the boy, rook

Chapter 4: Shit Just Got Real (Part 1)

Previously: Chapter 1: Beginnings … Chapter 2: Chicago … Chapter 3: The Application
I stumbled on the Recon profile of a colleague, and soon was forced to admit that I was indeed a wannabe kinkster. Offered the chance to be trained to and to learn, I took the first step towards the biggest adventure I’d ever thought I’d have. And then I waited, and waited, and waited, to hear what was next. It was an application to serve, discovered in a pile of mail at the eleventh hour. Finishing it in the nick of time, I got a letter the following week.

There was no more room for fantasy.

“I’ll train you,” the letter read, “but make no mistake, you’re mine from now until I say you’re not anymore.”

What had I gotten myself into? Surely Ethan was still as sane in his private life as he’d led us all to believe. The doubts, the second-guessing, started to swirl in my head; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Of course you can walk away, even now. If you do, then it’s over and we never talk about again. Ever. No exceptions. This is your only chance to be something more, to become something deeper, and to experience rather than fantasize.”

Was it strange to find reassuring words in a letter from a man who “owns” one’s ass?

“Beginning  big and worthwhile things can be scary, and you can slow or stop any action, scene, or experience with safe words. Use ‘green’ if I ask you how things are and you’re fine. Use ‘yellow’ any time you are feeling pushed so far you feel scared, uneasy, and want to pause. Use ‘red’ to stop, but know this: ‘red’ will stop the scene, it will also end our arrangement for good.

“Try not to over-think what is or isn’t coming. Things will begin in their proper time. In the meantime, start a blog, or something, to start writing your experiences, your thoughts, etc. I’ll want to read it, but I won’t edit it.”

* * *

Friday came and I was tired; I hadn’t slept much the last couple of nights between staying up late writing long pithy blog posts and being unable to sleep well from such pent up nervous energy.  My path didn’t cross with Ethan’s at work, not that it would mean anything. Despite his advice not to over-think things, my mind wouldn’t relax, my legs wouldn’t stop jittering, and my hands were constantly cold. So come Friday it was time for one of the longest, hardest workouts I’d had in months. I changed into my shorts, t-shirt and sweats, left my suit and stuff at work, and jogged right to the gym.

Trudging home from the subway on that wintry March evening, I realized there was nothing left to mull over. I’d twisted this situation around in my head every which way, and the parameters were pretty clear. My thoughts were only going around in circles so I either needed to give it a rest, or pull out of the arrangement, which wasn’t going to happen. But the thought of sticking with it still made my heart race.  A growing need to pee made me walk faster.

My apartment was the first floor of a converted brownstone on a small side street in Queens, about a 10 minute walk from the subway. I’d lived there for a few years, it was the best apartment I’d ever had. I even had a tiny little backyard, complete with an inspiring view of the alley, trash, and the occasional rat fight. But it was still cozy, and it was home.

By the time I’m within a few blocks, I’m usually on autopilot, walking the same steps and taking the same corners as I do countless times every week. I get to the house, I grab the mail, take out my keys, open the storm door, and suddenly realize my front door is already open.

“Well shit,” at first I think I’ve been burgled. Then I remember Ethan has keys to my house and I’m a little more curious than scared, but still kinda scared. I dropped the mail on a table and looked around, realizing that nope, I’ve definitely been burgled. The living room lights don’t work; glass crunches under my feet and I see the light bulbs are shattered. Plants are knocked over, books strewn around. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Stepping into the hall, I see one faint light in the back of the apartment where my bedroom is. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and tiptoed toward the back. I pushed open the door and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, but this room was torn apart too, and my little television was tuned to some spanish channel.

“What the hell?” I said as I moved to shut off the TV. I put down the knife next to the television and resolved to get a handle on this, when all of a sudden I’m grabbed by the neck, yanked over to the foot of the bed and quite literally thrown face down onto it.

I scrambled, trying to get a sense of which way is up, trying to turn myself over, trying to get up, trying to do anything that seemed remotely appropriate when one realizes he’s not just been robbed, but the robber is still in the house. I managed to turn over and start to sit up, when I came face-to-crotch with the scariest mother-fucker I have ever seen in real life.

He was big – I mean fucking big – his muscles had muscles of their own. Tattoos lined his arms and creeped up his neck; he was dressed in black pants and a black wife-beater. The lone working lightbulb cast dark shadows on his unshaven face. The heavy rings on his fingers would leave some nasty marks. He smelled of beer. He was inspecting the knife I’d left by the TV. I was in trouble. “Shit! Fuck!” I garbled and tried to scurry backwards like a wounded crab, just wanting to get away. I may have wet myself.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck were you going to do with this?” he said, just before he flung the knife to the floor where it stuck straight up.

“I … uh … nothing. I … What do you want? Take whatever you want.” he cracked his knuckles.

“Who. The fuck. Are you?”

My fear was dissolving into anger. “I live here. Who the fuck are you?” The look on his face dissolved my anger back into fear.

“Then you’re the pussy I came for. Get over here.” He moved quickly, grabbed my ankles and pulled hard toward the end of the bed. I tried to kick free at first and then, facing his crotch again I tried to push him away, tried to fight, but he just grabbed my wrists. Next thing I knew I was face down on the bed again, this time sideways with his knee firmly between my shoulder blades. I felt plastic bind my wrists.

“Dude, please, what are you doing? Please don’t…”

Things went dark; he’d put some sort of cloth bag over my head, and a cord tighten around my throat to secure it. Despite any last ditch fight my ankles were bound with what felt like the same plastic ties.

“Come on, man, just tell me what you want. I don’t have drugs, but if you want money, the TV … who are you? Just let me go. Take whatever you want but please, don’t hurt me, please don’t do whatever it is you’re doing. I can pay you. I can … whatever you want, man, just please, don’t do this.”  I rambled on. Whatever I actually said that night wasn’t nearly as cogent as this retelling; plus I was starting to cry and my voice probably cracked and God knows what I actually sounded like, if I was even sounding like anything.  Meanwhile this guy, this thug, said nothing.

After a few minutes I heard the back door open and close. “Hey boss, I got him in here,” my captor called out. “Can I fuck him before we do this?” My heart started to race again. “This pussy’s been a real pain in the ass and he deserves to get ripped open.”

“No,” said the new voice from the far side of the room. I heard boots on the floor, and then suddenly in my ear, “I told him his ass was mine.”

* * *

Big Scary Guy grabbed me by the armpits and dragged me off the bed and out the back door. I half-hoped for someone to be looking out into the alley at just the right moment to see this, to call for help, to get me free. But at the same time, shouldn’t I trust Ethan now? Could I? This wasn’t some game of slap and tickle, this was already way beyond what I expected. But it was already dark and no rescue was coming as I was almost immediately half-lifted, half-thrown onto the plastic floor of what seemed like an old van. With my legs getting tossed in after me, the doors slammed shut and I couldn’t hear anything but the road underneath.

It was a long drive. A long drive. Lots of little stops as we navigated the small surface streets of Queens. I tried to keep track of the turns, the time travelled between lights, hoping to get at least the faintest idea of where we were going. But soon we clearly got on an expressway and I knew it was over at that point; where ever we were going, I wasn’t walking home, and help wouldn’t be nearby. I was truly at Ethan’s mercy now, and for the first time I started to regret it.

Surface streets again; we got off the expressway. Fast stops and starts tossed me back and forth; I was feeling sick, I was cold, my ass hurt, my hands were tingly. But eventually, the engine stopped and I heard my kidnappers get out. I felt the cold rush as the van doors opened. Big Scary Guy pulled me out, dragged me inside, and dropped me in some place that was really hot. The door shut behind me again and I was alone, breathing in heat and steam and trying to orient myself.

I figured out I was in a bathroom; I kicked and found the toilet, a tub, and could feel the tiled wall I was leaning against.  The sudden shift from cold to hot made me sweat faster, and I could begin to smell the stink of the gym in my clothes again. By now I’ve lost all sense of time, I’m exhausted, I’ve sweated through at least one layer of clothes and I don’t know where I am.

When the door finally opened, it was Big Scary Guy’s voice. “You’re comin’ out now. I’m sick of dragging your fat ass so I’m gonna untie your feet. If you kick me, I’m going to cut your asshole open to fit my cock, and fuck you until you taste my cum. Y’understand?”

“Yes.”

He grunted, and I felt my ankles freed. He hoisted me up and shoved me, all wobbly, along a hallway. I felt the air change as we entered a room, he shoved me into place, and then down a few inches so I was sitting on a bike seat or something equally uncomfortable. A small bar gave my feet something to rest on and keep balanced, but forced all my weight to rest on a small portion of my buttcheeks and taint, balancing on this post. I’d never analyzed why bikes were so uncomfortable until I lost feeling in my ass that day.

Behind me, I felt cold metal on my wrists lock into place. The plastic tie was cut, but I wasn’t free; my hands were held down near and behind my butt. I was tied to something — a cable maybe — that had some give but wouldn’t let me move very much. The bag was yanked off my head and I was blinded by super-bright and hot halogen work lights; all I could see was some seated figure across the room, just behind the lights.

His voice rang out and echoed a bit against the tiled room, or at least its tiled floor. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes,” I mumbled. I shouldn’t have mumbled. Big Scary Guy grabbed my hair, pulled my head back like a PEZ dispenser to where I almost fell off the bike seat.

“You address your master as Sir, you piece of shit,” he snarled and spat into my face, then jerked my head back upright. “Try again.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Spit dribbled off my nose, across my lips.

“I’m not sure you really know why you’re here. I imagine that you probably just want a good fuck. Do you like to get fucked?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was the last time you had cock in your ass?”

“It’s been a long time, sir.” I flinched at a light thwack! on the back of my head. “Uh, it was at least eight months ago, sir, with a guy I was dating.”

“Was he a good fuck?”

“He was okay, sir.”

“Hmm, I see. So I bet your little hole is craving a long hard fuck from a nice big cock. Could you go for that, boy?” The question was almost sweet, a bit sultry.  “Would you like to give me your hole for a nice … hard … fuck?” Each word came out at its own titillating pace; I felt my penis get stiff.

“Yes, sir, I would give you my hole, sir.”

“I could bend you over right here, right now, then. Is that what you want?” The voice grew louder and more stern. “You like it raw? Rough? Nothing but my spit for lube and my cum to keep you warm? Is that why you’re here?”

“Um, I … I dunno, sir…” This was going in a direction I didn’t expect. I was screwing something up. I grew self-conscious and keenly aware of how much I stank; sweat now soaked through both my T-shirt, sweatshirt, underwear, shorts, and sweat pants.  I realized I didn’t really know what I was doing, what the right things to say were, or where this was going.

“Hook up the gimp,” he said to Big Scary Guy, who walked to the far side of the room behind the lights. I heard some shuffling. “If all you want is to get fucked, why should I waste my time with you? I don’t need your shit on my dick. You aren’t worth the effort to lube up.”

I heard a slow mechanical rhythm start somewhere in the room, along with a faint slurping noise.

“You wanna get fucked? There’s machines for that. Look.” He turned one of the work lights to show where Big Scary Guy had gone. Behind my inquisitor and to the right, there was a coffee-table high platform with a swimmers-built slave shackled to it on all fours. Something — a hood — covered his head and face, except for his mouth, which was choking on Big Scary Guy’s cock.

The noises were coming from a rigged-up fucking machine with a very large and mean-looking dildo.  Slurp — in went the ass-ripping silicone — Slop -- and out the same way. It was big enough that it had to wedge its way into his ass. Each time it went in I could see it force the guy forward, and he whined a little every time. Each time it came out, it was it ripped him open, and I could see a little rosebud staring back at its intruder. And then repeat.

“You can get fucked literally all night long. This bitch loves it.” He slapped the guy’s ass while the dildo retracted. “Can’t go anywhere, and can take a monster at both ends. He’s great at parties. Wears a diaper for days afterwards. And this is the low setting.” He changed something on the machine and it sped up; the guy cried out but his cries were muffled as Big Scary Guy pulled his head deeper onto his dick. The work light turned back to me. I flinched from the shine.

“I could even attach this dildo to a power tool I have and power fuck you while watching TV. I won’t even break a sweat. Open your mouth.” I did as I was told and Ethan put relatively normal dildo in my mouth. He moved it around, pushed it to the back of my throat, and simulated a slow face fuck as he talked.

“Understand one thing, you fat waste of flesh. I don’t give a rat’s ass about fucking, sucking, jacking off or whatever you think is sexy or fun. If that’s all you’re here for, then you can get the fuck out right and walk the eighty miles back to the city. If you don’t know why you’re here, then get the fuck out. Do you understand me?”

I answered him through the dildo. He took it out and sat back down. The whirring stopped and silence fell on the room. I was starting to fidget. I still hadn’t peed except for when Big Scary Guy accosted me back in my own apartment, and that seemed like hours and hours ago. My ass hurt, I smelled bad, and I had no idea how long this would last.

 

Chapter 4 is longer than most, so I’ve split it into two parts.
Part 2 will come on Thursday of this week.

fucking . fucking machine . initiation . kidnap . steam