Gay Erotic Stories

Part II

The other two men move toward the kid. One pushes him over on his chest while the other fiddles with the chain that holds his wrists and ankles together behind him. Once the chain is loose, he is able to straighten his legs somewhat. The men grab him roughly under his arms and pull him to a standing position. His wrists are still cuffed behind him, and his ankles are still cuffed together as well. He is wearing the T-shirt and jeans he was wearing before, but his sneakers and sock are gone. His hair falls in front of his face.

The man from the truck steps up in front of him.

“What the fuck is this?” the kid demands.

With blurring speed, the man backhands the kid across the face. The kid’s head snaps to the side.

The man grabs a handful of the kid’s hair and pulls the kid’s face around toward his. “Don’t you ever address me unless it’s in response to a direct question! Do you understand?” the man shouts.

“Yes,” the kid whispers.

The man hits him with another backhand. The kid can feel warm blood in the corner of his mouth.

“You will address me as ‘SIR’! Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the kid says, adding a hurried “Sir” when the man moves to hit him a third time.

“Good boy,” the man says, smiling. He looks at the other two, says “Set him up,” and walks past them into the darkness.

The man from the truck stops just under the edge of the barn’s loft. There’s a kerosene lamp hanging from a bracket on one of the loft’s support posts, and the man lights it. As he moves to a second lamp on another post, the kid begins to see more of his surroundings.

The front edge of the loft is supported by six posts. The four outside posts are about 4” x 4” thick, but the two here in the center -- the one’s with the lamps -- are thicker, probably 8 inches square. About 10 feet apart, they are bristling with hooks upon which hang all sorts of leather straps, chains, things the kid can’t even imagine a use for.

The inside surfaces of these posts -- the sides that face each other -- have no hooks. Instead, there are heavy-duty screw eyes every foot or so from close to the ground right up to where the posts meet the beam for the loft floor overhead. There are also screw eyes spaced evenly on the overhead beam. The center-most screw eye on the beam has a heavy chain hanging from it.

The two men half walk-half drag the kid just in front of the hanging chain, and then one holds him while the other grabs a thick, studded, black leather collar from a hook on one of the posts and buckles it around the kid’s neck. As soon as the collar is in place, the man holding the kid uses a heavy spring clip to fasten the hanging chain to the collar, making sure that the chain gives the kid only enough room to stand absolutely upright. With the kid secured in this way -- hands cuffed behind his back, ankles cuffed together and neck collar chained to the beam above him -- the men step back on either side of the man from the truck, who is standing a few feet in front of the kid, admiring the view.

The kid is shivering -- adrenaline being pumped through the kid’s body in reaction to the fear -- so the man from the truck steps forward.

“Hey, Kid,” he says, “relax. Everything’s gonna be fine.” He runs the back of his hand across the kid’s face, over his chest and stomach, and down to his groin.

“Please,” the kid whispers, “why are you doing this?”

“Now, you’re not supposed to speak out like that,” the man says, “but I’ll forgive you this once.” He looks back at the other two men. “My friends and I -- Oh, by the way, as far as you’re concerned, this is Mr. White, and this is Mr. Black…”

Both Mr. Black and Mr. White are slightly taller than the man from the truck -- both probably about 6'2". Mr. Black has a shaved head and a mustache and goatee. He is wearing a pair of black leather pants, black boots and a black leather vest that reveals massive shoulders and a chest full of black hair. Mr. White, who wears jeans and a white muscle shirt, is thinner and wirier, but with arms covered with bulging veins.

“Mr. Black, Mr. White and I are just having a little fun,” the man from the truck continues. “That’s all, Kid. Just having a little fun. If you’re a good boy, this’ll all be over in a few days. And we’ll put you back in your car, and you’ll be on your way home.”

“Please,” the kid says again, “just let me go. I won’t….”

Before he can finish, the man is right up against him again. He grabs the kid’s jaw in his large, strong hand and squeezes. “Now this is not what I call being good!” the man says, his voice full of anger. “If you’re not going to shut your trap, we’re going to have to shut it for you.”

He doesn’t even have to give an order. Immediately the two other men move to the posts, pull some equipment down from hooks and move in on the boy. He has a second or two to catch a glimpse of the contraption, a web of 3/4-inch-wide black leather, before one of the men puts it on him. It fits tightly over his face -- very much the way a muzzle goes on a dog’s head, except that two padded, black leather patches cover his eyes completely -- and buckles behind his head with four buckles.

The kid is blind now to what the other man is holding. The man steps up quickly, and as the kid opens his mouth to cry out, he shoves something in the kid’s mouth and almost down his throat. It is a large black-rubber, dildo-shaped plug with a leather base that fits over the muzzle’s mouth hole and attaches to the chrome snaps that surround the hole. In seconds, the kid is blindfolded and gagged. The man from the truck smiles as he hears the sound of the kid’s quick, panicky breaths.

“Relax, Kid,” he says. “If you’re good, we’ll take that off later.” Turning to his companions, he says, “Now, Mr. Black, Mr. White: let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

This is an obvious signal to the other men. They reach out, grab hold of the neck of the kid’s T-shirt and rip the shirt off him. They let it fall, and it catches on the wrist cuffs and hangs in tatters around the kid’s hips.

The man from the truck looks over his treasure. Perfect, he thinks. This kid is perfect. The kid’s well-defined body is without any noticeable blemish -- no moles, pimples, nothing. The chest is almost completely hairless, and the hint of a glory trail, delicate and blond, runs down from the kid’s navel and disappears into his jeans.

Like a fucking Calvin Klein model, the man thinks, and then his eyes go to the kid’s nipples. “What’s this?” he asks aloud.

On that typical Calvin Klein model, the nipples would be smooth, flat ovals, the color of English walnut. On this kid, they are a beautiful deep brown color, but they are not flat: small nibs the size and shape of small pencil erasers stand out from each aureole.

The man steps closer, brings his hands up, and touches the kid’s nipples as gently as he can. The kid jumps.

“Sensitive. Good,” the man says. He raises his hands in front of him, palms facing the kid. Using the most delicate touch imaginable, he runs the palms of his hands over the kid’s nipples, touching only the tips. The kid throws his head back and begins to moan. It’s not clear whether he’s reacting with pleasure or embarrassment, but it doesn’t matter at all to the man from the truck. If the kid turns out to like this treatment, that’ll be fine; if the kid thinks of it as torture, all the better.

The man bends down slightly and starts to lick one of the kid’s nipples. The kid tries to pull away, so the man puts a strong arm around the kid’s waist and pulls him in. He moves from one nipple to the other and back again, over and over, first licking, then sucking, and finally biting. The kid screams into his gag, and the man smiles.

“Let’s see the rest,” he says to his assistants. As he steps back, they move into action, opening the kid’s pants, undoing the shackles on the kid’s ankles, and pulling the pants off.

The man looks over is prize again. Strong legs, a beautiful bubble butt, and a cock that -- although completely flaccid -- is long enough for the tip to hang below the ample scrotum. He takes a thin, black-leather collar from a hook, grabs the kid’s cock and balls in his hand and fastens the collar around them, making sure it is cinched very tightly. The kid moans, and his cock begins to thicken involuntarily.

The man looks to Mr. Black, who is standing just behind and to the right of the kid. “What do you want to do next?” the man asks.

Mr. Black says “I want to see this ass under the strap.” He buries his fingers between the kid’s butt cheeks for a second, and then pulls them out and slaps the kid hard on the ass.

“Good,” says the man. “Let’s do it.”

Mr. Black and Mr. White each grab chains, which they hook to the cuffs on the kid’s wrists. Once the chains are attached, they disconnect the cuffs from each other. The kid’s hands are free from his back for a second, but Mr. Black and Mr. White quickly walk the chains over to the posts and attach them to screw eyes high up on each post, so that the kid’s arms are now held up and out. They adjust the length of the chains so that the kid is almost forced to go up on his toes. One of them detaches the chain to the kid’s neck collar, leaving the collar in place.

They then use a second set of chains to attach the kid’s ankle cuffs to the lowest screw eyes on each post, so that the kid’s legs are splayed out and the muscles in his ass, thighs and calves are flexed tight. Now he is on his toes, and although some of his weight is borne by his legs, he is almost hanging by his wrists. Even though the wrists cuffs are well-padded, it is an extremely uncomfortable position.

He begins to groan and plead through the gag, and the other men laugh, seeing this as a signal that they’ve gotten the kid’s bondage painfully right.

“Straps,” the man from the truck says. All three pull long 2-inch wide leather straps from hooks on the post, and they position themselves around the kid -- the man from the truck in front, and the others behind him, one off to each side.

The man from the truck carefully doubles the strap and grasps it firmly in his hand. When he is satisfied that his grip will give him perfect control over the direction of the strap, he uses it backhand to whip the kid across the inside of his left thigh. The kid cries out, but the cry is muffled by the gag.

Mr. White hits the kid full across the upper back, and Mr. Black follows with a blow to the kid’s ass. Each time, the kid cries out, and each time, a spasm runs through his body. Between the gag and the chains that hold him tightly spread-eagled, of course, there is little sound and little movement, but the men see they are having the desired effect.

They continue to whip the kid unmercifully. The man from the truck concentrates at first on the kid’s thighs, but when Mr. White moves his blows from the kid’s upper back to the back of his tights, the man from the truck moves up to the kid’s stomach and chest. Mr. Black stays on the kid’s ass.

Because the straps are wide, and because the men are skilled enough to bring them down flat against the kid’s skin, the kid’s skin is not cut, although his ass turns raw under Mr. Black’s relentless assault. They go on like this for at least 10 minutes -- taking individual breaks but never stopping altogether, with the kid’s muffled cries as counterpoint to the sounds of the straps on his flesh.

Suddenly, the man from the truck raises a hand, and the others check their swings. He moves in very close to the kid, and the kid’s body tenses.

“Do you want it to stop?” the man asks.

The kid can’t respond -- they can’t even see his mouth or his eyes -- but they sense his confusion. This has to be a trick, he is thinking.

“Do you want it to stop?”

The kid nods.

“It’s easy,” the man says. “I take the gag out…” His fingers are tracing the edges of the leather base of the plug in the kid’s mouth. “…and you beg me to fuck you. You say, ‘Please, Sir. Fuck my hole.’ OK? “Please, Sir. Fuck my tight, pretty little asshole.’ What do you say?”

The kid shakes his head violently from side to side. No, no, no!

“Aw, that’s too bad,” the man says. “Well, maybe later.”

He steps back, and whips the kid across the stomach again. The other men take this as a signal, and the beating continues in earnest for another 10 minutes. At first, he kid cries out, biting down on the gag, but eventually the cries turn to grunts and then to silence. Finally, the kid loses all control of his leg muscles, and he hangs limply from the wrist cuffs.

The men stop and look at each other. All four men in this pool of light are covered with sweat, and the dust in the air has mixed with the sweat to streak their bodies with grime.

“Get him down,” the man from the truck says, “and put him on the table.”

To be continued.