It was past one in the morning now. The bar with the grass roof had closed long ago.
A handful of rooms were lit up at the hotel behind us like a switchboard on a not-too-busy day.
A few figures strolled along the water a ways away while others reclined in wooden chairs. Otherwise, this side of the beach was almost empty. The party would be back toward where we came from.
The only thing illuminated where we sat was Prasang. His naked body lay splayed on the beach chair shining in the light of Martin and Gary's portable lantern.
The wooden clothespins on his ears, nipples, navel, and scrotum shone almost white against his cinnamon brown skin. The wind carried his light breathing toward us, just barely audible against the crashing waves.
There was the occasional wheeze of pain or discomfort as he snored uneasily through the cum-soaked tissues stuffed in his mouth.
We had decided to let him get some rest after that miraculous orgasm we forced out of him.
Others must have heard his cry of ecstasy as the white lava spurted out of him, but it hadn't drawn any notable attention. This was Pattaya, after all. People surely assumed it was just some tourists freed of the confines of their homeland and engaging in time-of-your-life, unbridled beach sex.
Martin, Gary, and I sat cross legged in the sand beneath a palm tree fifteen feet from the dozing Prasang.
Using his pocketknife, Martin peeled a big strip of green skin off the plantain, revealing pale, mushy-looking flesh.
I held it in my hands like a submarine sandwich and sank my teeth in, taking a big, lusty bite right out of the center.
It had the resistance of a pear and tasted of starch and soil, more like a potato than a banana. Martin, who seemed to be something of an expert on plantains, said you were supposed to cook them first.
But the taste, of course, was not the point. It had been deep inside our handsome young sex slave moments before, stretching him to the max. Even in the cool ocean air, I swore I could still feel the heat of him within it.
I passed the plantain to Gary, who took a huge, greedy bit of his own.
"Incredible, isn't he?" I said, whipping my mouth.
"Jesus H. Christ, Jim!" Martin blurted in a shout whisper. "Where in the bloody hell did you find that kid? I mean, this country's crawling with gorgeous men, but fuck me!"
"I met him in Bangkok, in a club in Gay Alley. He was just an ordinary sex worker, believe it or not, the kind you can spend a few hours with in a cheap motel for fifteen hundred baht. I guess you could say I saw his...potential."
"I should say you did!" Said Gary, wiping his mouth on his shoulder as he passed the plantain to Martin, "But what is this inexplicable power you have over him? The boy looks like a Thai movie star, but here he is acting like he's not fit to shine your shoes!"
I smiled and rubbed my thumb and forefinger together. "Everyone has their price. I've got him on salary, paying him more per week than most of those guys could make in four months.
"Sure, I'm putting him through hell right now, but if he played his cards right, he wouldn't have to work for a year after this if he didn't want to."
I explained some of the intricacies of the Thai sex industry to the two men, something I had researched thoroughly in preparation for my trip.
I had learned how you could get a young man such as Prasang to be at your whim and beckon 24/7 for the right price tag.
Though, of course, Prasang was something of a special case and I truly had hit the jackpot with him. Not everyone would have the personal fortitude or stamina to live up to my particular demands.
"He can be a lot more than just a whipping boy, you know? He's sweet as pie and desperate to please. He can give you the full boyfriend experience: Take you dinner, buy you flowers, write you love letters if that's what you want.
"He can be your tour guide around Thailand. Help you translate and negotiate prices. He's even trained as a masseur and has some powerful magic fingers, let me tell you. Or, if you just want to use and abuse him like we've been doing tonight, well, he's up for that, too."
I pulled out my phone and started flipping through the many pics from my excursions with Prasang thus far. Gary and Martin's mouths hung open in the light of the screen, fascinated.
There were photos of Prasang naked in hotel rooms, in the shower, or resting between the sheets.
I had documented the many times I made him strip down in public so I could jerk him to full erection or gag on his huge cock mere inches from the public view.
I forced him to get naked in a (mostly) empty wing of the National Museum, in public bathrooms and dressing rooms.
Then, of course, there was the bus ride to Pattaya today and the courtyard of the Royal Elephant Hotel where I had put Prasang's incredible body on display, much to the delight of leering tourists.
"Give me your Instagram," I said, "I'll be happy to share these with you."
I was already kicking myself for not recording that last, physics-violating orgasm of his. It was something I would have enjoyed watching over and over for the rest of my days and the kind of thing no one would have believed without visual proof.
On the other hand, there were signs in every Thai temple claiming that photographing the sacred brings on bad karma. What Prasang had achieved could probably be classified as a religious experience, so better to be on the safe side.
"He's not actually gay, though, is he?" Gary asked, "I certainly don't get that vibe from him."
As if on cue, I came across the photos of him earlier that day with my backpack strapped to his chest, wearing only his red thong and his slave collar, beautiful European girls putting their hands all over him.
"I think it's pretty clear from this one, wouldn't you say? You can see it on his face, not to mention in his cock."
I remembered Prasang back at Male Body Palace telling me he was "seventy percent straight." A genius line, probably taught to him by Lom the madam or one of the club managers.
How many gay men came to Thailand wanting to fulfill their fantasy of being with a hot straight guy they would never be able to get with back home? And wouldn't it be perfect if he were just gay enough not to find you completely repulsive, evening shining the narrowest of hopes on the idea that he might want you back?
"But straight or not," I continued, "You saw it for yourselves. How much load he can shoot. The way he took this whole plantain. He is, as you said, a `champion.'"
"Well, if I were you, Jim, I'd never let the boy out of my sight again," Gary said. "I'd pack him up in a suitcase and take him home with you. He's a bloody gem!"
"So, what about you guys, what brings you to Thailand?" I asked, changing the subject.
They told me they lived in Melbourne and had been together for twenty years. Gary wasn't a big traveler, but Martin was actually the editor of a travel magazine specifically for gay men. It held the sophisticated name "The Gentleman Traveler."
Martin had traveled to many parts of the world, sniffing out the best gay experiences. He handed me his business card with his contact info.
They were spending an entire month in Thailand, having come, like many others, for the men. For the sea of beautiful toned flesh.
"At this point in our relationship, we've gotten a taste for the wilder side of life. Doing the sorts of things we've always wanted to do before we both land in the old folks home."
We continued passing the plantain around, devouring it with a kind of ritualistic fervor.
They confessed they themselves had considered a Thai boy for companionship. Someone they could share between them and play out their own fantasies.
"Then, of course, we saw you and your naked young stallion playing your little punishment game and thought, `Well, when in Rome...' We would never have imagined you could take it this far, though..."
"Rather extraordinary is what it is," said Gary with a gleam in his eye.
I told them more details of Prasang's "employment." It was clear the gears were turning in their heads, as they were in mine.
"Where are you guys staying?"
"Gary and I are over at the White Sands Resort about an hour that way." Martin pointed back toward Central Pattaya Beach, the very place we were staying. "It's nice but bloody crowded, that's why we came over here."
"Can Prasang and I escort you back?"
Martin and Gary looked at each other and grinned, obviously up for anything having to do with Prasang.
By now, we'd scoured every last bit of flesh off the plantain with our teeth and tongues.
The peel was like a big leather wallet in my hand and I tossed it away.
"If you gents don't mind chilling out here for just a little longer," I said, standing and dusting myself off, "Maybe having another beer or two, I just need some time alone with Prasang. To discuss a thing or two."
They both obliged, agreeable as always.
...
Prasang had managed a semi-comfortable position. He lay on his side to avoid putting pressure on either his scalding ass or the many clothespins down the front of him.
Even in his light swoon he continued to suck on the jizz balls, which were mostly a lump of mush in his mouth by now. They pulled his cheeks downward and a stream of drool ran down to his shoulder.
He reached up and reflexively scratched the skin on his chest just above the row of clothespins on his left nipple, which was becoming inflamed. It must have hurt like hell, but he was so obedient he didn't dare remove a single one or spit out the revolting tissues.
In the golden light, he was a cross between a tormented martyr and the god Vishnu, dreaming upon the cosmic river.
He was so vulnerable, having put himself completely at my mercy with no idea how far I would push him or what I would make him do. Apart from the once-in-a-lifetime money making opportunity, you really had to wonder why.
A few nights before, as we lay in bed together, I'd asked Prasang to tell me more about himself.
He said he was from a very small, very poor farming village in Northern Thailand near Chiang Mai.
He went and got his phone out of my bag and pulled up a picture of four Thai women.
These were his mother and three sisters, who still lived in his hometown. They stood all in a row, the mother at the front a head shorter than the sisters.
They smiled brilliantly, decked out in their finest sabai. Each one as beautiful as Prasang himself.
Prasang was the youngest of his siblings and also the only man in the family. Times were hard and he had made his way to Bangkok to work as a masseur. But like many Thais who come to the big, bad city, he soon found the real money was in selling himself.
Lying close to me in the dark that night, his breath upon my face, he was particularly nervous to admit the whole "I'm a university student" line he fed me at Male Body Palace was, in fact, just a line.
"I'm sorry, master," he said, lowering his head, eyes moist with regret, "Lom told us to tell customers that. He said nobody would buy us if we gave them a sob story about a poor family in some `shithole' village."
It was surely for that "poor family" in that "shithole village" that he was doing all this.
During our time together, I had kept hold of his phone, partly because most of the clothes I had him wear didn't have pockets, but also because I wanted his attention completely on me.
Still, there was one person he insisted on calling at the end of each week. "Swasdi khun, mae," he would say when she answered. "Mae" I understood to mean "Mom."
I reached down and stroked his face, feeling the hard knot waded up in his cheek. "Wake up, sweet boy," I said.
He looked up at me, having clearly sensed my presence and being too on his guard to actually sleep. "URRM-URMF," he said, gagging down another mouthful of his own spit and cum.
"Open, Prasang." I pulled a big clump of wet tissue out of his right cheek, then another one out of his left.
He sat up and gnashed his jaws, finally able to relax them a little bit. "Mah-thur..." he began, but then coughed up more of the white mush. There were additional bits of tissue, dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.
I picked up a half-drunk bottle of warm Singha from the table and held it to his lips. "Drink this down."
I placed my hand to the back of his head, caressing his thick, luxurious hair as I washed what remained of the nasty tissues down his throat. He swallowed hard and grimaced at what would surely become an uncomfortable lump in his stomach.
I took his face in both my hands, drawing it up to me as I rubbed and caressed his sore jaw muscles. "It's time to go now," I said. Despite how all around bad he must have felt at that moment, a light came into his eyes. He was desperate to get back to the hotel, to finally be in a private place where his naked body was exposed to no one but me.
"But before we go back, there's something I need to tell you."
I took off my sun hat and sat it next to the fruit plate. Then I took the heavy backpack Prasang had carried all the way here and strapped it to my back.
I helped him up out of the seat as delicately as I could. He groaned and hissed for what could have been any of the many discomforts assaulting his body.
I turned him around, examining him in the lamplight. Welts were forming on either of his royally spanked cheeks, which would lead to itchy blisters as soon as tomorrow.
His scrotum was so riddled with clothespins that it looked like a kind of deflated puffer fish with excessively large quills.
Then, of course, there was his very stretched hole. "AH! OUCH!" He protested as I pulled his buns apart to inspect it.
His hole still looked amazing, stretched wide, clenching and quivering like a flesh vortex. "It's pretty red," I said, probing with my finger a bit, "But you're not torn or bleeding. Looks like I used enough oil.
I let go of his buns and put my arm around his shoulder. "Come on, let's go down here."
Prasang walked a little bowlegged, though that may have been from the clothespins knocking together on his sack as much as from his sore anus.
We moved in a meandering diagonal path down closer to the waves.
When I thought we were far enough out in the darkness, I helped Prasang kneel down in the sand. He tried to sit on his butt, but it hurt too badly and he remained on his knees.
I sat down in front of him. He waited with head bowed and hands behind his back, so very tired and obviously trying to brace himself for whatever cruelty I could possibly have planned for him next.
Was I going to beat him? Was I going to chastise him for those pictures with the pretty girls on the beach? It could have been anything and all he could do was wait and hope.
I reached up and unhooked one of two clothespin on his left earlobe, then tossed it away into the foaming water. I did the other one too, then moved on to his right ear, then to the two biting into his armpits.
He flinched when I reached for a peg on his nipple, expecting me to yank it. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you anymore. I promise. Take a deep breath." He drew air into his lungs as I completely liberated one nipple, then the other.
Once freed, he scratched the inflamed flesh above the left one again. It looked swollen and pinched, but began to immediately stretch itself back into shape.
I carried on this way with each individual clothespin assaulting his body, tossing them into the waves. I had promised I wouldn't hurt him, but the nine on his scrotum were like porcupine quills and he hissed and flinched as I removed them.
Once he was finally free of every last clothespin, a shudder went through his body from his head to his knees.
He drew in a big breath and his entire being appeared to sigh in relief: His skin and his muscles along with all his most sensitive areas.
Once the clothespins were all gone, I took his right hand and undid the leather cuff on his wrist, pulling it free. I did the same with the left. Then, at long last, I unhooked his collar and removed it from around his throat.
Now blessedly naked again and free of any kind of assault or restraint, Prasang slumped down onto his backside. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been and tilted his head this way and that, doing circles to loosen up his neck muscles.
He roved over his body with his hands, taking stock of the damage.
Still aware of me watching him, he dared to pull up his cock and rub his testicles, both of which were red and swollen like two Irwin mangoes.
I stuffed the collar and cuffs into the deep pocket of my cargo shorts, then scooted myself closer to him and drew him up against me. I put my hand on his shoulder and reached for his balls. "No!" he cried out before he could stop himself. "Shush, Prasang, it's okay."
I drew his hefty, flaccid cock aside and cupped his balls in my hand, rubbing them in a tender circular motion. "Stay still, now," I said as he began to squirm, "It'll help with the swelling."
Silent tears rolled down his face as I massaged him. It hurt no matter how lightly I did it. His balls felt hard in their loose sack. After coming three times that day, there probably wasn't a single sperm cell left in them.
"Prasang," I said as I rubbed, "I have to leave a little earlier than planned. I know I said it would be four weeks, but I changed my flight and I'll be leaving this Thursday."
Prasang opened his wet eyes. He looked at me, incredulous as I continued rubbing between his legs.
"There's something back in the States I need to take care of. So for the rest of this trip, you're no longer at my command. I'm freeing you."
Prasang grimaced as I rubbed and caressed his balls. As he took in what I was saying, what immediately washed over his face was relief, even a glimmer of joy. I couldn't blame him for that, I knew it hadn't been easy being my "companion."
But this was followed by a look of apprehension and then panic.
Surely this had to be another mind game. A test of his loyalty.
"No, master!" He cried, turning to me. He seized me by the shoulders and actually shook me. His eyes darted about as he began to hyperventilate. "I-I want you. I wanted you the minute I saw you. You made my cock so hard. Harder than..."
I put my hand to his lips and shushed him. "It's okay, Prasang," I whispered, "It's okay, beautiful, you don't have to say that anymore. You're free."
He squeezed my shoulders hard as his face fell. Tears of pain were now becoming tears of grief. "Why, master, why?" He nearly shouted these words. "What did I do?" He shook me even harder. It was easy to underestimate how strong he actually was.
In his desperation he started kissing my face. He kissed me hard on the lips then bent down and started kissing my hands. I felt his tears falling on them.
He got on all fours and kissed my shorts just above where my cock was. He reached for my zipper and began to pull it down. "I love you, master, really! I want to be your boyfriend, I really do! Whatever I did, I'm sorry, master. I'm sorry I was a bad boy. Please, punish me master!"
"Prasang, stop!" I boomed a little too loudly. Martin and Gary, once again lounging in their chairs, looked over at us.
He did as I said. He let go of my zipper and sat back on his haunches, more frustrated than anything.
I understood where this was coming from and I wasn't surprised. I had abused him physically and mentally all this time. He was so much under my control that this must have seemed like the ultimate betrayal. After all I had put him through, I was just going to leave?
Despite how hard it was, he was counting on that money. Counting on earning for another week. Was I going to pay him at all? Was I just going to ditch him in the middle of Pattaya with no clothes, no money, not even a phone?
"Just listen," I said more quietly. "You don't need to worry about anything. I was going to explain this to you tomorrow at the hotel. You see, I have another slave back in America."
He stared at me. What the hell was I talking about?
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and brought up some pictures. "His name is Scott. He's thirty-seven, seven years older than me. We've been living together for the past two years."
Prasang studied the photos as I flipped through them.
...
Scott had short brown hair with strands of silver, piercing blue eyes, and light, peachy skin. It also bruised like said fruit when I spanked or whipped him.
Scott was nude in all of these photos because my first rule as his master was that he be naked in our apartment at all times.
The one article of clothing he wore was his black slave collar.
Under my "guidance," Scott had developed his body into a muscled work of art. We had a room in our apartment I referred to as the "dungym." It doubled as a fitness room where he could do his nude workouts as well as a bondage room where I could keep him restrained and suspended for hours at a time.
I showed Prasang a photo of Scott with his rippling arms tied above his head in the rack cage. He wore a leather hood with no eye holes and a metal zipper over his mouth.
I liked to put the hood on him because it obscured his face and made him seem like something less than human. A gorgeous, toned body with no will except the one I gave it. I could zip up his mouth if I wanted him silent or unzip it if I wanted to use it for other purposes.
I pulled up another picture of Scott in the "spanking tower," a kind of suspended pillory that locked his arms and legs above him while his back rested on a weight-lifting bench. It rendered him helpless to resist me and gave me full access to his buns, hole, cock, and balls.
Locked in the tower I could spank his ass raw until he cried, drip candle wax into his open hole, or line his cock and balls with vicious wooden clips not unlike the ones I had just freed Prasang from.
"Scott's a lot like you in many ways," I told him. "He's beautiful. He has an amazing body. He's also straight...or mostly straight. Before he met me he'd only ever been with girls. But he's a pure masochist the same way I'm a pure sadist. We go together in that way. Everything I've been doing to you he lets me do for free. He'd probably even pay me to do it if I asked him."
I chuckled at the look on Prasang's face as he tried to imagine someone actually paying to be treated this way.
The truth was, I didn't fully understand Scott either, except perhaps as a monster of my own creation.
When I first met him two and a half years ago, he was a shy, reserved guy with a secret longing to be stripped naked and used as a sex object.
I had come to believe that, while he probably did prefer women, his going with them was mostly for the sake of convention and he was just waiting for the right individual to come along and give him what he craved.
I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I had drawn out his yearnings further and further until he simply lived for being controlled and abused by me.
When I embarked on this trip to Thailand, I saw it as a right of passage, a means to explore my own sadistic desires as I never could have done at home.
I thought my "arrangement" with Scott might be running its course and that it would be good for the both of us to branch out a little.
Scott had never been very keen on the idea. Maybe because he was older than me, he seemed less interested in exploration at this point in his life and more in established routine. All the same, he was compliant.
"I only want to serve you, master," he said, kneeling naked in front of me in our living room. "If this is what my master wants, then I will obey his wishes." Still I saw the concern in his clear blue eyes.
"You're a good boy, Scott," I told him, stroking his short hair. "It's just for a little while. I'll be back before you know it."
But four weeks wasn't exactly a flash in the pan, either, so I granted him permission to do whatever he wanted while I was gone. The rules I had him under would be suspended. He could wear clothes in the apartment if he liked, relax his workout routine or eat a sundae or two. He could even remove the thin leather choker of a slave collar he wore everywhere, whose meaning only the two of us understood.
I planned to be with other men on this trip, so I gave him my full blessing to go find a woman or a man to have some fun with. Maybe even someone willing to punish him the way Scott loved to be punished.
And God knew he could have his pick of the litter.
He had always been handsome with an irresistible bubble butt, but since gaining thirty pounds of muscle, he practically had to fight off the women he worked with with a stick.
It would have been so much easier (for me, at least) if he had simply taken the opportunity I was giving him. It wasn't like it would be the first time. He had slept with several women in the infant stages of our master/slave relationship. I even had him relay the experiences to me afterwards as we lay spooning together on the sofa, his hard cock in my hand.
To me his (mostly) straightness was actually a huge turn on and justifiable under the umbrella of bringing me pleasure.
It seemed those days were behind him now, though.
During my first week in Thailand, when Scott texted to ask how things were going, I made the mistake of telling him about Prasang and the deal I had made with him.
Obviously fearing I was going to abandon him for a younger, more exciting slave, Scott started sending me texts, desperately trying to lure me back.
"Please, forgive me if I've made you unhappy, master. My body is yours to use however you wish. If you want me to be naked in public, sir. If you want me to be used by other men I will be. I promise."
"No, I am very happy with you, Scott, you've served me well. Now go out and enjoy yourself like I told you to."
"Yes, master."
But he wasn't placated in the slightest. Maybe it was the use of the past tense- "you've served me well"- that so alarmed him.
He did not go out and enjoy himself, but doubled down and started following my rules to a tee in my absence.
He kept the surveillance cameras in the dungym and the living room on 24/7. He invited me to check in on him at any time to make sure his behavior was to the standards I expected.
In spite of myself, I actually did check in, though there was no way for him to know if I was watching him or not.
While he was home, he stayed naked at all times and kept his body completely shaved, even his legs which I had told him was optional.
He increased the intensity of his workout routines. He started to push himself harder and harder. I watched, hypnotized as the muscles worked in his back and as his naked buttocks clenched hard as rocks when he did his leg curls.
After a while it was as if the weights were working him, not the other way around. He seemed as much a slave to them as he had ever been to me. I feared he would take it too far, to the point of injury.
He sent me photos of his daily meals: salmon, grilled chicken, kale. Foods high in protein to help him bulk up all the more.
With the time difference between Thailand in the U.S. I mostly caught him at night when he was sleeping. Another of my rules was that he was not allowed on any furniture until he had my permission to be. If I was not home when he was, he would have to stand or sit on the floor until I arrived and invited him onto the sofa or bed with me.
For this reason, he would not go near any of our furniture while I was gone and he actually slept on the living room floor, curled up like a dog without so much as a pillow.
At first, I shrugged all this off as mere melodrama on his part, so he took things further.
He sent me a video via chat of him locking his cock and balls into the clear plastic chastity device I sometimes used on him. It had a ring for his testicles and a faucet-shaped tube that prevented his cock from getting hard.
Looking into the camera, he held up the little plastic key that unlocked the device, put it in his mouth and swallowed it.
"My cock is only for you, master," he said, "To be used by you and you alone, the same as my hole, which only exists to be plugged with your cock."
I couldn't believe it. I was due to be in Thailand for almost three more weeks at that point. Knowing him, if he was denied the ability to come or even get hard until I got back he would go stir crazy, the semen would cloud his brain and God only knew what he would do then.
"Scott, I want you to stop this right now!" I texted in response. "You're being a bad boy and I need you to be good. I already told you when I'll be back and that's when I'll be back. I want you to wait for me patiently and obediently until then. That is an order!"
"Yes, master." Scott hated it when I called him a "bad boy" and loved being called a "good boy." Up to that point, he had been desperate enough for my approval that I figured that would be that.
It wasn't, though, for he now knew he had exactly what he was after: my attention.
With his cock bound and useless in the chastity device, he began sending me videos of himself abusing his own perfect, round ass. In the first video, he got down on the light gray carpet in our living room, face to the floor, buns in the air and spanked himself as hard as he could with my leather paddle. He did this again and again, probably even harder than I could have, until his ass was red and his face was moist with tears. "I'm sorry for being a bad boy, master. I deserve to be spanked. I deserve to be punished."
He sent more videos of himself violating his own hole, first with dildoes we owned, then when those weren't big enough, he used bananas, carrots, and finally a cucumber that gave the plantain I'd forced into Prasang a run for its money.
"Fresh from the farmers' market, master," he groaned, face turning red from the strain as he plugged it in deeper between his hot, toasted buns. I knew for a fact he had never taken anything that big. He moaned hard and you could tell it hurt.
"Bad boy, Scott," I texted him while Prasang was showering, "Very bad boy." But, of course, I was unable to keep my hand off my achingly hard cock. As hard as I tried to be outraged by his behavior, I was more turned on than I ever would have thought possible.
I began to consider that it may have been my own insecurity that made me assume Scott would relish a month away from me.
Knowing that he was, one, far more physically attractive than I was and, two, primarily turned on by women, I had long ago concluded that I got more out of our relationship than he ever could and it was only a matter of time before he moved on.
But now he was making it crystal clear that he had no intention of going anywhere.
That week, as Prasang and I prepared to head to Pattaya, Scott sent me a video link. The file itself was too big to send via chat.
It showed Scott on all fours in the middle of our living room. The leather hood over his head, eyes covered and mouth zipped shut. His hairless, muscular body, more pumped up than ever before, dripped with oil from head to toe.
He remained perfectly still, frozen in that position for almost an hour and a half, hands balled into fists like the paws of a stone lion.
I didn't watch it in its entirety as I was too busy with Prasang to do so. But I skipped through it and got the gist.
He sent three more of these videos, a new one each day. Each one was longer than the last and always the same: Scott naked save for the hood, on all fours and immobile as a statue.
On occasion a muscle in his upper arm would twitch, indicating that he was, in fact, a living being. Apart from that, he remained still as stone, even his stomach barely moved from his controlled breaths. I watched to see if his limbs would start to shake after the first hour or so. His right leg did tremble slightly, but not much.
No words could have articulated Scott's message like this. In his absolute dedication to me, he was turning himself into a piece of sexual furniture. A literal object with no mind of its own.
In the fourth and longest video, spanning three and a half hours, he added something: A wicked black vibrator shoved deep into his ass, turned up to full power and buzzing like an angry wasp inside of him.
Even while being violated by this insidious piece of equipment, he stayed in place like the most well-trained rottweiler. It was a measure of how strong he had become that he could hold this position for so long. His tight, round buns shook and quivered while pre-cum dripped at intervals into the carpet like water from a faucet.
In his show of absolute subservience, Scott ironically was the one now in complete control. He left me with no choice. If I didn't give in, who knew what he would do next? He might injure himself. He might start going outside naked to compete with Prasang and get himself arrested. Where we lived, that would have bad repercussions for the both of us.
"Alright, Scott," I texted, "You win. If you stop all this insanity I'll call the airline and get my flight changed to next week."
Scott wrote back within seconds. "THANK YOU, MASTER!!! THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!! I DON'T DESERVE TO HAVE A MASTER LIKE YOU!" This all caps response was followed by a long slew of party and celebration emojis.
"But once I'm back, Scott, you are going to live in that spanking tower, do you hear me?"
"Yes, master," he responded, suddenly remembering his place.
"From now on, I am going to fry my bacon on your buns every morning. I am going to heat our apartment this winter with nothing but your burning red ass, is that clear?"
"Yes, master." Though knowing Scott, the very idea of it put him into seventh heaven.
"I also owe you an apology, Scott," I wrote, softening. "I shouldn't have left you for this long. I shouldn't have taken you for granted. That's not what a good master does. I didn't realize how lucky I was, but now I do. From now on, wherever I go, wherever you go, we'll be together. You're my boy."
To be concluded (again)