that a definite yes, though I have no real experience. Why? What do you have in mind, Ishmael?"
"I think you had better addresse me as sir, from now on. Here let's get a good look at you boy. Do you know what it means if I tell you to assume the position?"
Nodding, Chris stepped to the middle of the deck and set his feet a little over shoulder width apart, arms high, fingers linked behind his head, elbows back, head level and looking straight ahead. A sexual submissive, Chris was used to being taken in charge by larger males and being put on display. So Chris didn't object to this but stood there meekly, trembling from excitement and lust, wondering what would happen next. What would this exotic stranger do with his naked and vulnerable body?
Ishmael sat down on a hatch cover, but he was so tall or rather Chris so small that he still over-topped the diminutive lad. That gave the ship captain total access to examine the boy's delightful body. Ishmael ran his hands over Chris familiarly and even intimately. It would have seemed churlish for Chris to object to this implicit compliment. After all he had just complained that Sandy's objections to his promiscuity were unreasonable.
Truth to tell it was not mere vanity on Chris's to recognize that he had a lovely form that inspired admiration and lust in the hearts of any male who appreciates a beautiful boy. Entirely nude as he was, small and smooth and hairless, it was only natural for the older man to feel encouraged take considerable liberties: feeling his muscles, stroking Chris's rump, slipping the blade of a hand into his cleavage, running his hands over the boy's ribs, tweaking his tiny red nipples, even fondling his manhood.
"You like this don't you boy? You like a man's hands touching you, stroking you, stimulating you? You like the way my fingertips are tracing the downward pointing veins on your belly wall. It's putting a fire in your belly, isn't it?"
"Yes...sir."
"A bit of hesitation there. Not much training then. Would you like more?"
"Oh yes sir. Very much so."
"We shall see. Meanwhile let me examine you closer."
Chris had a beautiful body, slender yet muscular, taut, toned, and tanned with narrow shoulders, eight pack abdominals, and narrow hips. His legs were well muscled with veins prominent under the skin because of his low body fat. Its faultless lines were not marred by body hair. His sex was proportional with a smooth cock, foreskin stretched over the head, and a scrotum the size of an apple and held close to the belly in his current half arousal.
Chris was gratified that his genitals didn't look shriveled like with a lot of other guys. His cock wasn't gnarly with veins. His foreskin hugged his cock head, outlining the ridge of the glans under the skin, leaving just the slit at the tip visible. Cock and balls were reasonably sized but he wouldn't be scaring the horses. It took both small hands to cover his erection, but only one when he was soft.
Ishmael eyed the lad critically. He put his big hands on the youth's shoulders, slid his palms over the flaring pectorals, ran his hands down the impressively scalloped belly and circled his navel with his thumb, then ran his fingers over the boy's narrow hips. He turned him around and ran his hands down the boy's shoulder blades and flanks to the flare of his hips and on to the curve of his buttocks, giving them a firm squeeze followed by a pinch.
"Hey!" Chris objected, turning and covering his ass with his hands protectively.
"Just getting acquainted. Don't worry Chris. No real rough stuff for now. Later though we shall see."
As the boy subsided, Ishmael continued with the examination. He slid the blade of his hand between the boy's taut buttocks, giving an appreciative grunt as he tapped the small hole therein. He slicked his fingers along the perineum, then poked his index finger into the tight hole. The boy pushed back on the impaling finger, moaning and gasping in arousal. Leaving the boy hanging, Ishmael pulled out and continued his examination. He reached forward testing the firmness of the muscles on the back of Chris's thighs and of his calves. The boy was impressively muscled and toned for one so slight of build.
How erotic it was; the lad's slenderness was accentuated by the way he stood straight, arms at shoulder height, elbows back, his chest thrust forward, emphasizing the vulnerability of the torso. The captain spun the youth to face him once again, smiling at the boy's embarrassment the way the intimate visual and physical scrutiny had stimulated him, plumping his cock up a bit. Ishmael took the boy's testicles between his thumbs and forefingers rolled them gently. The attention and stimulation to his vulnerable balls quickly got Chris's cock rigid.
His ball sac pulled tight to the fork of his legs, the engorged cock jutting straight out, with a fleshy purpled glans shaped like an arrowhead at the end, a droplet of fluid glistening on its tip, a composition bursting with youthful male assertiveness. Just a bit of a squeeze and the boy got that look on his face that aroused lads get when they want to cum, a kind of ecstatic grimace. Nothing quite like controlling the source of a young male's masculinity to make your point about power relationships here. Ishmael grasped the boy's cock and balls, enclosing them in his grip, taking control of his masculinity. A tug on his smooth scrotum showed the lad who was in control.
Though Chris moaned at the rough treatment of his precious balls, his erection never flagged. A complaisant youth he obviously liked having a strong male take charge of him, to control him, to grab his balls and squeeze hard to show who was boss. Chris' role was to submit, to stand there at attention, arms back, legs spread, hairless ballsac hanging down vulnerably, just begging for his nuts to be fondled or even cracked again. Ishmael gave them another good squeeze. The boy's belly muscles contracted. He hissed in pain, bending forward protectively but quickly snapping back to an upright position, leaving himself open once more to whatever Ishmael wanted to do with the small spheres in their wrinkly ballsac. Not just a natural submissive, then, but something of a pain slut, Ishmael concluded. This was a boy who not only wanted to but needed to offer himself as sex toy to a stronger man.
"Your lover is a fool not to take you on your terms or on any terms. You are just about the most beautiful boy I have ever laid eyes on and one of the most complaisant. You would take anything I threw at you, wouldn't you, little one? I could crack your nuts or spank you or string you up for an ass whipping, couldn't I?"
"Yes sir. I think I would. My mind is in a whirl just at the thought of someone taking a whip to me while I was tied up and helpless. I suppose I could expect alligator style nipple clamps to bite my poor tits and steel weights hanging from my tender ballsac too. Please don't think that forward of me for suggesting those things. I don't suppose you would really indulge me in such perverse excitements."
"All within the realm of possibility, boy. You know Chris, if things are so bad between you and your lover, and you relish a bit of rough handling, why not just sail away with me? Come just as you are, entirely naked. Cruise the seas for a month till we put in to Port Blair. You could take a flight from there and go on your way. I can guarantee passage back home after your vacation. Or maybe you could visit my estate in the Nicobar islands and stay a while longer. I have a play room, a sort of recreational dungeon and would enjoy entertaining you there where we can explore the submissive side of your personality."
"You were born to be a sex toy, Chris. Anyone can see that. You know that yourself. You feel it in the heat you get in your belly at the thought of being strung up for a whipping, of being rendered helpless and used to gratify the sexual desires of males. I can train you in the arts of an oriental pleasure boy, to let you live a true-life erotic fantasy. Doesn't my idea appeal to you, Chris, sailing away on my boat bound for high adventure followed by a stay at my estate. It is no exaggeration to say that the accommodations and food are first class.
"What about my clothing on the schooner? I know there's not much, sir, just a few sarongs, shorts and T-shirts."
"Just leave it behind. What could be kinkier or more exciting than taking off utterly naked, knowing you have abandoned every single article of clothing you had in this hemisphere. You would be delivering yourself hairless and naked into the custody of a master who would take you in charge and see that you experienced the kind of rough treatment you crave."
"You are one of those modern Western boys who like to run around naked much of the time, to judge from your all over tan and hairless physique. That makes you more than bit of an exhibitionist, I would guess. Used as you are to public nudity, you have never before abandoned clothing entirely. Well here is you chance to do so."
"From the passive way you let me touch you and examine you, even hurt you a bit, I can see you are a natural submissive and perhaps something of a masochist. Well here is your chance to live out a fantasy of sexual servitude. Try it for a month or two and see how you respond to bondage. discipline, and sexual humiliation."
It was a wild idea, but one Chris found exciting and attractive. How outrageous and sexy it would be to take off like that wearing nothing more than his suntan. First a cruise around the Indian Ocean, then a stay on a luxurious estate equipped with a play dungeon. What would it feel like to get whipped and paddled. Was he man enough to face the pain and the humiliation that Ishmael promised would be his lot in that dungeon of his? Ishmael had promised that he would keep Chris stark naked for the entire trip. He also promised to spank him, to whip him and to cane his ass. Would he record his degradation in photos and holograms and videos too. Gosh, what would that make Chris: a pin-up boy for perverse gay sex games.
On the spur of the moment, Chris decided he would do it, to sail away with him just as he had arrived, a nude mer-boy plucked from the sea. As Captain Ishmael pointed out Chris did not actually need anything from aboard the schooner. The captain could provide him with clothing when the time came to return home. Meanwhile he had no need for garments or anything else he had left on the schooner.
The RFID chip implanted in Chris's right arm was his passport, wallet, driver's license, health insurance card, etc. Any standard reader could access his account information, medical records, and so forth and make transfers with a proper PIN or password from Chris or from a fingerprint or even a retinal scan. He hadn't brought along a phone or comp. On a vacation cruise the last thing you wanted to do was keep in touch or up with the news.
"Shouldn't we let them know that I am on board your yacht. They might think I drowned or something."
"Of course we should, and we shall, but you don't want an ugly confrontation with your boyfriend just now, do you, shouting across the water, recriminations? We can call later, when the others are up and about."
Chris agreed to this suggestion too. How neat a way to turn the tables on Sandy like that, to give him the brushoff and go off with another man. Chris would sail away to a tropical archipelago. Sandy's notions about exclusivity for a healthy seventeen year old male were a crock. What a loser, though what did that say about Chris's own judgment in men.
The whole thing appealed to the wild streak in the boy, taking off like that stark naked and all. Talk about traveling light! Here he was taking off in just his skin. He would submit himself to whatever sexual adventures his new master Ishmael had in mind for his new sex toy. What a concept, sex toy to a master. He clutched himself down there and shook with lustful excitement. He rubbed his butt cheeks anticipating the welts that the cane and the lash would put on those grapefruit shaped protuberances.
Chris hadn't wanted to talk to Sandy even by radio, so he simply accepted his host's assurance later that morning that he had called the other vessel. Fortunately Ishmael did call over to let them know the boy was all right. There was no point getting the local coast guard looking for a boy who had just dumped an overly possessive partner. Ishmael also let Chris send a message to his folks via email to let them know his plans. Now the world would not worry that little Chris had drowned or been taken by a shark.
"Actually coming as you are, stark naked and all, you would fit right in on the Nicobar Islands. The name derives from a Tamil phrase that means land of the naked men. Naked boy in your case Chris."
"One more thing Chris. I am guessing that you are one of those gene tweaked boys. The treatment tends to make these lovely spheres work overtime, giving you a supercharged sex drive, even for a teenaged boy."
"Yes, I am. And you?," Chris ventured.
"Oh, I am an early version." Ishmael laughed.
Ishmael was referring to expensive gene tweaking of the gametes before conception and birth. Chris was a member of the first generation to fully benefit from advances in the understanding of obscure structures called telomeres in chromosomes, which induced the body to maintain its physiological processes in a state of homeostasis. The gene therapy also protected him against all forms of cancer and stopped the aging process in the late teens. The first embryos on whom the technique was used had found their aging arrested in their mid-twenties.
The boy's folks were not well off enough themselves to have afforded it, but a bequest from an uncle had given them the wherewithal to confer this blessing on their son. Chris would spend the next three or four centuries never aging as a beardless and hairless youth of seventeen, looking exactly as he did just then.
Chapter 3. Islands and Archipelagos
Meanwhile they sailed around the Chagos Archipelago which lay due south of the Maldives. More coral reefs than dry land, the islands spread over an expanse of 15,000 square kilometers (5,800 square miles) though only 64 square kilometers (25 square miles) were dry land. The Great Chagos Bank accounted for three quarters of the archipelago. The bank is the second largest atoll structure in the world though only a few islets rise above sea level. The islets were green oasis in the salty desert of the ocean, getting more than 100 inches (250 cm) of rain a year.
The names given to the islands derived from Portuguese, French, English and Creole, reflecting the diversity of occupation over the last few centuries. Explored but ignored by the Portuguese during their great days of empire, the islands were settled in the 18th century by the French then taken over by the British. At one point in the twentieth century the colonial masters forcibly removed the entire population of the sparsely inhabited islands so that one of them, Diego Garcia could be used as a military base unimpeded by a local population. Now the islands were an autonomous part Mauritius and earned their livelihood from tourism, fishing, and palm oil production.
The lagoon and the surrounding coral reefs were a diver's paradise. Ishmael and Chris donned rebreathers that let them stay down for hours at time. Modern and compact, the size of an old fashioned hard cover book, they did little to conceal the boy's nude body as he gamboled beneath the waves. For propulsion they used the shin fins that had completely supplanted the old fashioned style that fitted over the foot. More efficient, they also left the feet free for clambering up onto land and walking. They used an underwater sled to get about the lagoon and to transport their finds.
As for the exploration of his kinky side, Chris soon learned that Ishmael's bark was worse than his bite. For all the theatrics surrounding their sex play involving ropes and whips and torture, Ishmael was not a true sadist. He did not take pleasure in hurting people so much as he did in rendering them helpless and humiliating them without inflicting permanent damage. It was largely dramatization and atmospherics with a great deal of degrading trash talk. Yes he inflicted moderate pain on the boy, but that was part of the scene.
True he had his crew string the boy up by his wrists and tie his ankles wide apart to the deck. That left him utterly helpless, unable to block any blow, to stop anything that might be done to his spread-eagled body, but the cat of nine tails that whipped the boy's back and ass and chess was a prop. There were no bits of metal sewn into the tips of the lashes which would cut the skin and leave permanent scars. Yes it stung and made the lad writhe and cry out around the ball gag in his mouth. In the end it left him with red welts and bruises and a wild memory of what it was like to be flogged.
Ishmael liked to put the boy on his knees, his small body bound tight at ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, a slave collar locked around his throat. With Ishmael's large endowment shoved down his throat, Chris gasped for air around the invading shaft, his spit and drool leaking out of the corners of his mouth as Ishmael face fucked him all the while bad mouthing him with the crudest and vilest of language, occasionally slashing at his bound body with a riding crop.
"You silly fool, putting yourself into my power. Look at you, kneeling helpless at my feet, a small naked hairless western boy, cringing before his betters. That is where you belong, little one. You were made to be used by strong men as a fuck toy, you little cocksucking pansy faggot. A cock crazy youth like you needs to be fucked hard and often and by men who know how."
"See how I am marking your tawny skin, putting red welts on your chest and shoulders and back. Afterwards I am going to have you upended so I can beat that round rump of yours till you are sobbing and begging me to stop. Oh I will stop, but only to thrust my manhood into your punk ass. Maybe my male juices will make a man of you. Nothing else has, you little fairy."
Chris head whirled at the sensations coursing through his bound body, a wild combination of pain and humiliation, and lust. He had a fire in his belly, and his cock was rock hard. He couldn't believe he had ever felt so totally aroused. Yes he was in pain. The trash talk made him feel about two inches tall. What did that say about his masculinity or the fact that he only got harder when his master snapped the crop against the shaft of his erection.
And this was only foreplay. Ishmael promised new tortures and humiliations if he stayed on after the cruise at his estate in the remote archipelago of the Nicobar Islands. As for sexual abuse, Ishmael would sometimes hogtie the boy and force him to suck off the whole crew, all the time calling Chris the very worst of names, slut boy, cum dump, insatiable cock sucker, all the while mocking his diminutive size and lack of manly body hair even at the fork of his legs.
The Eurasian master alternated sexual abuse with physical torments. With the boy bound to a mast, he applied alligator clamps to Chris' tiny red nipples, working them in enough to start a trickle of blood down his chest and belly. Then he tugged on them to test the purchase and hung lead weights. He also applied five pound weights to Chris's bound balls, hanging them from a broad steel cock ring so small he could barely get one ball at a time to slip through.
At least Ishmael gave the boy days off for rest and recreation, often several days in a row. Usually they dove coral reefs. The boy was in his element, transformed into a mer-boy again, breathing underwater, swimming with fins. Special creams protected the skin against dehydration so it did not look all wrinkly afterwards. For protection against predators the divers had sound generators and underwater guns that used compressed air to fire pointed darts which could penetrate the skin of a shark or a salt water crocodile.
Sometimes they raced about on quiet jet skis or windsurfed. Naturally Chris' sail was transparent and he did not wear a life preserver or anything else but his deepening tan. Chris loved to windsurf, he loved to feel the power of the wind, to enjoy his control of the fragile craft, to feel the wind blow all over his naked body, to feel salt spray hitting him on his chest and belly and at the fork of his legs.
After a while the ship sailed to the Agalega Islands, two islands in the Indian Ocean, lying 1,100 km (700 miles) north of Mauritius. The two islands totaled only 10 square miles (26 sq km) and were covered with coconut trees and mangrove forest. North Island is long and narrow, about 7 miles by 1 wide (12 km by 1.5 km) while South Island was tear drop shaped and half as long and three times wider. There was plenty of beachfront. Chris had run long distance in school. On these unspoiled beaches he had the chance to run up and down the beach waving to those who lived in the occasional beach house or sea chalets. These were few and far between, for these islands were a preserve for the rich who did not want to be famous. Still the beaches were public lands, so no one could deny the naked lad a chance to go anywhere he wanted.
Some vacationers invited him in for a drink of water, getting a good chance to look him over, breathing hard, all sweaty, like he would look right after sex. With Ishmael's permission, he took some of them up on their offers, even staying overnight a few times. Even when they invited him to parties and dinners, his hosts understood that the boy would remain entirely naked. Whether the others wore sarongs or beachwear, Chris attended in the buff. Some of the rich tourists had their own boys with them, so he wasn't necessarily the only nude lad at these gatherings which sometimes turned into orgies.
Ishmael never minded sharing his boys. He had plenty of time, several centuries of sex to look forward to with many partners. The old ways and the old jealousies were obsolete in this modern age of virtual immortality. Perhaps this lovely boy Chris would spend some time with him after sampling the delights of his dungeon. If not, then Allah bless and let him return to his life in the States.
Eventually they left the Agalega Islands and sailed east across the Indian Ocean to the Nicobar Islands. Ishmael's yacht tied up at its pier in Nancowry Harbor. With Camorta Island just to the North, Nancowry Island forms a magnificent land-locked harbor considered one of the safest natural harbours in the world.
Despite their small size, even the largest of the Nicobar islands is only 400 square miles (1000 sq km), their vegetative cover is surprisingly varied ranging from coastal mangrove forests to evergreen and deciduous tropical and subtropical broadleaf forests to extensive grasslands in the interiors of several islands. Many animal species were found nowhere else.
Chapter 4. Dungeon Days
The dungeon on Ishmael's estate impressed Chris. It was stonebuilt deep under the cellars of Ishmael's big house, dark and poorly lit, water dripping down it walls, air temperature rather high. It had cells and cages and racks and other devices whose use he could not fathom. All manner of whips and canes and less identifiable implements lined walls.
Chris had agreed to a trial of one month. He knew that once incarcerated there was no release from his captivity for the next thirty days. What he did not realized was that Ishmael had administered a drug to him that induced temporary amnesia. Chris would have no idea of his identity or why he had awakened in a dungeon. His confusion and fear made for a much more realistic and dramatic scene.
The first torment then was his loss of identity and uncertainty about why he had been made a captive or how long his incarceration might last. Without even a pretense at interrogation, he had no clue as to why he had wound up in a cell in a dungeon who knew where. He wasn't exactly surprised to be kept naked. For him nudity felt like the default state anyway.
Ishmael had given considerable thought to the best methods for inflicting pain on a captive. The chosen torments must be both non-destructive and strikingly visual for the recordings he would keep after freeing his captive. Some torments are simple such as pressing the testicles with your thumbs but not very visual. Nothing much happens; the camera sees only a static picture with the victim's balls in another man's grip. Yes, the viewer can easily imagine the agony it causes, and you can elicit groans and cries, but that is aural not visual. You cannot let the victim thrash about much because you would loose your grip. He had nothing like that planned for Chris.
A cat on nine tails was a good first choice for dramatic visuals. A single whip was another fine choice as was the riding crop. A riding crop was especially good for tormenting and teasing the genitals.
Electricity was also fine if done with suitably low amperage. With electrodes attached to tender portions of the anatomy, a victim would writhe or lock his muscles to graphically show how much it hurt. A plasma ball was even better, far more visual. The victim would jerk back and forth, trying to keep his body away from that ball of lightning and the hideous crackle it made. The warm temperatures in the dungeon kept the captives hot and sweaty, excellent for conducting electricity.
To get started, Ishmael's assistant put a bit in Chris' mouth like he was a pony or something. He explained with false solicitude.
"This bit is to protect your teeth, my young friend. You can bite down or open your mouth wide to scream. You are free to scream and plead and cry all you want. It won't do any good, but we cannot expect reticence from you at such a time."
Chris tried to play the brave captive. He did not cry out at the first stroke with the cat or at the second. His slender body arced away from each blow, but he let out no more than a groan. The lashes cut his back and his ass. Some wrapped around his ribs. He writhed. Again and again the cat landed from shoulders to ass to back of the thighs leaving red welts but not tearing the skin. It would never do to inflict permanent injury. The hand wielding the whip avoided a predictable rhythm he might anticipate. This was psychological as much as physical torture.
It was not long before the boy was crying out with each stroke of the whip, sobbing, tears running down his cheeks. He was just a kid strung up in a dungeon. How could anyone do this to him. He had never hurt these people. He had never hurt anyone really. Had he? Why did he have to suffer? Why was his trim little body being whipped and striped. How had he earned those welts?
Blows landed again and again on his chest, belly, and the front of his thighs. The man with the whip like to aim for the youth's manhood, grinning when the lashes slashed cock and balls setting him howling. Tips of the lashes cut the tiny red nipples, leaving trickles of blood to start their way down his chest. The trickles traced an irregular track down the ribs to the hip to the belly. Sometimes other lash smeared the blood or spread it elsewhere on the boy's front. It was ghastly even if no permanent damage would result.
Stripping off his sarong, Ishmael lubbed a cock already at half staff and put some lube up Chris' ass. Without further ado he slammed into the boy. It was so pitiful, the whipped boy, blood running down his flanks and now he was getting raped by a huge animal of a man. Chris raised his head and cried for help again and again as the man brutally took him. Ishmael came and withdrew and gave Chris a parting slap on the ass. The beaten youth hung limp in his chains, sobbing.
A male nurse came in and washed Chris' wounds, using a styptic to stop the bleeding from the cuts on the nipples. He gave the boy a slug of some sports drink then water and he and another man put Chris on the straw in his cell.
The next day started with a quick whipping with a single whip that left further red welts. The sting of its lash was particularly bad when it hit the penis or the scrotum. No rape though that day.
Of all the whippings, Chris felt most humiliated with the riding crop. It is both a whipping and a kind of rape at the same time. The painful snap of the leather on his butt made him drive his hips forward in a parody of a thrust. The heavy breathing and moans mimicked those of intercourse. Ishmael or his man shoved the handle of the crop up the rectum in much the way he shoved his cock into the young actor when he raped him. He even put harsh tit clamps on him just like he did when he fucked him.
From the front, a crop delivers stinging blows to a male's organs. Ishmael liked to snap the ridig crop to the boy's tiny nipples. Or he could bounce the youth's cock on the crop several times before whacking it hard. Nothing is more emasculating than having another man abuse your sexual equipment, making it hurt, alternately grabbing it for a quick squeeze then hitting it with the stinging crop, making fun of Chris hairlessness down there.
"You fucking pansy. Look at you, not a feather on you, smooth as a baby, the mark of a cocksucking fairy and hungry assed faggot."
He got Chris hard with the stimulation from a fuck then mocked him for wanting to take a beating and for wanting to be raped.
"You can't wait, can you Christ, to spread your legs for a real man, to open the way to that hungry hole of yours. You want it bad".
When he succeeded in getting the youth sobbing again, he called him a pansy crybaby then spanked his butt as fit punishment for it. And then he reminded Chris that this was all on video. His degradation would one day be made public.
Strung up spread-eagle, Chris could not defend himself or block the blows from any part of his body. The crop was so light, it didn't need much of a back swing and could shift rapidly from one point on his body to another. He could not tell whether the next blow would be full tilt on his ass or a quick series to the nipples. It drove him mad with pain and frustration and shame.
Then they used leeches on him. Leeches were not painful, but they were absolutely disgusting. Ever since his vacation trip to Brazil Chris had hated leaches. He did not explicitly remember that experience, but it had scarred his pysche. He had splashed across a stream then told to strip off to check for leeches. He found a dozen clinging to him. The worst part was how the critters had sensed and latched onto the portion of the male anatomy with the best blood supply just under the skin, adding two extra blood-swollen members to the fork of his legs, both larger than his emotion shrunk natural one.
Now here he was in a dungeon with leeches. They made his skin crawl, stirring unconscious memories. From the point of view of his captor, it made a good visual: the slender youth whose tracery of veins just under the skin on legs and forearms, and belly reminded them of a colt or young deer. He was stretched out standing with arms bound above, helpless to do anything but writhe and thrust his body back and forth in a vain attempt to shake the disgusting critters off him. Then Ishmael's men forced the leeches to drop off him into their hands. Squeezing their fisst, his captors splooshed the youth's "virgin's blood" in his face, on his chest and flanks, and most contemptuously on his manhood, watching it drip off or run down his legs. Then followed a light whipping with the single whip, to smear the blood around a little, to add the element of pain to that of humiliation, and to wipe that defiant glare off his face.
The scariest tortures were probably with electricity. With the captive youth tied to all four corners of a large table, Ishmael put electrodes on Chris' ankle and a steel cock ring around his package. It was easy then to clip an electrode to the cock ring and turn on the juice. Chris screamed as the current locked the muscles of his leg, His upper body writhed as he pulled at the restraints around his wrists. Instead of a cock ring they might use a steel probe up his rectum or even a metal sound slipped up the urethra into the body cavity itself. That way they could torture all his genitalia, internal as well as external, the prostate particularly. A very low voltage on the prostate was terribly arousing. Chris body would shudder all over in a kind of internal male orgasm which cycled endlessly leaving him utterly drained.
Ishmael particularly liked the visual effect of the plasma globe. Stuck on the end of a rod, the globe was the size of a grapefruit. You could keep the victim lightly bound, just so long as he could not get away or use his hands to defend himself. Electric bolts crackled within the globe and delivered a sting when pressed to the skin. Just getting close was enough for a spark to jump the gap. Great with the lights dim. You could see the spark. You could watch the boy cringe from the globe, cry out as he was touched, then whimper afterward. Ishmael liked Chris' whimpers best. Outright screams might indicate they had gone too far. Not a soft whimper, so indicative of pain, humiliation, surrender, and helplessness. Here was a boy who was born to whimper as the men who rightly had charge of him gave him what he deserved, the little pussy boy faggot.
They never used the scary rack on him with its ropes and winch. That was just there for atmospherics. Too much chance of tearing muscles or dislocating joints to really use on a boy. The same was even more obviously true of the iron maiden, a man shaped coffin with sharp blades pointing inward. That was potentially an instrument of death. A stop on the bottom kept it from closing completely just to avoid accidents and to forestall misuse. The dungeon was a playroom after all, and Ishmael was not some sadist monster.
Eventually Chris' month of torment and degradation was up. The amnesia drug was already wearing off when Ishmael gave him the antidote to clear his head. It restored his identity to him but did nothing to wipe away his memories of the past month.
Chris' psyche was overwhelmed by the realization of what he had let himself in for, a whole month of sexy torments without a single break, not like during their voyage across the Indian Ocean. He got hard just thinking about the torments Ishmael had inflicted on him. These were memories he would treasure. Even if he were inclined to forget, there were all those stills and videos. Chris knew he craved more of the same, oh maybe not so concentrated as during the past month. Come what may, in the future, kinky games of sexual torment and humiliation would be part of his sexual repertoire.
Chris actually asked if Ishmael might let him stay past the summer, as his guest rather than his captive, with only occasional forays into the dungeon. Chris could take courses on line; his formal education could continue, but he wanted to stay with Abkar on the island naked and submissive. Besides Ishmael did not spend all his time on the island. No Chris would have to leave.
Ishmael explained that the boy really had to go back to college after the summer. He had his own life to live after all. Too much of a good thing, even kinky sex, pales after a while. Ishmael and Chris would be youthful for several centuries. Better their time together should be episodic rather than continuous. The next few summers would be a good start, then they would see where it went from there.
The older man knew that a period of separation would make Chris all the more grateful next summer when Abkar took charge of him for an even more exciting month of sexual adventure, with so much more time for them to plan new and arousing experiences for the oversexed teen. And so it proved to be.