THE TABLES WERE TURNED
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
The Tables Were Turned, Part One
I'd been watching this group of skater lads for two days now. One of them had to be suitable for me. They were certainly all above sixteen - that's important for two reasons: firstly, you want them with a bit of proper masculine development - the fourteen and fifteen year olds just don't have it. And secondly there's a huge fuss if a kid under sixteen disappears - the police don't worry about sixteen year olds so much as they assume they've gone off on the razzle somewhere, fucking their girlfriends. Mind you, I don't want one of those twenty-somethings who have never grown up and are still boarding when they ought to be at work or Uni: it's much more difficult to dispose of them.
This lot were almsot "professional", though: they started gathering about eleven, and went on, displaying to each other, until about nine at night, only stopping for the occasional can of something or other, and a sandwich. I like to see that - it means their bodies are good and subtle, and hard. Not hard with those bulging muscles you see when blokes have been too long in the gym, but strong and sinewy and natural, as you get from all this twisting and turning as the acrobatics proceed.
On day one I'd just sat there inconspicuously, I hope, pretending to look at the river as they swooped up and down the riverside walkway, so proud of themselves and the way they were weaving in and out of the tourists and office workers, causing not a few of them to be thoroughly pissed off. I like lads who have confidence like that, with real "attitude" - it makes breaking them so much more satisfactory. My luck was in during the afternoon, too, as the sun came out, and once they started sweating they stripped off their top layers of long-sleeved Ts and carried on in loose Ts that were underneath. It's difficult to get a good idea of what their bodies are like, actually - those very, very baggy jeans just don't reveal anything; and even though you can see three or four inches of their underwear, it doesn't really give you a clue to what's underneath. You can't see the curve of the bum, or how big the package is at the front, when the jeans are so loose and hanging down concealing everything. It's a mystery to me how they can wear them so totally low and not have them fall off - they don't even spend any time hitching them up. I reckon the belt line must be right on top of their cocks, and having that jutting out is the only thing preventing them falling down.
It's a bit of a risk therefore in selecting one too early, as you really have to rely on them all being reasonably slim and muscular underneath, and just choose on the basis of their faces. There again it's not always easy, as they wear those silly knitted hats pulled right down to their eyebrows and mostly covering their ears, even in the very hot weather. Nevertheless by the end of day one I'd identified three possible candidates, so that on day two I could spend all my time just concentrating on these three and hoping that they'd reveal something - a snatched glimpse of belly when a T rose up as they jumped, or a proper look at their head or face if they pulled their hats off to wipe sweat away. By the time they'd packed up for the night though, I was no closer to making a selection, and I followed one of them almost at random.
Someone in a car picked him up at the edge of Upper Ground, the road bordering the riverside park, and from the argument that went on I gathered that "dad" hadn't been very pleased to have been kept waiting. Just as well I hadn't picked that one - if that was his regular pattern, he'd be missed quickly.
The fate of one of my three was sealed, though, when I made my back along the embankment and saw he was still there, alone. Evidently he wasn't working to some sort of curfew time in the evening, and I decided that he would be the one.
So here I am on day three. I've checked out of my cheap B & B in Earls Court and moved my old van from where I left it right out at the end of the District Line in Richmond to the car park under the National Theatre right nearby - it costs a fortune, I know, but I need it close at hand. I've bought a sandwich - at outrageous London prices - that will keep me going until I get home, and I sit there on the riverside walkway waiting for them to appear, and then watching them as they do what has become almost a ritualistic dance for them. As luck would have it, it starts to rain mid afternoon, and they casually break up - no one decides, no one says goodbye or anything, they just drift away as the rain gets heavier. Even if they are questioned, which is unlikely, they'll not be able to give a definitive answer to who was there, or who left first, or anything.
"My" one is finally left, alone. I guess is he's got nowhere else to go, as he was in no hurry last night, and he's hanging around in the hope the rain will stop, or some other boardies will come past, or something else will happen to liven up his day. I've moved onto a seat under the overhanging terraces of the National now, so I'm out of the rain, but he's kind of hovering about under one of the trees, one foot idly flipping his skateboard end over end, looking totally bored. He's still there at six, and I go and retrieve my van from the car park and park it on one of the yellow lines in the Waterloo Road - getting there in time to beat the early arrivals for something at the Festival Hall, who are hoping to beat paying for parking by waiting in the street as soon as six o'clock arrives.
I go back to the river, my heart thumping as it would be a disaster if he'd chosen to go in those few minutes that I was moving my van: I'd have to start all over again tomorrow, and buy another night in some horrible B&B. But my luck's still holding, and he's still there, skating around rather slowly and forlornly, all alone, sheltering under Waterloo Bridge where it crosses the riverside walk. Now's as good a time as ever, so I go up to him and ask him in a heavily accented voice "Waterloo Station?".
He jerks his thumb to indicate away from the river, behind us, but I pretend not to understand. Perhaps he's a nice kid, good hearted, kind to foreigners; or perhaps he's just terminally bored and the prospect of doing anything is better than the prospect of doing nothing. But he gestures for me to follow him, and moves off, one foot on his board, quite slowly.
We get parallel to my van and I pretend to stumble. The kid bends down to help me up, and I've got him - one quick stab of the stuff I get from the local vet, and he crumples. Even though the Waterloo Road is teaming with cars and buses, everyone is too intent on getting home, too intent on fighting for that extra inch in the traffic, and I'm certain no one has seen this little drama - or, if they have, with the typical Londoner's desire "not to get involved", they've ignored it and got on with reading their newspaper, or chatting on their mobiles. It's amazingly easy to snatch someone from the middle of London, if you're organised about it, as I am.
I've adapted the van specially. I hoist the lad into the passenger seat - with some difficulty, as he's heavy: always a good sign, as it says that there's a lot of muscle there somewhere - and fasten the seat belt. I've replaced the usual one with one of the old fashioned ones you can pull tight, and it stays that way as there's no inertia fitting. And on each side of the seat, at the base, there's a cuff. Once I snap those over his wrists he's helpless, as there's no way he can undo the seat belt and no way he can use his hands to signal to anyone. He's starting to come round, so I put the ball gag into his mouth, one of the ones with air holes in it so he can breathe normally but can't speak or shout, and then pull a balaclava helmet thing down over his entire face. I'm quite proud of that - I've painted the front to make it look like a face - no good at very close range, but to anyone looking from another car into my van, it looks enough like a passenger sitting there, and it neatly covers the gag. I put dark glasses on him then so he can't see - ordinary cheap sunglasses, but where I've smoked the inside with the soot from a candle flame to make them light proof. I've found that if they can't see they tend to be calmer and settle down more quickly.
As I go around the Waterloo roundabout and head back along Waterloo Road towards Westminster Bridge, he starts to come around. The traffic's thick, but it's moving, and no one notices my passenger begin to struggle and shake his head - his freedom of movement is so restricted that it doesn't really look as if he's struggling. As we inch our way through Parliament Square and I head towards Buck House to get up to Knightsbridge and the M4, he continues to make muffled noises, first of anger, then of questioning, followed by pleading, followed by a sort of despairing half silence. I'm in a good mood as it looks as if the traffic is flowing well and I'll be home early tonight, much earlier than I thought, so I say "Shut it, kid. All will become clear. Now just relax, and no harm will come to you. I'm not going to hurt you, so just sit there and try to be calm - we've got a long way to go, and if you keep struggling you'll only exhaust yourself. And it won't do any good, as I've done this before. You can't escape from hose cuffs and the seat belt, and now we're on the motorway, no-one's going to see you even if you throw yourself about. So settle down, and be good."
There's a whole lot of noise through the gag, which I ignore. I don't say anything else, as I've found that they don't listen - or don't believe it, even if they do listen. So I reckon I might as well be silent, and turn on Radio Four to listen to The Archers, and the arts programme, and then, with any luck, it will be a play tonight - I reckon you can't bat a good play on the radio - the scenery's so good, as they say!
I stop before we cross the Severn Bridge as I need a pee, and something to drink. It's hard to know what to do about the lad - I don't like to touch his cock at this point, although the easiest solution would be to get it out from his jeans and point it into an empty bottle; but touching him too soon spoils the training - you need to work up to these things, I've found. Equally, I don't like to leave the van unattended whilst I go into the services building - once I came out and found some little toerags trying to break in, as they thought my van might have valuable builders' tools inside! My heart almsot stopped when I saw them, as I had a kid in there, just like tonight, but fortunately they ran off. So now I park right on the edge of the parking area and piss into a bottle myself. I know he can hear me, so I say gently "If you want to piss, I'm afraid you've just got to do it in your jeans. Sorry, kid, but I can't let you go right now. But make yourself easy - I do understand, and it's only an old van and the piss, if it soaks through your jeans, won't spoil anything."
He shakes his head violently, so I say calmly "Suit yourself. But we've got a long way to go yet. I drink a lot of water, then pull my balaclava off him and loosen the ball gag. "I'm going to give you a drink, and for that I have to take the gag out. Now don't try to do anything silly - we're a long way away from anyone else at the moment, and the van doors are closed anyway and the sound doesn't carry all that much. But if you do scream or shout, it will be the last thing you do: I can't afford to let you do it, and the quickest way of stopping you will be to snap your neck. I was in the SAS, and I know how to do it;
and I have done it, too, actually, to some fucking Arabs when I was on a mission in the Gulf and they disturbed us and were about to give the alarm. So be sensible, OK?"
I loosen the gag, and as I take it out he starts, quietly, "Please...."
"Best be totally silent, kid. All will become clear soon enough."
"No, please, mom and dad...."
"Shut the fuck up! Now, do you want a drink? I don't give him a chance to reply and put the water bottle to his lips, and he takes deep, long swigs. I give him about half a litre, then go to put the gag back. He resists, and so I pinch one ear hard, very hard, between my thumb nail and first finger. He gets the message, and opens his mouth, and I soon have him gagged, masked and wearing the sunglasses again. "After all that, you'll certainly need to piss, I reckon. So don't mind me, just do it.", I tell him.
I almost get tripped up - I always forget - I suppose I wasn't brought up on them: at about ten o'clock there's one of those silly noises kids use on their mobiles to say there's a text waiting. I have to fumble around in his pocket to find it, and stop for a moment so I can read the "What time U home?" Message.
I think I'll postpone action there for a time, so I quickly text back "Staying with a m8. C U tomorrow."
Then, remembering that mobiles can be traced by triangulating the signal between the cell stations, I turn it off, open it up, pull out the SIM card, and smash it. At the next stop I hide the remains of the SIM in a paper bag and drop it into one of the litter bins, grind the mobile under my heel and put bits of it into two others: I reckon the chances of anyone ever finding the pieces are so small as to be not worth considering: they won' even start looking for this kid until at least the day after tomorrow, and by then these bins will have been emptied several times. But just in case, to make sure, I keep my collar well turned up as I go around the bins, and my face away from the CCTV monitoring the parking.
The last miles home are really torturous - I've got this small place right up in the Brecon Beacons, miles from anywhere. I go along smaller and smaller roads, then a narrow lane, then a farm track, and then along my own private track that goes up the hill and around it - I've deliberately left it deeply potholed and rutted: I know every inch of it and hardly need to slow down, but if a police car tried to get up here, I reckon it would have real trouble. I bought the place as a total wreck, and restored it myself. I've got a bit of a reputation as a "strange one" amongst my neighbours, all of whom are a long way away, but I've let it be known that I'm in the Exhibition Contracting industry, so my hours are very, very irregular. I've explained that I'm often not working, but that when I am, it's incredibly intensive and I work day and night non-stop sometimes to get an exhibition open, and then I get home as soon as I can, whatever time of the day or night it is. That seems to satisfy them, and the Welsh farmers around here are a bit of a taciturn lot and don't ask a lot of questions, so I reckon I'm OK.
Whenever I get back I always take a few minutes just to stand there and enjoy the total silence. I drink in the air, and if it's night, as it is now, I marvel at all the stars: this far away from any other civilisation, there's no ambient light and so you can see the night sky perfectly. It's also good to stop like this as if there's anyone hiding, I'll almsot certainly hear them as they shuffle slightly. And, in any case, it's a long, tough drive from London, and I need to unwind, to let go, before I move on to phase two of the operation.
It looks as if I'm alone as usual, though, so I open the house and check the burglar alarms (the one I bought locally and which anyone illicitly here would probably know about), and the one I brought back from a trip to the States and installed myself, secretly: it's silent, and concealed, and I check the display to make sure there's been no entry in my absence.
It's not all that cold, so I decide not to light the fire, but to get the kid settled down and get to bed.
I've got a nice old dresser against the back wall and I push it aside (I like the way I've got it on really smooth casters, to make it easy, but it can be "locked" to deter casual searches) to reveal the door to the staircase to the old cellar - one of my many "improvements" when I did the place up was to make this door really heavy and soundproof, and it takes a it of effort to swing it open.
"I'm afraid it's another knockout shot for you, kid", I tell him, "But it's almost over now....", and plunge the needle into his thigh as he sits there helplessly.
As he slumps I'm already undoing the cuffs, then the seat belt, then I pick him up in a "fireman's lift" and carry him across my little front yard, through the cottage's one room, and down the stairs.
When I put the cage in I didn't do anything elaborate - just lengths of that rebar stuff they use for strengthening concrete: it's really easy to get hold of, and cheap and easy to cut. But once it's sunk into the stone floor of my cellar and fastened into the ceiling joist above, it's totally secure - well, at least without the right tools to get it free, or cut it, and the kids don't have that. I dump the kid on the floor of the cage, and my pullover's all wet, I notice: when I gave him the shot, the kid's bladder must have let go. Poor kid - it will embarrasses him when he finds his jeans soaked... any moment now, as he's starting to come around. I close the gate of the cage and fasten the big padlock, then stand there looking at him.
Slowly he pulls himself to his feet, and comes and stands by the bars. He starts to shake them, testing their strength, and he sees me smiling. "Everyone does that, but they're really solid. Now, it's late, and I'm dog tired after that drive and I need to go to bed. Here...."
I toss him some bottles of water and a couple of bars of chocolate through the bars, together with a pillow and two blankets. "Make yourself comfortable - I'll see you in the morning. And you might want to toss those jeans out here now, as they'll stink the place out by morning.... That bucket with a cover is for you to piss and crap in, incidentally."
I stand there waiting, and I can see him feeling the damp fabric of his jeans, but he makes no move. "OK, suit yourself.... Try to sleep, as you've got a busy day tomorrow."
"Please...", he stutters. "Mom and dad... .the number's in my mobile.... let them know I'm safe." Actually, that' a fairly typical reaction. Once they see they're in my cage, and it looks pretty impressively solid and they can see they can't break out, they stop worrying about it and start thinking about mom and dad!
"I'm glad you think you're safe. But sorry, no can do. No mobile service up here. We're very isolated. And I have no neighbours, either - so don't bother screaming and shouting to attract attention. They can't hear you anyway as this place is so solid: I had a lad in here once screaming at the top of his voice and my neighbour came around looking for a stray sheep or something - I gave him a drink in the room above, and he heard nothing."
"Please... What are you going to do to me..... Please don't hurt me....."
"Now don't worry about that tonight. Plenty of time tomorrow. Just try and sleep. And as it's your first night, I won't leave you totally in the dark - and it is absolutely pitch black in here once I close that door - I'll leave a small light burning. See, I do care about you.... I wouldn't do that if I was going to harm you, would I?"
"Please...."
"Goodnight, kid!"
I clambered up the stairs, left the tiny pilot light burning, closed the heavy door and pushed the dresser back into place, and climbed the narrow stairs to my own bed. It is good, isn't it, to be home? To have your own things around you, and in particular your own bed? I've got exactly the kind of hard mattress I like, proper goose down pillows, and a really light but incredibly warm goose down duvet. I just let my clothes fall onto the floor, I was so tired - well, as I've told you, it is a tough drive from London. And I hadn't slept well the nights before - not from the tension of the mission, as that doesn't get to me - but because the B&B had nasty cheap beds, and I reckon there was a sailor, or a squaddie, next door banging some bitch half the night.
I've got solar panels, and even in the Welsh climate they work, so there was hot water for a shower - well "hot" is perhaps the wrong word, but at least the chill was off it: it comes straight out of a spring above the cottage, and it's icy otherwise. So I had a quick shower, then threw myself under the duvet and just lay there, listening to the silence in my little place. And then I had a quick wank, as I thought about the kid and what a prize specimen I thought I might have.
When I'm at home I never have any problem in sleeping, and as I was so dog tired I let myself sleep on until ten (I can wake up at any chosen time - a trick I learned when I was in the SAS). The sun was streaming in the tiny window, and I felt good. My hand strayed across my belly and grabbed my cock, which was hard as usual, and I wondered whether to wank away my morning hard-on or piss it away, so as I worked with the new kid later I'd have the enjoyment of feeling erect all the time. It was an easy decision, actually - the kid promised so much that I knew I'd keep getting stiffies anyway, so I threw off the duvet and sprawled over the bed, and began to wank.
I dressed "properly" after a quick shower as it wasn't time to start worrying the kid yet about being naked - but just a tight T and jeans, so he could see the power in my body. And I didn't bother to shave as I think a really strong growth of beard looks good on a bloke when he's working - I usually shave at night, as I like people to see how virile I am from the dark stubble that covers my face in the morning. I'm not a great one for breakfast, but you need to keep your strength up, don't you? So I had a big mug of tea and three Weetabix, then felt ready to start the day.
When I went down into the cellar he was huddled in the corner of the cage. "'morning, Tim", I said, sounding upbeat and cheerful to try to ease his worries.
"I'm not Tim... You've made a mistake... I'm....."
"You're Tim. The first one like you was Adam, the next Ben, the third Chas..... And now you're Tim. I always decide on the name before I pick you up. It makes it easier for you, actually, to have a new name.
A new name to go with your new life."
"Please... Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone... Let mom and dad know I'm OK......"
I just stood there looking at him, and said quietly "You must know none of that's possible. You're an intelligent kid, I reckon, and you'll know I can't let you out of here."
"NO... Please... Please don't hurt me.... Don't... Don't.... Don't kill me....."
I just laughed. "Tim, stop worrying! Do you think I'd go to all the trouble and expense of capturing you if I was going to kill you? I'm not some sort of pervert, you know. Now put that silly idea right out of your head, and stop worrying."
He didn't seem very reassured, and stayed there crouched in the corner, as if that would be any help if I did decide to do something violent to him. So I sounded cheerful again as I said quietly "Now, Tim, I need your clothes. It's not very good for you to have those soiled things on... So come on, be a good lad, and strip off."
"No!" He was trying to sound fierce and brave.
"Suit yourself. But it's a lovely day and I don't want to waste it arguing with a silly kid who can't see that I hold all the cards." As I said this, I climbed the stairs, turned out all the lights so that the cellar would be in total blackness once the door was shut, and went into the cottage slamming the door behind me.
I only give them about an hour in total darkness - if you haven't experienced it, and not many of us have these days with all the street lights, pilot lights on TVs and stuff like that, it can be pretty terrifying. I didn't waste the time, though, and stripped off my clothes and pulled on some running shorts (the old style, that you can't now buy - I have to search charity shops for them - nice and brief to show off my thighs and bum, with a little inbuilt mesh pouch to hold my cock and stuff, so you don't have to wear a jockstrap or underpants). I left my torso bare as the sun was shining, and went for a run - an hour might not sound a long time, but around here it's really hard work as it's all hills, and I doubt that there's more than twenty yards of level ground anywhere!
When I got back the sweat was streaming off me and my chest was heaving and my heart racing - in the SAS they teach you to push yourself, and I always do as I need to be in really good shape: seeing my muscular body helps to intimidate the kids I find, so I have fewer problems with them. I showered quickly, pulled my T and jeans on again, and opened the cellar door.
He was obviously surprised at where he was when the light flooded in - even in the small space of a cage they find it easy to get "lost" in total, pitch darkness.
"Now, Tim, when I left I asked you to give me your clothes. Now please do so, start undressing before I come down the steps, as if you're not going to be a nice, sensible bloke, I may as well shut this door straight away and leave you....."
"NO, please...."
"Listen, Tim, does it occur to you that I could leave you there for ever if you really piss me off? I could shut this door, and simply go away - I'm due a nice long holiday, anyway. How would you like to die down here, alone and forgotten, in the total darkness? I think it would be the dehydration that got you, rather than the starvation.... Imagine, dying of thirst, alone, in the total darkness..... Would you like that, Tim? Or are you going to be sensible?"
It's the calm, even tone I use when I tell them that which does it, I reckon. No shouting, no gloating, just a calm, even voice stating the facts. All of them give in at this point, and Tim was no exception. He pulled off his long-sleeved T as I watched, then hopped around from foot to foot taking off his trainers, then stood there for a moment. I came down the steps and stood in front of the cage, watching. I said nothing, but nodded at him, indicating he should continue, and his T came off then - my cock jerked slightly as I saw he had a really nice physique, and proper "man" tits as well: the aureoles were dark and a good size and he wasn't one of those "boy" types where you can hardly see the tits at all. He had some of his dirty blond hair on his chest - just a smattering - but running across his flat belly, down from his neatly-finished navel, was a trial of slightly darker hair that promised much.
"The jeans....", I said quietly, and he undid his belt and pushed them down and stepped out of them. I gestured to him, and he pushed all that stuff through the bars, then stood there in his socks and boxers - the stretch jersey kind, with some designer name or other on the thick waistband. I could see he was very respectably hung, and perhaps I had been right and it was the bulge of his crotch that had been holding up those baggy jeans.
"Now, Tim, when I said I wanted you to strip off, I meant totally - I want all your clothes, as they aren't very fresh, are they? Come on.... Socks and boxers off too."
"Why...?"
"Because I say so, Tim. That's all you need to know. Just obey me, and there won't be any problems for you.
Or do you want to be left here again in the dark? And I bet you're hungry, too - you'd like a bite of breakfast, I reckon.....? So come on, be a sensible lad and strip off - pretend you're changing in the gym and I'm just one of the other guys next to you, if you like."
He hopped around from foot to foot pulling his socks off, then turned away from me to push down his boxers.
I was rewarded by the first sight of his bum - beautiful! A lot of fine hair over it, and no spots or blemishes. Long, lean thighs, nicely rounded bum, and those little dimples at the base of the spine before his bum flared out: Tim was looking like a rare prize.
"Come on, turn around, and bring me those things over here.... You haven't got anything to be ashamed of, have you? You're not an 'asparagus dick', all thin and weedy? Or have you got one of those stubby little cocks that you don't like to flash in front of other men? Come on, Tim - I'm going to see you naked sooner or later, and I'm getting impatient, standing here...."
He turned and came towards the bars, holding his boxers and socks in one hand, and keeping the other over his genitals. I took the clothes off him, and said quietly "Now, both hands in the air, please, as I want to see what I've got here...."
He looked defiant, and I made a tiny move towards the stairs. I was pleased to hear him give a little despairing sigh, then slowly raise his arms up to his shoulders. My cock definitely twitched now - no, not only twitched, but pushed at the fabric of my jeans. He was almsot perfect - a lovely long cock, but properly proportioned so it was adequately thick. And behind it, those balls I always think look really good on a young guy: low handing and good sized, so that the end of his sac was below the end of his cock.
I could hardly wait to get him on his hands and knees and with his thighs apart, as those beauties would look fantastic swinging there: I know some men prefer the tight, rounded sacs with cocks thrusting out from on top of them - but then you don't get that spectacular view that a low-hanging bloke gives you when he's on all fours, do you? His foreskin covered the head, but it wasn't overly long. I could see the ridge of his helmet plainly, and I wondered if Tim wasn't just the tiniest bit excited by this whole thing - or was that his natural, un-erect state? Still, I'd find out later.
I picked up all his clothes and bounded up the stairs - it does them good to see their clothes taken away, as it emphasises their total nakedness and dependency.
But I left the lights on and the door open, as I went into other kitchen and drew a big bucket of warm water, then carried it down the stairs. I was pleased, though - unlike a lot of young blokes these days, from what I'd seen his skin wasn't disfigured by tattoos, and he hadn't got any piercings, either. Obviously I exclude any ""candidates" with rings in their eyebrows, or even their ears, but you never know whether any of them have had something done to their navel, or their cock, even, until you've got the stripped so it's always a bit of a gamble.
"Now, Tim, I'm going to have to open the cage to give you this water - and I don't want any silliness, OK? No trying to rush me, or push past me.... It's been tried before, and I'm ready for it. You may have noticed that I'm big, and powerful: very powerful. And I don't want to have to hurt you, and that's almsot inevitable if you try to escape. So stand over by the back wall...."
He retreated, and I undid the padlock, pushed the bucket in, then locked the gate again. I smiled at him, to give him a little reward. "Very sensible! Now, come over here so I can give you some soap and a flannel: there's no drainage down here, so there can't be a shower or anything. But I expect a nice lad like you hates being dirty, so you can clean yourself all over with the flannel and this warm water...."
He approached the bars, his cock flopping up and down as he moved, which I like. He went to take the soap off me, but I reached down and wet the flannel, then soaped it up. "Sorry, Tim - the soap stays out here. One kid like you actually tried to eat it, to make himself ill, in the hope I'd have to call an ambulance or something..... Very painful it was for him, as he vomited all day.... So I try to prevent accidents like that now."
I handed him the soapy flannel, then watched as slowly, very slowly, he began to wipe his torso and belly with it. Like most young blokes he was incredibly shy at having to wash like this with a soapy flannel and a bucket of water - I guess he was used to showering with his mates after games or gym at school, but then there'd be lots of them, a lot of laughter, a lot of running water, and it would all seem somehow natural. Here it was very different: the oppressive cellar, the silence, the unfamiliar use of a damp cloth to clean himself with, and, above all, my eyes watching, always watching, as he ran the thing over his body and limbs.
He asked for the flannel to be recharged a couple of times, and, rather touchingly, turned away from me to clean his cock and balls - and I saw him fiddling around as he peeled back his foreskin and washed himself under there as best he could. Another good sign - I like a bloke who cares for his cock and cleans himself properly, even when times are tough.
I told him to go back against the far wall then as I opened the gate to retrieve the bucket, then called him forward. "Tim, when I told you to strip, I wanted everything. That necklace, and your watch...."
He had one of those leather thongs around his neck, strung with native beads, the sort a lot of young guys seem to wear nowadays as they think it makes them look good. "Please....", he whispered. "My girlfriend gave me this.... Please let me keep it..."
"Sorry, Tim! Even though it may bring back memories of her body against yours and that cock of yours right inside her.... I take it you were fucking her? But it has to go. And the watch...."
He blushed, so I assumed he was having it away, as you'd expect. He just stood there, though, and I began, with a sad tone in my voice "We were getting on so well, Tim, and now you're going to make me punish you again.... You haven't eaten yet, and now you're going to be all alone down here in the dark again.... Now, come on, I don't like having to punish you, and we've got a lot to do today. So just hand over the necklace, and your watch...."
I could see him thinking, and held out my hand to reinforce the idea that he was going to hand the stuff over, and very reluctantly, he did. I smiled at him. "Good. Totally bare now, all nice and clean, and ready to begin your new life. But first, I think you deserve something to eat."
I bounded up the stairs again, and came back with a carton of freshly-squeezed orange juice (the really expensive stuff, but it is a lot better, with a whole load more vitamins and fibre and stuff than the pasteurised ones, and after all I want these blokes in peak condition), two organic wholemeal rolls that I'd filled with home-made marmalade but no butter (no, I don't make it myself! But the Women's Institute has regular sales on a Thursday in the loca town, and it's much better than the shop-made stuff; and I wanted him on a low fat diet, at least to start with), and two really nice organic apples.
Pushing the stuff through the bars I commented "Sorry there's no plates, or glasses, or anything: but one of your predecessors tried to attack me with a broken glass and a shard of smashed plate.... It's for your own good - he cut himself really badly as we fought: he slipped and went down on to the broken glass ,and with no clothes to protect him.... I don't expect you'd be that stupid, but I take sensible precautions now."
He must have been hungry, very hungry, as he devoured the stuff, then pushed the empty carton and the apple cores back trough the bars when he was told. "Good boy, Tim! Now it's simple: if you obey and are nice and compliant, you get fed. So that's lesson one - disobey, and you go hungry. Lesson two's a bit the same, actually: disobey badly, and I'll really punish you. It's all about obedience - do as I tell you, and we'll get along fine. Disobey, and you're punished."
"How...?"
"You'll find out. Everyone who's been down here disobeys badly sooner or later. Now, come over to the bars and stretch your arms out sideways...."
He did as he was told, albeit hesitantly, and I snapped handcuffs around his wrists and the bars. He stood there, shaking his bonds, as if trying to get free. "They're proper police ones, Tim, not toys. Don't pull too hard or else they will cut into your wrists, and it takes a long time for them to heal - and I'm told it's very painful."
As I spoke, I undid the gate and stepped into the cell, and stood in front of him. "Now I need to take some measurements - and a lot of blokes don't like this part. But it doesn't hurt, and I do need to know the starting point of our little journey, so I can see how your training is working out...."
He was licking his lips nervously, as if scared at what I might be about to do. But when I pulled a tape measure and a notebook and pencil from my back pocket, he relaxed slightly. I used the notebook to project a mark from the top of his head onto the cage bar, then went outside and measured the height from the floor. "Six foot!", I commented. "Good - I like a nice tall bloke, and you've probably got another inch to go - how old are you, anyway?"
"Seventeen."
"Yes, almsot certainly another inch. I'm six three, and it's good to be tall. Let's you see over the tops of all the short guys!" Actually, I like to emphasise that I'm bigger than them, as it builds towards a sense of overwhelming physical domination.
Stepping back into the cage I measured his neck size, then his chest, then knelt down and ran the tape around behind him over his bum, and did that thing tailors do of sliding the tape backwards and forwards a bit as if locating the biggest part, as I measured his hips. His waist was easy. Then, still kneeling, I looked up at him.
"OK, Tim..... Inside leg measurement next. I expect you've had this done before, right? Had some trouser altered, or fitted for a dinner suit for a fancy function? It's just the same, except that you're naked now.... So spread your legs a little, and relax....."
It's always exciting the first time I touch their cocks and reach up into their ass - I make it appear so casual, so the cock rests on the side of my thumb as I reach right up to get the tape measure pressed against their ass. It only takes a moment, but for most of them, and that included Tim, I thought, the feeling of a man's warm hand there was not something they'd ever experienced before.
I stood there in front of him looking at my measurements, and nodded. "Excellent - really nice proportions, and slim.... You take good care of yourself - you look to be in good shape. Do you work out?"
"No. I use the skateboard a lot. I do football at school, and gym there, and I like swimming. And I run a bit, to get fit, as I'm on the first team...."
"Good. So some of the stuff I'll be doing with you won't be too bad. Now let's take your weight....." I went over to my cupboard and opened it and took out the scales, then slid them under his feet, and read it off.
"Excellent! A lot of good solid muscle there." I saw a look of almsot terror in his eyes. The cupboard door had fallen open, and he could see, neatly arranged on the back wall, my collection of whips and canes, and handcuffs and other restraining devices, all in their proper places neatly arranged against silhouettes of themselves so it's easy to see what's missing. I glanced over my shoulder and said cheerily "Oh don't worry about those - a good lad like you probably won't ever experience most of them."
I took the scales back and purposely closed the cupboard. "See - now you only have to worry if I ever open it! Opening that cupboard, Tim, is the sign of bad news ahead for you. But if you carry on being sensible, we might not have to do it." I always try and sound calm and reasonable when I say things like that, as I think the message sinks in better.
"OK, only two measurements left, and we're done....". As I said this I reached down and held his cock, laying the tape measure alongside it on the palm of my hand. "Very respectable, Tim! Your girlfriend, the one who gave you the necklace... She appreciates this, does she?"
"Mind your own fucking business....."
In an instant my mood changed, and I stepped back, and slapped his face, hard. And my hard is very hard, as I am very powerfully built. He looked simply astonished - I don't think anyone had ever hit him like that before. Most nice young middle-class guys like Tim have never been hit. A big red patch from my palm was appearing on his cheek.
"We were getting along so well, Tim! But I won't accept outbursts like that from you. In fact, I've been meaning to tell you: I like everything you say to me to be prefixed and followed by 'sir'.... 'Sir, yes, sir'... Like that. I'm sure you've seen films about life in the army and so on? Well, that's what I like to hear. And sometimes, if it's appropriate, you might use my name, which is Steve. OK?"
"Yes", he mumbled, and I slapped him hard on the other cheek. He shook at his cuffs impotently, and glared at me. "Shall we try that again, Tim? But before you answer, I reckon your face will get tired before my arm does. So do you understand how to reply?"
"Sir, yes, sir." He almsot spat it out, but it's good to let them be a little defiant at this point. I need to break them, but I want them broken so that the pieces can be put back together nicely, and I don't want some miserable, cringing ,whining, utterly subservient thing.
"Now, one more measurement to go." I reached down for his cock again, and this time teased the foreskin up and down, and rubbed my thumb over the exposed dark, moist cock head. Tim moaned, and began to whisper "Please, no, sir...." But it was having the desired effect, and he started to go hard in my hand. I carried on stroking him and playing with his cock, now letting my thumbnail rake across his piss slit, and I was rewarded by a tiny jewel of pre-cum forming. I stopped then and used the tape measure again, complimenting him on what a good size he was, and knowing that he'd be hating being erect in front of another man - in fact, I supposed this was the first time he'd actually been that way (well, he might have had erections with other men present, just like I had now, but they'd always be covered by his clothes. It's amazing how few men have let other blokes see them with a hard-on - even after a game when you're all in the showers, you pray you don't start to bone up, don't you?).
I came out of the cage and locked the door, then freed his wrists from the cuffs. He stood there, rubbing his wrists, and I told him to push them through the bars so I could inspect them. "No damage", I told him cheerfully. "See, if you listen to me, there aren't many problems here. Some of the blokes I've had down here have ended up in a terrible state."
"Sir, how many, sir....?"
"...have ended up in a terrible state?"
"No, that you've had down here, sir?"
"You don't listen, do you, Tim? A, B, C..... And now Tim. Count for yourself. I'm really experienced."
"Sir, please, what happens to them, and to me....."
"Stop worrying, Tim! I'll take good care of you, just as I did the others."
End Of Part One