This is a work (alas) of fiction. It includes scenes of BDSM between adults. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal for you, leave now.
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Ritual
Cody is waiting by the shed, as usual: tangled blond hair, an alluring-dangerous face, khaki shirt opened jacket-like over a stained sleeveless undershirt, faded jeans, one leg hanging on the top edge of his boot. He watches me climb the hill toward him, unblinking, nods toward the door, follows me into the shed. I stand quietly. "Strip," he says. I have learned to wait for his command.
Spears of sunlight find their way through gaps in the walls and roof. Dust dances as his body moves around me, arranging things. When I am naked, he stands in front of me. "Left arm," he says, and I watch him buckle a cuff around my wrist. Then, "right arm," and he cuffs it as well. "Stand," he says, pointing to a familiar spot on the floor. He ties the cuffs to ropes hanging from the roofbeam, spreading my arms. He squats behind me, orders me to spread my legs, secures them so I am stretched, naked. Vulnerable. Helpless.
He grabs a pair of socks from my pants pocket, sits on a box in the corner and pulls off his boots. He puts on the fresh pair of socks and drapes his used, sweaty ones over my left shoulder. He retrieves a leather gag, presses it into my mouth, buckles it behind my head. Next comes a sort of muzzle he fashioned, a wire cage that covers the gag and my nose. Before he buckles it in place, he stuffs the socks into it, so my every breath is rich with the smell of them.
He grabs my hair from behind and I feel his breath against my ear: "Gotcha," he sneers. He drags his fingernails along my body, stands in front of me, squeezes my nipples, twists them until he hears me gasp. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out two spring clips, holds them up in front of my eyes, carefully places one on the right nipple. The pain is almost unmanageable for a few seconds, then seems to fade, at least enough for me to handle it. He places the other clip on my left. He watches, smiling, as I fight the second wave of torment.
He takes off his shirt, tossing it onto the pile of my clothes, stands in front of me, body magnificent in the mottled light. For now, he leaves his wife-beater on. He unbuckles his black garrison belt, slides it slowly from the belt loops, stands holding it by the buckle end for a few seconds watching my traitorous cock reach for him. He comes toward me smiling again, and slaps the rod with the end of his belt. "Pussy," he sneers, in answer to my gasp of pain, and walks behind me, out of sight.
I wait. Two, three, four, five seconds pass before the first blow lands on my ass, spraying pain through my cheeks.
He waits a bit, then strikes again. Pause, strike, pause, strike, while I count the blows silently. "How many?" he asks at last; "eight," I attempt to reply through the gag. "Nope. Seven, stupid. Try again."
I know there were eight. It doesn't matter. He starts again, and the blows are harder. I answer "seven," and he sighs. "Dumbass can't even count. Again!"
This time, the belt falls across my upper back: strike, pause, strike... "Nine," I cry through the gag.
He hangs the belt over my neck, stands in front of me, slowly drags it across my body. "Better," he grins, and tosses the belt aside. I close my eyes. "Huh-uh, sissy, keep 'em open!" he snaps, and I struggle to do as he orders while he removes the clips from my tits. I would sag in the ropes, if I could: this pain is much worse than the whipping, worse even than the clips' first bite. He leans forward and takes my right nipple between his teeth, pulls it while I cry out, then lets it go. I wait for him to attack my left nipple; he merely flicks it with his finger. "I should shove a needle through those, huh?" I shake my head, struggle to say "Please, no."
"Please do?" he asks, innocently. "Maybe later." He kneels in front of me, slaps my cock again, and grabs my balls. He rolls them roughly in their bag, tugs, slaps them, squeezes, while my dick betrays me again, twitching eagerly. He keeps working my balls, stopping now and again to slap my shaft, until at last a drop of pre-cum appears. He swirls it around the head, encouraging more, stands and smears what's left on my still-sore tits.
He goes behind me and undoes the muzzle and the gag, tossing them to the floor. He retrieves the socks, presses them into my mouth, then slowly pulls them out and adds them to the pile of clothes. "I want those nice and clean, scumbag," he orders.
"Yes, Master Cody," I say, and these are my first unmuffled words to him.
"I have something for you," he smiles, and I know that smile, and fear it. He steps away and returns, holding his present. It takes me a moment to realize what it is: a carved and polished replica of his erect cock. The dark wood gleams as he turns it slowly, then tips it forward and presses it into my mouth. It feels familiar. He is an artist.
"This is just for you," he says. "Get it nice and wet." He steps away again, and I hear things moving behind me. He drags something between my legs, forcing them further apart, then sets something on top of it, then teases my throat with the dildo, then withdraws it. I hear more unidentifiable noises beneath me, and then he stands at my side and shoves three fingers into my mouth. "Suck 'em!" he snaps. "Get 'em good and wet. Get your pussy slime all over them!" After I do this for a few seconds, he pulls the fingers out and I soon feel them at my asshole. There is more noise, and I feel what must be the tip of the wooden dildo just beginning to penetrate me.
Now, he appears in front of me, carrying a piece of metal pipe, gripping it as if he intends to strike.
"Master Cody! Please! No!" I cry, and he grins and sinks to his knees while I stop breathing and squeeze my eyes shut. I hear noise beneath me, and then a clicking sound, and the dildo advances. I open my eyes, look down, and realize he is pumping a tire jack, raising the dildo into my helpless asshole.
"How does that feel, cocksucker?"
I nod. "Good, Master Cody," I admit.
"This dildo is just for you. I want you to take it home and use it every night--at least once. Understand?"
"Yes, Master Cody." Another drop of pre-cum is forming at the tip of my cock.
"I want you to shove it up your hole as far as you can, and then hold it there while you jerk off. Can you do that for me, cockslave?" he asks, as he continues to push the dildo up, deeper.
"Yes, Master Cody." It feels huge in me, now, and I imagine it swelling, growing tree-like until it embraces me from inside.
The clicking stops: the dildo must be all the way into me. I can feel the base of it pressing against my cheeks. Master Cody holds his arms up against my face, one at a time, so I can lick his pits. "Feels good, you piece of shit. Get 'em clean!" I lick and suck frantically, feel the hairs against my nose, whimper with shame or delight; I can't tell which. At last, he shoves his hand into my mouth again and gathers spit to use on my poor, desperate dick. "Don't cum, dumbass!" he warns. "You know what happens if you cum without permission!"
Jaw clenched, I nod. I remember the time he hung a bucket from my balls and poured water slowly into it until it was almost full, then finished it off by pissing into it. I remember the tiny c-clamps on my tits, and the sandpaper that followed, and the horse whip that I could still feel days later, every time I sat down. I remember him printing "cocksucker" across my chest during the height of the summer, so I dared not take my shirt off, and another time walking around all day with pebbles in my shoes. It was not a good thing to cum without Master Cody's permission. I asked him about a cock cage, showed him a picture, begged him. He thought it would be fun, but hardly his idea of punishment.
He held a glass in front of my cock. "Go ahead, cum cow!" he snarled, and the command was like music. He pumped and pumped, and I could feel nothing: not the dildo, not the stretching of my body or my still-sensitive tits, nothing but the surge of my climax.
He drained me, then poured my cum down my throat. He lowered the dildo, let it slip from my hole, left me empty. He released my legs, then wrapped one powerful arm around me while he released my arms and let me sink to the ground. He walked over to the box in the corner, pulled off his undershirt and dropped his jeans and shorts. "Come," he said, and I crawled to him, and "Suck," he said, and I took his cock and nursed on it, felt it swell and reach for my throat. I felt his hands on my head, running his fingers through my hair. "Good boy," he murmured gently, over and over again until he said, "Good boy. You make my cock so fucking happy I can't stand it." He pressed the back of my head to him and I pressed my face into his crotch, and I urged his cock deeper, yet deeper, still deeper until I felt it explode, and for a few seconds we were posed like a statue, locked as one in pleasure.