ax396 is waiting for me in the classroom.  Clark has fastened him onto the display stand in the usual way:  the kid kneels on the frame, his knees and ankles strapped down and held impossibly far apart - the smooth bulk of his thighs straining.  His arms are manacled and held at wrist and elbow by spreader bars, then pulled far behind him and fastened down, forcing him to lean right back, pushing his chest and groin forwards.  Meanwhile, his plump, hairless balls are stretched tight - pink and shiny in a vicious cocoon of rawhide - pulled hard away from his groin and clipped to a ratcheted wheel between his knees.  I smirk at this straining sculpture of living flesh.  That Clarky is a bastard.  The frame is totally the wrong size for 396 - built to hold slaves at least 6' tall - not 5'6".  Instead of a humiliating and uncomfortable display position, 396 is wracked with agony; and judging by the heaving, sweating chest, the childish whimpering and the tears running down the side of the boy's face, has been for some time.

 

396 is one of my favorites among the stock here at the Academy.  Barely nineteen, he has already been with us for four years.  Idly, I pinch one swollen angry-looking nipple - so different from the flat little nubs he arrived with - and watch him squirm as the sharp pain radiated from his chest.  The minute I touch his semi-hard cock it springs into a painful erection, curving back toward his abs despite the pull on his nuts and twitching with every beat of his heart.  It's a beautiful piece of meat - not excessively long but gorgeously, meatily thick - sturdy but vulnerable; steel wrapped in baby-soft easily bruised satin.  I ratchet his balls even tighter, until they are at least four inches from his body.  Cupping them in my left hand, I bring my other fist down hard, several times in quick succession, knuckles first into the taut nuts.  There is an instant of horrible silence, as if he can't believe the pain I just filled him with, before the shrieks come and he begins to cry.  His rigid cock bobs with the sickening blows, but never wavers.  I grind his nuts together, making him twitch his whole body.

 

"Take it like a man, pussy-boy, you've got hours with me yet."

 

He tries to contain his snivelling, biting his soft, full lips - cocksucking lips, too voluptuous for a boy.  They look best stretched round the base of a big, demanding shaft.  I give him one more hard punch to the balls and while he recovers, I start to leaf idly through his file, which had been left on the stand between his legs.

 

An interesting story....one of the reasons I find him so irresistable.  Most of the Academy stock are criminals, serving a sentence or on probation.  Chosen for the their looks, generally they are offered our 'programme' as a way of reducing their sentence - not realising that Academy stock is prized around the world.  Very few stock boys ever gain their freedom - or remember the possibility exists when we're finished with them.  Others are rent boys, street whores or homeless picked up by our agents in  the police.  Occasionally men are sold to us by criminal organisations to pay off debts (usually gambling) or sent to us as part of their endless internecine feuding.  We don't really like to become involved in this frankly, but we do get some beautiful American boys this way - blond, stupid farmboys from Iowa who got lost at the roulette table or dark hairy Botticelli satyrs with street smarts, foul mouths and Brooklyn accents from rival families.  Their last memory is some casino in Vegas or New York, and the next thing they know, they're naked, hog-tied and being unpacked in a remote mediaeval castle on the moors of Cumbria.  Most rarely of all, a volunteer makes it through our vetting process.

 

Young ax396, though, is unique in my many years here.  His name was Jamie, though I doubt he's been called that very often in the last four years. He's from an excellent, upper middle class family - rich, educated and pampered.  His father died when he was very young, but his mother soon remarried, a powerful businessman - wealthy, well-connected and leading a double life.  Mr de Hainault is one of our most respected and deeply sadistic associates here at the Academy.  I think he did love Jamie's mother, but he also would spend occasional weekends at our venues here, on the continent or on our cruise ship - helping with classes and putting our stock boys through their paces in legendary, marathon torture sessions.  It was, in fact, during one of these that his wife died, drunkenly driving her Merc convertible back from a lunch with girlfriends.  Jamie was eight years old, a bright blond doing well at prep school.

 

Knowing de Hainault as I do, and having watched the man's merciless work on some of our older stock boys (He likes them over 30 - he loves to break men not boys) I would not have believed that he consciously set out to mould Jamie, his step-son, into a slave.  But I don't know how else to explain the extremely peculiar things that were done which have helped made the boy so wonderful to work with.  de Hainault withdrew the boy from school, and began having him educated at home.  His only contact with youngsters his own age was at the local rugby club pitch, and he was never allowed to socialise much with them and never without adult supervision.  His (elderly male) tutor was strictly instucted not only to omit sex education from the curriculum, but also to excise where possible any sexual references from literature.  It is clear from confessions wrung out of him in the first few days of his residence here and subsequently cross-checked in further interrogation and punishment sessions, that when he came to us a week or so after his fifteenth birthday, his ideas about sex were hazy at best, though his fantasy life had been resolutely heterosexual.

 

He was instructed to ignore the changes in his body as puberty took him totally by surprise.  Fortunately, in my opinion, he was at least able to see the other boys in the changing rooms, and so realise he was not ill.  But by 14 he still hadn't worked out how to masturbate, despite frequent and embarrassing erections.  He started to have wet dreams, for which he was beaten and humilated by having to wear plastic pants to bed.

 

In the file there are pictures of him taken just before he arrived at the Academy.   Grinning and dirty on the rugby pitch - already a young man - not tall but barrel-chested, with heavily muscled thighs.  His longish blond hair, short at the back and sides, flops appealingly over his innocent eyes.  Another is of him skateboarding in his baggy low-slung jeans. The third is a formal shot: scrubbed clean and clear-eyed he gazes happily at the camera - all clean good looks and untouched purity.

 

So different from the writhing, tortured muscleboy beside me.  With his head flung back he is barely human looking.  The removal of his body hair was a serious blow to jamie - he only has eyebrows and his short blond buzz cut left now.  I take his balls in my fist again, grinding them together.  He whines like a scared puppy, but his cock starts to leak slightly.  He won't cum;  the drugs in his feed prevent him, whilst at the same time making him uncontrollably horny.  Not that he needs much help at his age, but the additional drugs turn our younger stock into lust crazed animals.  They can be kept on the brink of orgasm unconscionably long without release.  Plus jamie hasn't cum for 187 days according to his file, so without the drugs he'd probably cum just from my nutcracker impression.  I smirk at his quivering cock.  Ah, to be a teenager!  I grip harder.  His sounds of protest are delightfully musical - I can tell he is struggling not to beg for mercy.  After last time, he knows what happens to stock who beg for mercy.

 

He is breathtakingly beautiful, stretched and tormented - his writhing, glistening body catching the afternoon sun.  As he starts to cry again, the deeper notes of his man's voice are replaced by naked, fearful, boy-like sobbing.  His nude skin gleams with health - pale gold and flushed red.

 

His torture is all the sweeter knowing that he had barely started to explore the pleasures of his flesh before they were denied him forever.  He has not touched his own cock for just over fours years, and it was only four months or so before his slavery began that a snatched conversation with a teammate opened the world of masturbation to him.  For only four months he enjoyed his body - pleasured himself - held his own cock in gentle hands and dreamed of girls.  Four months before the thrilling touch of his hands became the sturdier caress of the cane, the tawse and the clamp.  Four months of pleasure - four years of pain; I love that thought, especially when I'm bringing the cane whistling down onto his cock.

 

It was de Hainault that brought him here.  He set him up and trapped him, organised a young whore to seduce him on his 15th birthday.  de Hainault walked in on his stepson's first ever sexual encounter.  Walked in loudly as she started to fight and scream "Rape!" Still laughs in the clubhouse today about the look of horror and confusion on the boy's cherubic face, about his blushes as he tried to cover his erection from his stepfather while he stammered his explanation.  Laughs about the fact the boy never got the chance to cum - generally when smoking a fat cigar at the bar, the exhausted boy cruelly bound at his feet, nursing his stepfather's cock, his body sizzling with welts and marks from 48 hours of being worked over by dad.

 

Naturally, de Hainault had the boy arrested, arraigned and tried for rape within a fortnight.  The boy was so naive, he had no inkling that all the men there - judge, jurors, clerks, prosecution and defence, not to mention his loving step-father, who testified against him - were all Academy associates.  (Well, no inkling until that first gang-rape, where they all helped de Hainault break the boy in.)  They told the sobbing boy after the guilty verdict, that as it was his first offence, they could allow him a choice.  Either take the full sentence and get thrown into gaol, where being so young he would almost certainly spend all his time being sexually violated by the prisoners.  When the boy's terrified begging subsided, the judge suggested that he agreed to the second option - a special "work-camp" and half the sentenced time.  The boy protested his innocence, but a hard slap from his lawyer and then one from his step-father soon calmed him down.  While he picked himself up off the floor, they accepted the second option.

 

Imagine the boy's horror when he was sentenced to forty years as a stock boy with the Academy.  Imagine his despair when he was told that this was half the sentence.  In shock, he let the guards strip him right there in the court, and it was only as they hogtied him brutally that he started to struggle, crying his innocence and begging his step-fther to intervene, until a heavy duty cattle prod applied to buttock and scrotum reduced him to incoherent shrieks and sobs as he was carried bound, naked and utterly alone to his new life.

 

I run my hand over the silky undulations of his back swept torso, feeling the rise and fall of his laboured breathing.  I push his iron-hard cock away from his belly, twisting it and his balls down towards the table, watching him shift and struggle to relieve the pressure.  When I release it, it snaps right back and slaps his abdomen.

 

But all this musing is not getting him ready for class.  Today's subject will be cock beatings, so I need to get him sorted out.  I release his bound arms from the stand and help him kneel upright. 

 

"Stay still."

 

His balls are still winched away from his body, and his eyes, downcast, are still teary.  I unclip his ankles and knees and last of all unclip the ratchet on his nuts, which immediately spring back.  He gasps and blushes, his golden skin reddening and glistening with new sweat.  His yelp of surprise becomes a howl of genuine anguish as I quickly unwind the rawhide, pulling on it so that his reddening balls pinwheel to freedom.  The sac is soft and hairless, looking pinched and sore.  I give it a few open handed slaps to help the circulation and lift him down onto his shaking legs, which give out from underneath him.

 

He surprises me by immediately heaving himself towards me and, with an odd half gasping, half sobbing noise, pressing his his open mouth on my boot, kissing and kicking the smooth leather with such passion that I can feel his tongue on my heel.  He shifts his balance, spreading his legs far apart and arching his back.  The perfect, solid globes of his arse gleam and part so I can almost glimpse the tender hole they are so rarely allowed to protect.  I bend at the waist and run a gloved hand over his flank and over one firm buttock.  He moans and pushed his flesh into my hand.  My own desire for him amazes me - he is no more than a stock boy - and I grab a handful of damp hair and drag him from me.

 

I catch his face in my hand.  "Look at me, boy!"

 

Our eyes lock in a frozen, magical instant.  His eyes are dazzling - cornflower blue glazed with lust - awash with fear and hope and a desperation I cannot place for a moment.  He looks at me as if I were an angel, his childhood hero, a feared, domineering father and his own personal god made hard, thrusting, insatiable flesh.

 

I realise suddenly that he is desperate to belong, desperate to please, desperate to be owned - desperate to be loved.  In all his time here, I realise - all the pain, the beatings, the degradation, the sexual humiliation and abuse - when have any of us rewarded him with affection or praise?  I've watched him scream, weep, beg, grovel, sob; I've seen him cry himself to sleep, chained face up on his bunk, his tears of frustration leaving his pulsing, twitching unloved cock no nearer the release he so desperately desires; I've watched him writhe and howl under every form of torment - as the whip arced over his bound flesh, as the cane sliced into his exposed, raw arse-lips, as the club landed another hammer blow to his bound nuts - but never seen him enjoy a gentle caress.  His whole existence revolves around us - pleasing us, satisfying our demands, making us proud, straining for our approval.  And we have demanded, threatened, bullied, terrified, tormented, teased, denied, tortured and broken him.  And now, now he gazes up to me and silently begs me to own him, to be his Master.

 

I run one gloved finger over his lips and watch his tongue flick out to caress it.  I smile at him and watch him blush.  His rigid cock seems to expand and darken, now ticking urgently with his rapid heartbeat.  His mouth sucks fiercely at my finger and he raises his body toward me, offering his sore tits and swollen balls.  He teeters moaning on the brink of orgasm, quivering like a bird with a broken wing, just because I smiled at him.

 

I pull my finger free.  "Well, well." I am amused "How interesting. But first, boy, I have a class to teach."  He bows his head.  I could cum just looking at him.

 

By the time the class arrives though, he is sitting astride a narrow whipping horse.  His arms are once again bound behind him, and I've also roped his ankles up behind him and connected them to his wrists, bending his knees.  His whole weight, therefore, is balanced on the small space between his legs.  Unfortunately for him, his tightly bound balls are pulled back hard and tied off to his wrists and ankles, so that his weight pivots on the screaming, tender eggs and any struggling will grind them down into the hard, padded surface.  Naturally, I don't want him to fall, so I've also tied his knees down to bolts in the floor, which sadly crushes his balls still harder.  Finally, I've looped rawhide tight round his rock hard cock, pulling it out full length along the unyielding surface of the horse, ready to be beaten.

 

396 - jamie - is once again in a lot of pain.  He tries hard to keep still, but he's trapped in a cycle of action and reaction - movement and agony.  His muscles strain and twitch, and the sweat is starting to run down the chiselled muscle of his flanks again.  I could not be harder.  I decide to try an experiment.

 

I place my hand gently on the side of his face.  He immediately kisses the palm of the glove with almost religious fervour.

 

"Look at me, boy."  I am dazzled by that brilliant blue, as he looks fearfully up at me; so young, so helpless, so afraid.  I am suddenly aware that I am twice his age, that I tower over him at 6'4", of the thick dark hair that covers my hugely muscled arms, slab-like pecs and firm, round belly.  I am not delicately featured or finely chiselled, but raw, rough and half-savage - big and overpowering.  My hand covers the whole side of his face.  I feel protective, paternal, almost affectionate.  I want to hear him weep from pain and know that his suffering was for me. I want to untie him right there and fuck him, raping him over and over until he screamed for me, screamed for mercy, screamed for more.  Somehow I am caught in his eyes, his pleading, puppy-dog, tear-reddened eyes.  I clear my throat.

 

"This is going to be hard on you boy, very hard." I manage to make my voice a low rumble. "You are going to suffer today.  All the men who come here are going to beat you - again and again - because that is what you are for.  You will scream and cry, but your body will continue to be tortured, as it should be - as it must."  His eyes flicker and fill with terror, but he still presses his face into my touch and licks imploringly.  I lean closer.  "I want you to take it all for my sake.  I want to know that you are suffering for my pleasure.  Can you do that?  Can you give me your pain?  Will you be a good boy?"  He nods frantically as I talk, but at the magic words "good boy" his eyes widen.  He sobs audibly and almost speaks, but I silence him with one finger over his lips, shaking my head gently.  I give him a  small smile, and like the sun breaking through the clouds after weeks of rain, trembling and uncertain, like a foal standing for the first time, he starts to smile back.  I go back over to the toy rack before my will breaks and I eat him alive.  Before I kiss him.

 

I turn back to see he has closed his eyes and calmed his breathing.  I watch with awe at his beauty as he prepares to give himself to me.  My cock is stiff and heavy as iron.  Quietly I approach him and as his eyes flicker open and that damned adorable smile starts to reappear, I gag him hard and fast with a huge leather wedge gag which forces his jaw wide open.  I hide those eyes behind a blindfold and attach nipple clamps to his chest - not too severe, but they will get gradually worse, and I intend them to be in place for some time.  I run my hand down his pecs and over his stomach,  making his breathing speed up through the tube in the gag.  He wriggles gently in his bonds, straining for my touch, grinding his balls into the horse, whimpering with pain and desire.

 

Finally, I give him a quick shot of a substitute Valium/Viagra mix, and sit back to wait for my students as his skin flushes with arousal.  The class of junior Masters arrives, falling silent as they drink in the sight of jamie - nude, blind, glistening, straining, gagged, drugged, hurting and helpless. The boy moans gently to himself.  I pick up a short, straight, heavy cane and step to the front of the class.

 

He is golden in the afternoon sun, like a tormented statue of amber.  The classs tumbles to their seats as the air becomes thick with lust.  jamie's breathing becomes laboured as he hears them and knows it will begin soon.  His cock twitches against its bonds and with a slight whimper he pushes his groin forward and thrusts out his smooth, meaty pecs, as it offering himself to an unseen hand.  The room is frozen, silent but for the hot breath of thirty rock hard men and one agonised boy.  Time seems to pause.  A single drop of sweat hangs briefly from the clamp at jamie's right nipple, sparkling momentarily in the warm light, and then falls, splashing on the floor.

 

*           *           *

 

jamie is crying again.  He has been crying fairly continuously now for several hours, but this is different.  The class was extraordinary, several of the students came just watching him.  Others took their cocks out and came over his flawless skin.  It is their seed that he has sucked so enthusiastically from the fingers which I have stuffed into his mouth, while my cock basked in the clutching heat of his arse.

 

I have already fucked him twice, but I just won't go soft.  After the students left, I took his gag out and let him stretch his aching jaw, untied the rope connecting his knees to the floor, released his balls from underneath him, and his cock from in front.  Then I straddled the horse behind him and bodily lifted him, still bound and blind, onto my cock, holding him up, while his guts adjusted round my fat, unforgiving shaft.  Then I fucked him by lifting him up and down, still helpless, sliding his tight hole up and down my hungry cock.  Dropping him brutally onto me until I impaled him totally.  He wept and bucked, but all the time I could feel him struggling to flex his arse muscles around me, straining to please me through the pain.

 

When I came the first time, I let him sit, whimpering, on me. I scooped up some of the cum from his thigh and fed him my dripping fingers, and reached round for his cock, which made him shriek.  The class had been thorough, with a controlled brutality which made me proud of my students....and the boy.  His cock was immensely swollen, red and purple and almost black in places; deep bruising from clubs and fists, vicious welts from the lash and the crop, burning his shaft, and even the vulnerable head of his cock, with his protecting foreskin pulled back.  Then the clubs again, landing hard on the head, the shock ripping through him even with the 'skin in place.  And finally, the canes, light and heavy, striping his shaft and foreskin with savage heat.  Again and again the blows had fallen, to the sweet music of his gagged screams.  Again and again he had thrust forward, given himself.  Given himself to me.

 

He can only have been hoping I would leave it alone, but instead, for a long time, I masturbated him hard, taking him way past the point he would have cum if he'd been able.  His grunts and yelps of pain soon became a continuous wail of frustration, as his bound balls slammed up and down into my fist and the horse.  Cruelly, I backhanded the bruised shaft, harder and harder, in a frenzy of lust. I had to hear him scream.  I had to fuck him again.  I flung him down on his belly on the narrow surface, and standing behind him began to hammer my cock in to him, in a rage of desire for him. I was on fire, alive, complete, home.  My orgasm tore through me in a way I cannot remember experiencing ever before, like a forest ablaze, a hurricane that blew down the last of my walls, my defences, my stupidity.  I roared like a beast, like a wildman.  I roared to stop myself from crying with joy.

 

I fell, almost fainting, onto him afterwards, dizzy and spent, but still unbelievably hard, and held him.  Only then did I hear his feverish murmuring "i'll be a good boy Sir. i'll be a good boy Sir." I lifted him up, back onto my cock, and held him to my soaking chest, felt him press his back into my embrace.  I slowly released his ankles, so he could finally put his feet down, fed him my fingers again and started to masturbate his brutalised cock again.  This time he begged openly and brokenly "Please Sir! Please, please Sir!" until the long wail of desperation grew again, and became almost a scream, til I muffled it with my fingers again.

 

After a long time - a hour? two? twenty minutes? five? - I put my lips to his ear and growl "So, boy, how would you like to belong to me?"  The wail stops like water turned off at the tap.  His whole body tenses in disbelief, in hope.  "Do you want to be my boy? My own boy?"  I lift him off my cock, untie his wrists and dismount from the horse, walking round to sit astride it again in front of him.  He gasps.  I lift the blindfold and am caught again.

 

"It won't be easy.  You'll suffer and scream for me.  You'll suffer a lot.  I love hurting you.  Your pain will give me great pleasure.  But you will belong to me.  I may never ask you what you want again - I may never care.  But I'm asking you now, boy, do you want to be mine?" 

 

Like a dam bursting "Please, please Sir! i'll be your boy! i'll be a good boy for you! Please Sir! Make me your boy! Please Sir! I love you, Sir, I love you!" over and over, on and on.  And he weeps, as he has been doing for hours, but this is different.

 

I have to fuck him again.  I want to hurt him so badly. I want to watch him break, and hear him beg me for more.  But I can only think of one way to silence him now.

 

I kiss him.

 

I think it might be his first kiss.

 

It feels like mine.  He feels like mine.