Date: Fri, 26 Sep 2008 00:31:23 -0700 (PDT) From: Tim Keppler Subject: Bristol WARNING This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage where ever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional, the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein. BRISTOL "I'm a redneck and a bigot," his MySpace profile proudly proclaimed. "I hate darkies and fags, and go out of my way to cause them as much pain as possible." His passion, apparently, is ice hockey, which he says he's medaled in. His picture is cute, very cute. Curly blond hair, pale blue eyes, slim though muscular build. His profile says he's 17, but calculating from his birthday, he turned eighteen three days ago. He's rather short by the look of him, perhaps 5'7", though hard to tell from a photo. Others of his pics show him shirtless, wearing only a Speedo. Very nice, but so arrogant, and so bigoted. It would be fun taking him down a notch or two. I'd found him because a friend of mine had identified him as one of four young men that had gay-bashed him near a movie theater one late night. Evidence against the other three had been conclusive. They were in jail. This one, though, had managed to escape the justice the others were facing. He was way too young to be this violent. It wasn't hard getting his address. He'd included his home town in the profile, and it was a rather small town in Ontario. That fact, coupled with other details from his profile, gave me what I needed to locate him. I parked outside his house...and waited. It's good to spend a couple of days on this kind of abduction. It's good to get a sense of family routine. Ideally, you want to choose a time when he's home alone, when you don't have to deal with the complication of parents, siblings, housemates. It doesn't take long to lay out the house schedules because you can make some simplifying assumptions. Older man leaves the house at around 7:15am. Probably his father going to work. Older woman leaves at 7:45 with two youngish children. Mom, taking the kid to school. Will she come back, or does she work too? Our boy leaves just after Mom, walking. Wait and watch. Our boy is back at 3:30, and Mom, Dad and the younger children filter in at around 5:15. So, there's our window of opportunity. I drive home and collect what I need for tomorrow's adventure. Arriving at his house at 7:00am, I watch the same routine as yesterday play out yet again. The only question in my mind is whether our boy will get home at the same time, or will he have some extra-curricular activity that will keep him away from home longer? Once everyone is gone, I let myself into the house, and begin to explore. It's not hard to locate our boy's bedroom. A hockey stick and size 28 dirty underwear are a dead giveaway. This is where I'll grab him. I leave the house and go get a coffee from the local Starbucks, a mile and a half away. I've got time to kill. At 2:30 I return and scope out the house. Still empty. I let myself back in and head to our boy's bedroom, leaving the door open so I can hear if anyone comes into the house. I also open the window and remove the screen just in case I have to make a quick getaway. I've dressed like him purposely, in jeans, a t-shirt and sweat-jacket, so that I can leave the house looking like him. I'm taller than he is, but to the casual observer, that probably won't matter. I've brought sunglasses to cover my face, and I find a baseball cap in his room that will cover my short, straight hair. Not a bad disguise, again intended to fool only the casual observer. At 3:34 the front door opens and in walks our boy. I can see him from a crack in the door of his room. He hangs his jacket on the banister of the stair, and walks toward me, toward his room, pushing open the door and dropping his back pack on the floor. Looking up, he sees me, and there is an instant of fear in his eyes before I clamp a rag over his mouth and he passes out. I replace the screen in his widow, and shut it. I also grab his backpack and his jacket. I want it to look like he simply never came home from school, or that he went out again after returning home. I've brought a woman's wig for him to wear, and a dress. These I put on him. He looks vaguely like the woman I assume is his mother. Taking him under the arm, I haul him out of the house as though helping a drunk or injured person. I load him into the passenger's seat, cuff his hands behind his back, just in case, strap him in, and move around the car to the driver's side. "Hi, Bristol," a neighbor shouts from the window of her car as she pulls into her driveway. I wave, get into the care, start the engine, and back out of the driveway, waving at her again as I drive away. Hopefully, she's bought the deception. And, now I know -- or think I know -- that his name is Bristol. What a stupid name... Sounds like an after-shave lotion. Almost as bad as Levi, which sounds like a pair of jeans named by a Jesus-freak. Fifteen minutes later we're nearing my home, and Bristol is waking up, starting to struggle. I'm glad I cuffed him before we left. He's becoming very vocal: "What the fuck is going on. What do you think you're doing," he screams. I would like to have gagged him, too, but it would have looked too obvious to passers-by, to the Mom who shouted her greetings as we left. Luckily, I can drive directly into the garage and unload him after the door has closed completely. It's very well insulated. No one will hear him. Once I've parked, and the garage door is closed, I haul him out of the car. He's struggling mightily now. I unsnap his pants and grab his balls through his underwear, and give them a mighty squeeze. He screams, and doubles over. I pull him back up by the hair. "If you want to survive this, you're going to be calm and do what I say, if you want any balls left afterwards. If not, keep screaming and I'll cut them off when we get to the kitchen. Your choice. You can bleed to death from the scrotum, or you can come with me." He stops struggling, and I lead him by the balls into the house. He's crying by now, weeping, begging me to let him go -- between sobs. All of this I think is sort of cute. I take him to the basement with the intention of putting him in the stocks (actually a pillory) for a while. He can struggle all he wants to there, and cry, and wonder what's next. Once we arrive, I push his pants and underwear down to his ankles, exposing his equipment. Grabbing a pair of handcuffs from the cupboard, I attach one end around his cock and balls, and the other end to an eye-hook in the stocks. I'm not having him bolt the minutes I un-cuff his wrists. I tell him to lift his feet, each in turn, so I can remove his pants and briefs, and then stand back and look at him. "In a minute I'm going to un-cuff your wrists. You're not going anywhere because your balls are shackled to the post, there, so don't get any ideas about escaping. When I un-cuff you, you're going to put your wrists and neck in the stocks. If you don't, you'll be punished. If you try to attack me, you'll be punished. If you do anything besides putting your wrists and neck in the stocks, you'll be punished." Taking a low-current cattle prod from the cupboard, I hold it in front of him. "This is a cattle prod, and delivers quite a jolt. If you don't obey, this will be your punishment." "Who the fuck are you? Why are you doing this?" I touch his ass cheek with the cattle prod, and he screams and jumps, pulling fiercely on his balls. You can tell he doesn't know which part of him hurts the most. "I don't believe I told you to talk. The next time I have to use this, it'll be on your balls." I move in and unlock the cuffs, one wrist then the next. "Now, lay your wrists in the stocks, and now your neck." He complies, reluctantly, and I close and secure the stocks over him. He is now immobile, though standing awkwardly because his balls are still shackled. I remove the cuff from his genitals, and he can now move his torso. Taking a spreader-bar from the cabinet, I extend it to three-feet, and attach the cuffs to his ankles. I lower the height of the stocks, forcing him to bend at the waist so that his chest is parallel with the floor, his butt fully exposed, and his balls dangling nicely between his well-spread legs. He can't be much more vulnerable than this. To make sure he stays this way, I place a three-foot piece of pipe beneath him, and attach it to ropes that hang well behind him from pulleys from the ceiling. As I pull the ropes, the pipe rises, pulling his waist up and back. So, even if he slumps, he won't slump. His ass will remain aloft. Just to increase the fear factor, I cut away his t-shirt and attach a parachute ball stretcher to his scrotum. He's probably never seen one of these before. Let him ponder. He tries to jerk away as I'm snapping the snaps, doesn't like to be handled down there. I slap him hard on the ass, eliciting a grunt from him, and a red hand print from his ass. This boy bruises easily. Great. I move in front of him so he can see me. I'm 6'1", 225 pounds. I work out daily and am in construction, so I'm well packed. I'm 45. This kid, according to his drivers' license, is in fact just 18, 5'7" and 125 pounds. I don't know how he can claim fag bashing as an avocation. Any fag worth his salt could knock this kid down without breaking a sweat. The gang is the key. He travels in packs and takes credit for what is mostly done by his cohorts. "So, your MySpace page has you billed as a fag basher. You into that shit?" He's looking up at me with a mixture of defiance and fear, trying to figure out how to handle this situation. Defiance wins out. "Well, I'm sure not into fags." "What's that mean?" "That I hate them." "All of them? As a race? As a species?" "Yep." "Why?" "Because they're disgusting?" "Why, because they have sex differently than you do? Or can you have sex, yet?" This pisses him off. "Who the fuck are you to judge me?" "Who the fuck are you to judge ME? I'm a fag, and when you tell me that you're beating up others like me, it pisses me off. I'm gonna hurt you. I'm gonna do to you at least as much damage as you did to my friend Jimmy, who ID'd you as one of the fuck-ups that bashed him, except the damage I do you isn't going to show, at least not for long. Get ready, Bristol boy, we're going to have some fun..." Taking a five-pound lead weight from the cupboard, I attach it to his parachute -- and drop it. He screams. He should have. It must have been excruciating. Then I leave the room, leaving him to negotiate that pain any way he can. Fuck him. Let it tear his balls off. If this doesn't do it, I had more weights that will, and I will surely enjoy adding them to what's dangling from his balls right now. I go to the kitchen and wash the dishes, drying them carefully, and then putting them away. Bristol is cursing and screaming. After about twenty minutes, I return to the basement. He's struggling mightily, cursing at me the minute he sees me. I added another two pounds to his balls, and go upstairs to make the bed. Returning to the basement after another twenty minutes, he seems even angrier, more violent. I add a two pound weight, and sit down in the corner watching him. His mood begins to change, probably motivated by the pain. His anger begins to disappear. He begins to cry, to sob, to plead with me to remove the weights. I watch him, impassive. "This isn't about making you more comfortable. This is about punishment. You were the only one of the four boys to get off for your crimes, the only one to get a free pass to beat up me and my kind. You have to pay for that. Your cohorts are paying for that with three years in prison. You're going to pay for that with three days of intense pain. This is just the beginning." "Please...please... I'll be good." "It's not a matter of being `good.' It's a matter of paying for what you've done, like your friends. They get three years, you get three days. But, your three days are going to be a lot more intense than their three years. "The pillory and stocks have been used since medieval times for punishment. Of course, they were used to display and humiliate criminals, which produced derision, and a lot of rotten fruit, and worse. The pillory was also used as a platform for corporeal punishment. It's sort of perfect, don't you think? Many a whipping was given in a contraption just like this. The third use was a bit more insidious. With your ass exposed like this, it's perfect for rape, and make no mistake, that was always envisioned as part of the punishment; whether male or female, if you were locked in the stocks over night, you were guaranteed getting raped, probably multiple times. You certainly will, raped, and spanked...severely. And a whole lot more. Things you haven't even though of. First, though, I think we'll put some clamps on your nipples. Let's start small," I said, wrinkling my nose. I take a pair of butterfly nipple clamps from a drawer. I like these clamps, because they start with a good solid pinch, but the harder you pull the chain, the tighter they pinch, and I have plans for some serious weights. He has nine pounds dangling from his balls, why not some serious weights from his nipples? I attach the first clip to his left nipple. I like to go just for the nub. If you clamp to the areola, you're clamping to a lot of desensitized flesh. The nipple itself is highly sensitive, with a huge number of nerve cells that will not enjoy the attention. I also like to let the clamp close abruptly, snapping shut. He screams, shrieks. I do the same with the right nipple. Same response. I give the chain a tug. He is sobbing again, and the sobbing increases as I begin to hang three-ounce weights from the chain that connected the two clamps. Soon, he looks like a Christmas tree, with ornaments adorning him. "Please...please...please take them off. I'll do anything you want." "You are doing what I want. You're holding nine ounces of lead from you nipples, and nine pounds of lead from your balls. You're doing exactly what I want. You're `being good.'" He is sobbing, but he's not incoherent yet. There's a pain point where the logical brain checks out, and you can, for example, no longer form coherent sentences. That's where I want him. What to do... I pull a 7" long, 1 �" wide butt plug from the drawer, and lube it up. Pretty large for a straight boy with no anal experience. (I assume he has no anal experience.) I hold it in front of his face. It glistens from the lube, a drop of which runs down the side. "I assume you know what this is." He stares at it for a moment. I don't think he's ever seen one before. A dildo is obvious; it looks like a penis. A butt plug is less so. It's designed for retention, not for fantasy fucking. It's designed to stretch the anus. This one will certainly do that. He stares at it for a moment, and, breaking the code, begins to struggle again. "Please don't do this. Please. I'm sorry for what we did, but please don't do this. That thing will tear me apart." "You really shouldn't expect a lot of mercy from me. You didn't show Jimmy any mercy. You boys raped him, and pretty soon I'm going to rape you, and enjoy it. And I'm pretty well hung. I don't know whether you actually shoved your dick in him, but you were complicit, and by the time you all were done with him, his asshole was bloody. He hasn't had proper sex since. The mercy I'll show you is to stretch you before I fuck you -- with this. It's not going to be real pleasant going in, but by the time it's been inside you an hour or so, my dick should be an afterthought. "By the way, I plan to work very hard in the next couple of days to get you off. There's going to be a lot of pain, but also a lot of sexual stimulation. I'm pretty good at this, and so I'm confident I can make you cum multiple times. When you cum, the real punishment begins, because you are NOT allowed to cum while you're here. If you cum, I will punish you...severely...each time you do it. When was the last time you were spanked?" "I've never been spanked," crying again now. "Therein lies the problem. Get ready. If you cum while you're here, your ass is going to be a mass of welts and blisters. Bloody. And that will just be the beginning, because I believe you'll cum several times." Moving behind him, I begin teasing his exposed hole with the tip of the butt plug, pistoning it in and out of him in a rhythm he becomes used to. His sphincter begins to relax, despite his tears and protests. After about 15 minutes of this, we're nearing the widest point at the middle of the plug, another two minutes of this, and I'm able to pop the plug inside him, his sphincter muscles clamping down on the slippery rubber, effectively drawing the remaining four inches inside him. He gasps, and begins to sob, I think from the sensation of the plug's length rather than its girth. I like them long. I want him to feel filled. He wriggles his ass, trying to adjust to the sensations. I rotate the plug inside him, just to emphasize its presence. He continues to sob, his copious tears dripping copiously on the floor in front of the stocks. "Please...please...please. Please take it out." I give the plug a hearty tug, and he screamed. "I don't think you want me to do that until it's had time to stretch you a bit. Pulling it out now, when I can't really control the rate of its ejection, really could rip you. I think you're stuck with it for an hour or so." He continues to weep, and doesn't really notice when I reach underneath him, grabbing his dick, and insert a dick plug, pulling the head of his cut penis through the retaining ring. Then, suddenly, he reaches incoherence, babbling mindlessly. "Please...anything...please...don't...help...pain...please...can't...please..." I don't know whether it's pain, humiliation, terror, or a mixture of all three, but he begins to scream, to sob inconsolably, to plead endlessly. He is immobile, bent at the waist, his butt and dick both plugged, his nipples clamped and weighted, and his balls bearing a nine pound load of lead. "I have weeds to pull. I'll be back in a while." "Nonononono...please. Don't leave me like this. I'll do anything you want." "I told you, you're doing everything I want right now. Nothing more for you to do. I'll be back in a while. I leave the basement, heading for the back yard, closing the door against his screams and begging. I have a tomato garden to weed, squash to harvest, figs and peaches to pick, and plans to make, plans for the next phase of this brats comeuppance. I haven't had much luck with tomatoes in the past couple of years, but the squash are plentiful, and the peach tree, remarkably, only in its second year, is bearing tons of fruit. The fig tree, too, though only a dwarf, probably has 200 figs at various stages of maturity. They have to be picked daily or they'll rot. It takes me an hour, an hour and a half, to finish my garden chores. Stowing the fruit and veggies in the fridge, I make my way back to the basement. Bristol is still sobbing, begging me as though I were a stranger. "Please help me. Please." "What can I do for you, Bristol? If I were to grant you one wish, what would it be?" He realizes abruptly that I am not here to rescue him. "Please take some of the weight off my balls." "I'll do that, but first I think I'd like to fuck you." He screamed. "No, please don't fuck me. Please let me go. Please." "No. I think I'd like to fuck you first. You look really pretty like this. I'll release your balls after I've fucked you. Okay? Sobbing, "Please don't fuck me..." "So, you don't want me to take the weights off your balls?" "Yes...yes please." "But I'll only do that after I've fucked you, and you just asked me not to do that." He paused, trying to catch his breath, trying to stop crying, trying to work out the equation. "Okay, you can fuck me." "It doesn't sound like you want me to. It really doesn't sound like you're very interested." I give the ball weights a slap, and they begin to swing back and forth between his legs. He hissed at the additional pain, and looks up at me, tears in his eyes. "Please fuck me. Please fuck me now." He sounded really sincere. Must be an actor. "How bad do you want it, Bristol." "Please. I want you to fuck me. I want it really bad. Please, will you fuck me?" "Okay, Bristol. I can do that." Standing in front of him, I begin removing my clothes, and as I shuck off my boxers, my now erect dick springs into view. I'm not hung like an ox, or anything, but I'm pretty well endowed, and mine is really a cock made for fucking ass: long, perhaps 8 � inches, but quite thin, able to penetrate the novice with very little pain. The length of it makes it look more formidable than it really is, though, and this is what I think earns a gasp from Bristol as he sees it for the first time. He is scared. I move behind him, and ease the dildo out of his hole. He grunts as it pops free of his sphincter and slides out, leaving an ample film of lube behind. I won't need to add to it. Moving back in front of him, I drop the butt plug in the sink, and turn to face him. "Now, let's see, I'm sure you and your friends fucked Jimmy dry -- no lube at all. That's probably how I should fuck you, so you have the benefit of knowing how that feels." I start to move behind him. "Please...please... I'll..." I move back in front of him, wait a second or two for him to speak, and then made my offer. "I'll make one concession. If you want to suck my dick before I fuck you, and get it really wet, it'll go in a lot easier." This was a lie. He was already so well lubed, he didn't need anything more. But...he didn't know that. He looked up at me, starting to cry again. "Please, may I suck your dick?" I couldn't help but smile. He said it with such resignation, almost pleading with me. I move right in front of him and lifted his chin. "Watch the teeth, and if you have any thought of bighting me, let me assure you that I will double the 13 pounds currently hanging from your balls and leave it there for three days." He nods, opens his mouth, and sticks out his tongue. I lay the tip of my dick on his tongue, and move forward into his mouth. He closes his lips around it, and begins to suck gently, swirling his tongue around the tip. "Make it nice and sloppy wet, Bristol boy. The slicker it is, the less pain it'll cause you when you take it up your ass." He is really good at this. Surprisingly good. He can't move his head enough to really move up and down the shaft, but his tongue is very active, and he's using his throat muscles to massage the head. His teeth don't even graze me. And, of course, he is just so cute lying there, in great pain, with a dick in his mouth, crying and sucking at the same time. It's not going to be long before I'm ready to blow. I pull out of him abruptly. "You're very good at this. This wasn't the first time you've done this, was it?" In almost a whisper he replied, "No." "Who else have you blown?" "The other guys who beat up your friend, mostly." "Mostly? How many blow jobs have you given?" Quietly, "I don't know." "That many. Wow. And, why do you blow those guys? Don't they think you're a fag?" In an instant, I've figured him out, figured out the motivation for his violence. "I'm not a fag! But they're all bigger than me..." His voice trails off. "Hmmmmm... Interesting. Well, I think we're ready to go. You ready to get fucked?" "Yes, please," he said, suppressing his sobs. He knows I know. It'll be interesting to see where we go from here. Interesting, but not immediately. Right now, I'm going to fuck this boy and I'm lay odds that he'll cum. Moving behind him, I place a small step stool just behind him to stand on so I can get the angle right. The idea is to hit the prostate with every thrust. I am intent on making this kid cum. Lining up my dick with his hole, I enter him in one slow thrust. He screams, more from shock, I think, than from pain; he's pretty well stretched, and very well lubed. Once inside him, I wait a moment, and then begin to pump, slowly at first, in and out. Reaching around, I feel his cock begin to harden. I must be doing this right. Gently removing the dick plug from his urethra, I begin to stroke him in rhythm to my pumping. He begins to moan, his cock now at full erection. "Remember, Bristol: you are not allowed to cum. No matter what I do to you, no matter how good it feels, if you cum you'll be severely punished. Do you understand me?" "Yes," he moans, still fighting back tears. God, he feels good. And I must feel good to him, too, because in less than five minutes, he's begging me to stop. "Please, sir, please stop stroking me. Please, you're going to make me cum." I loved the "sir" bit. He's got it just right. "You're not allowed to cum, Bristol," I say, severely. "Remember. If you cum, I'll punish you. If you cum, I'll beat your ass black and blue. If you cum, there will be blood." He's sobbing again. He knows he's not going to be able to control it. He knows it's a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds. "Please...please, sir. I can't hold out," he pleads. "I'm going to cum if you don't stop." "You know the consequences, Bristol. It is not allowed. Control!" I continue to stroke him -- swirling my slippery thumb around the head of his cock -- and to fuck him, in rhythm. His breathing is more ragged now, less rhythmic. He's almost panting. "Please... I don't want to disobey. I don't want to be punished." "Then don't come," I say, concentrating my assault on the very tip of his dick as I continue to fuck him. He's not circumcised, which in my experience means that the head of his dick will be almost painfully sensitive, and I can fuck for hours, so there's no danger my cumming before I'm ready, before he's ready. He's squirming like made, trying to evade my thumb that is relentlessly pleasuring him. Suddenly his sphincter muscles clamp down on my cock, and he begins to shoot and to scream at the same time. And, just as his orgasm subsides, mine begins. I shoot spurt after spurt inside him. After what seems like hours, during which I am slumped over his back, I come down from my post-orgasmic high. I pull out of him. I get a razor strop from the closet. I like razor strops for spanking. They're thick, they're flexible, and they pack a wallop. Bristol is wailing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't punish me. Please..." "I warned you, Bristol. You knew the consequences. If you cum, you get punished." With that, I let fly with the first blow...and the second...and the third. His ass is crimson by the seventh blow. Bruises have started to appear with the fifteenth blow. After the twenty-fifth blow, I switch to a thin, whippy, nylon cane, and after twelve strokes, his wheals are just starting to bleed. He's weeping, sobbing, begging me to stop, screaming with each stroke. I do stop. Putting the cane away, I soak a wash cloth at the sink, and gently swab his ass, and then apply a thin coating of Baciguent to his wheals. "I told you not to cum," I say sternly. Reaching between his legs, I remove the lead weights from his balls and his nipples. Then I leave him to calm down and heal a bit. The next order of business is lunch. Mine. Eating my sandwich in the kitchen, I'm tempted to feel sorry for this kid, and have to remind myself of his arrogance and violence. He's so damned cute, it's tempting to let him off, but that's probably how he beat the charges against him in the first place. He has to be punished. After about an hour, I return to the basement. He opens his eyes when he hears me come in. Has he been sleeping? His eyes are red, swollen from crying. He looks more sad than fearful, although the fear is still there. I remove the parachute ball-stretcher from his scrotum, and re-attach the handcuffs to his cock and balls, securing them to the pillory post. Taking two padded leather wrist cuffs from the drawer, I move so that I'm standing in front of him. "In a minute I'm going to open the stocks. Again, you're not going anywhere, because your cock and balls are shackled to the pillory. When I open the stocks, you are not to move. If you move, you will be punished. Stay exactly as you are now, and wait for instructions. Got it?" "Yes," he replied, quietly. I unlatch the stocks, and open the hinged wooden rail. He is still. "Extend your right hand in front of you." He complies, and I attach the first of the leather cuffs. "Now your left hand." Again, he does as he's told, and I attach the second cuff. "Don't move." Reaching above him, I grab two steel cables that hang from pullies in the ceiling, and attach them to the cuffs. I hit a switch on the wall, and the winch motors begin to reel him in, pulling his arms above his head. I switch the motors off, and release the handcuffs attached to his cock and balls. Then I switch the motors on again, and his hands are pulled higher until he's standing on tip toes, and finally his feet are no longer touching the floor. His entire weight is now being supported by his arms and shoulders. He looks uncomfortable. I slide a � inch bi-polar electrode into his penis and place a 7/8 inch o-ring on his cock-head to keep it from sliding out. I then place a tall, heavy stool behind him and secure it to the floor. The seat of the stool is circular, only 4" in diameter, and has a large dildo attached to it. The only way he's going to be able to take the pressure of his weight off his shoulders is to hoist himself up and sit on this stool. And, the only way he's going to be able to sit on this stool is with the dildo up his ass. I grease the dildo carefully. A large plasma screen hangs in front of him. I turn it on, and he has a view of his predicament from four angles. "At some point, you're going to get tired of hanging there. When you do, hopefully before you've exhausted your strength, you can hoist yourself up and sit on the stool. Sitting on the stool, though, means that the dildo goes up your ass. It's a little bigger than the last one, and this is not a butt plug, so it's not a matter of getting past the widest point and then clamping down on something of smaller diameter. It's all the same size -- about 2" in diameter. Oh, and it's ribbed, so it should provide interesting sensations as you slide down it. Oh, and did I tell you it's electric. When it's finally inside you, it will start to send jolts of low-current electricity through your asshole that'll cause your sphincter muscles to contract. It'll feel like it's fucking you. And," plugging the electrode in his penis into the control unit, "when the dildo starts firing, so will the electrode in your dick. Remember, you are not allowed to cum. If you cum, you will be punished, and the dildo will alert us to ejaculation. I'm going up to my office now to get some work done. Enjoy." With that, I leave the basement and go to my office. The cameras that are giving him a four-shot view of himself are also being wirelessly broadcast to my computer upstairs where it's being recorded. Twenty minutes he hangs there, sweating, then starts to cry. He begins trying to hoist himself up, but has apparently depleted his strength. He's weak. Finally, after several tries, he's able to hoist himself high enough to center his hole on the dildo, but he can't keep himself aloft long enough to lower himself gracefully; he's lost strength. He impales himself in an instant, screaming as his sphincter is abruptly penetrated, stretched to its limit, perhaps beyond its limit. And the second he lands on the stool, the moment his weight triggers the tens unit, the electricity began doing it's work. He's actually very lucky. This was done to me when I was a teenager. But it wasn't with a tens unit. My father hooked me up to a light dimmer with a crescent wrench up my ass. I came instantly with 110 volts of city power running through my prostate. I probably almost died. I've set the Folsom box to a pretty good zap, and you can see he's feeling it. With each pulse, he shrieks, and that is pretty entertaining, especially because he's got a raging hardon. This will go on YouTube tomorrow morning. His friends will love it. I begin working on an estimate for renovations that a client has requested. It's a beautiful lot in a suburban neighborhood. The worst house in the best neighborhood, which is what you always shoot for. It's complicated, though. We can tear this place down to the studs and rebuild from there, or we can tear it completely down and rebuild from nothing. With older homes it often more cost-effective to start from zero because the structure of the original house is built of lumber of a thickness you can no longer get any more. This makes comparison estimates complex. You're trading off materials for labor, a difficult equation. After about two hours, I'm as close as I'm going to get on this thing. I glance up at the monitor, and Bristol is still squirming, still trying to get comfortable with that dildo up his ass. He flinches with each pulse of electricity, and I guess that's not surprising because I'd set the unit to increase the frequency and intensity of the pulses over time. There are actually two electrodes -- one in his dick and one in his asshole -- and by this time they're firing so fast that there's no hiatus between the two; one or the other is on at any given second, sending a jolt of electricity. He's crying and squirming. His eyes are red. His face is wet. It looks like the electrode in his dick is causing him more of a problem than the one in his ass because, while the one in his ass causes him to squirm, the one in his dick is still eliciting little screams, after more than two hours. I make my way to the basement, and the minute I get there, Bristol looks at me with those tearful eyes. "How're you doing, Bristol?" "Please shut it off," he pleads. "I can't take any more of this. Please..." "Sure you can. You can take whatever I decide to give you. It's not like it's going to kill you. It may not feel very good, but you can take it. And, it looks like your dick's actually enjoying it." He was still hard, after two hours. "Please. Please shut it off." He was weeping now. I decide to let him enjoy it for a while more, and leave the basement. "No...no...please don't go...please...don't...go...I...can't..." I close the basement door and move to the living room. There's a video I want to see. "The Houseboy" has arrived from NetFlix. The story of, basically, a second wife in a gay relationship, who is left at home to take care of the fish while his masters go on vacation. Very cute film. An hour and a half later, I go to my office to see what's going on. Bristol is still sitting on the dildo, slumped forward, eyes closed though still very puffy, still spasming with each zap of electricity. His dick is rampant, pulsing with his heartbeat, or the electric charges, or both. It wants to get off. It's ready to get off. It's time for me to help it along. Back to the basement. Bristol opens his eyes. He looks exhausted. I turn off the circuit to his dick and remove the electrode. He seems a bit relieved. I begin stroking his cock. "Remember, Bristol: you are not allowed to cum. If you cum, you'll be punished." Suddenly he looks terrified. He knows what this means. He has an electric dildo up his ass stimulating his prostate, and I'm stroking his cock. He knows I won't stop. He knows that he's going to cum...eventually. He knows that his last punishment was excruciating. He begins to cry...as he faces the inevitable...as his cock gets harder...as I take it in my mouth and begin sucking him. "Please...please...please don't do this. I don't want to disobey." Pulling off him, I look him in the eyes. "I think you're a bit queer, Bristol. Quite a bit queer. You admit to having sucked off your friends, the other thugs who beat up my friend. If a girl were sucking me like this, regardless of what was happening in my ass, I'd be limp. Yet, here you are hard, and getting even harder." I smack his hardon, and it bounces to the left and right against his thighs. "I'm not sure what you think you know about yourself, but if you think you're straight, well, I think you're wrong. If you're a straight boy, and you don't want to be punished, the only thing you need to do is act like a straight boy. Control shouldn't be an issue for you." He's crying again, head bowed, weeping. He knows. I think I've forced him into reality. This is not a good idea with people you like. Better to let them find reality on their own. But this kid is not someone I like, and he's so violent and arrogant that self-realization is going to take too long. I don't give a damn about the emotional scars -- in fact, I'd like to think that I can leave some. "I'm not gay," he shrieks. "I'm not. I'm not fucking gay." "Then why is your dick so fucking hard?" His sobs are punctuated by little grunts as the surges of electricity from the dildo continue to hit him. Picking up the tens control box, I tune up the intensity, and he begins to flinch again. I think he's gotten used to it. I don't want this to be an annoyance. I want this to hurt. I increase the intensity still higher, and he begins to writhe, with little shrieks with each zap. I go back to sucking him, his dick rock hard. I don't think he knows whether this is pleasure or pain. He is twitching violently, but is so into the blow-job, he is almost beside himself. I pull off him for a moment: "Remember, Bristol. If you cum, you'll be punished...again. Say it. `If I cum, I'll be punished'" I wait a moment, and then take his balls in my hand and squeeze. "Say it Bristol." He screams. "If I cum, I'll be punished." He begins to sob as I start sucking him again. "Please stop torturing me. I'm going to cum. You know I'm going to cum. You're making me cum. Please don't do this." "Nobody can make you cum, Bristol. You cum because you're turned on and can't control yourself. It takes sexual stimulation from someone or something you're attracted to and abandon. My question is, why are you sexually stimulated? I'm a guy. Why are you sexually stimulated by a guy?" I return to his dick, teasing it, sucking it. I've begun to massage his perineum and tickle his balls. He's sobbing, but very close to orgasm. I pull off him again. "Why are you so turned on, Bristol? You should be able to control this. You'd better control this, or you'll be punished. Why are you so turned on?" "Because I'm a fag," he shrieks, as he starts to pump loads of spunk onto the rug in one of the biggest orgasms I've ever seen. Ten...twelve shots of cum. Finally winding down, he starts to cry again. "Please don't hurt me. Please don't punish me. I'm so sorry. I couldn't stop it." Between sobs, "Please...don't...hurt...me..." I wait a moment or two for him to catch his breath, to stop crying. "Did you have my permission to cum, Bristol? Did I say you could do that?" "No." "And what did I say would happen if you did cum?" Quietly, "That I'd be punished." "Exactly. So what happens now?" "You punish me," he says, starting to cry again. "Right." I lower the cables connected to his wrists and lift him off the electric dildo stool. He holds onto me in an embrace, his head draped over my shoulder, his legs trying to wrap around me, but for the spreader-bar. I carry him to a table in the middle of the room, and attach his wrist cuffs to the corners, and his spreader-bar to a winch in the middle and cinch up the tension." "So, here's the deal, Bristol boy. We're either going to pierce your nipples, or we're going to give you a gallon enema. Which ever one we don't do this time, we'll do the next time I get you off, and I plan to do that at least a couple more times today. Which one scares you most?" "The piercing." "How much more does it scare you?" "By a lot." "Wanna do that one first? Get it out of the way?" Crying again. "Okay. How much will it hurt?" "Probably more than the enema, but only for a few seconds, whereas the enema will hurt for a looooong time. You can compare the two when you get the enema. And you will. You let me know then if I'm wrong." I take out the equipment. Putting on a pair of sterile gloves, I swab his nipples with betadyne; I mark his left nipple, and then his right. I clamp them both. Tearing open the sterile envelope containing the hollow needle, I pierce the left nipple first. 6 gauge -- pretty hefty. It's got to hurt -- a lot. He screams, but I don't really think it was that painful. I take off the clamp and hang the jewelry. The second is always the worst. I drive the needle through his nipple. Again, he screams -- longer this time. I remove the clamp and hang the jewelry. He's crying, but pretty. I've chosen titanium segment rings. Because there's no apparent break in the ring, they look like they've been clamped on and welded. Very becoming. His nipples look like they're captive. I move the jewelry a bit to ensure there'll be no infection. "What do you think, Bristol." He can see himself in a mirror attached to the ceiling, above the table. In fact, he's watched the whole procedure. And, I've filmed it. More fodder for YouTube. "Okay," he says between sobs. I think he's adorable. And his dick is rock hard again. I think he's enjoyed this. I insert a prostate stimulator into his ass and turn on the vibrator. He groans. His dick starts to pulse. He continues to cry. "No more cumming, Bristol. If you cum, what will happen?" "Punishment." "Exactly. And it won't be pleasant." I leave the basement and go up to make us dinner. Beef stew. I made it a couple of days ago. Just have to heat it up. This kid is so horny, like most teenagers, I guess, but he seems more turned on. Maybe it's his latent homosexuality. He's clearly pretty gay, and hasn't allowed himself to express that. Maybe that's why he's so wired. He says he's been sucking dick for a while. How has he been covering that? Or maybe he hasn't. Maybe his thug friends cut him a break because they think they're forcing him. I'm going to have some fun exploring that with him. I take the stew downstairs and crank up the head of the table enough so I can feed him without making a mess. "You hungry, Bristol?" "Yes," he replies. "Ready for dinner?" "Yes, please." I don't know whether he thinks I'm going to release him, or what. I'm not. I'm going to feed him. Having put the stew on the side table, I ladle out a spoonful, and bring it to his lips. He looks dejected, but opens up. He's being treated like a baby, a baby with an erection, whose prostate is being stimulated as he eats. Another spoonful...and another. I stroke his belly, as I feed him. "Good boy, Bristol." His hands are attached to the corners of the table, above his head. His eyes are red and swollen. His legs are spread. I begin to stroke his erection, slowly at first, then more quickly. He begins to cry again, softly, as he eats his stew. He knows what's coming as I caress his swollen dick, as the prostate vibrator does its work. "I've been thinking about your next punishment, Bristol," I say, giving him another spoonful of stew. "I know I said that we'd give you an enema next. But after that, I think we're going to give you a genital piercing, a Prince Albert. A Prince Albert is a piercing where we pierce a hole at the bottom of your dick just behind the dickhead, and place a ring through it coming out your piss slit. It'll hurt a bit, but it's going to look so cool. I'm thinking a 2 gauge ring. I think you'll really like it. He has stopped chewing and is just crying. "Please don't hurt me. Please don't torture me any more. Please..." "You said you were a fag, Bristol. When did you know that? When did you know you were gay?" He hsngs his head. "I'm not gay." "Then you lied?" "Yes." "Hmmmmm." I give his engorged dick a squeeze, and he squeezes back, involuntarily. He is very turned on. "Hmmmmm," maybe we'll do both. "Double your pleasure, double your fun," I sing. "So, if you cum, we'll start with the enema and end up with a very cute piercing." I've been sort of lazily stroking him off all this time, keeping him hard, but not working to get him off. I smile at him, and double my speed, squirting a little lotion onto my hands. He's crying, pleading. "Please." "You sure you want to stick with the `Not Gay' answer." He considers the question for a couple of seconds. "Yes." "Okay." I increase my speed as I jerked him off. "So, let me ask again, if you're straight why are you about to cum at the hands of a sadistic gay guy for the third time today? Why are you about to cum, knowing that you're going to get so punished? Why are you right on the verge, knowing how much pain I'm going to cause you?" I slow down my pace, wanting to keep him on the verge for as long as possible. "I...don't...know...," he screams. "I think you do Bristol." "No...no...no..." "Sure you do. And I'm going to keep you right at this point until you tell me." I slow up, barely touching him. He is soooo close, and soooo frustrated...and soooo scared. I brush his dick with the back of my hand. "Would you like to cum, Bristol?" "Yes, please." Pleading. "How badly would you like to cum." "Very badly." Thinking. "But I can't cum. I don't want to be punished. Please don't hurt me." I brush my hand over his dick again, and he jumps. "What if you could cum and not be punished. A freebie. What if I let you cum without punishment." I reached out and squeezed his dick. He moaned. "Are you gay, Bristol?" Quietly. "Yes." "I'm recording this, Bristol. This could end up on YouTube tomorrow. Are you gay?" Long pause. Quietly, "Yes." I chuckle. "You need to get off that bad?" I squeeze his dick." Quietly. "Yes." "When did you first know that?" Long pause. "When I was ten." "How did you know?" "A boy I knew, Jiminee, was peeing in our garden, and I was watching, and it made me hard. I didn't know why, but I wanted him. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to touch him. I still want to touch him." "Well, this is your freebie, Bristol boy." Still slowly stroking his rampant dick. "You've paid for it. You're either going to tell your family and friends that you're gay, or your videos from today are going on YouTube, and I'll make sure they know to look for them. I'll ask you again later if you're gay. I'll ask you often. If you recant, if you say "no," I will double your punishment for your next transgression, and post your videos. But this orgasm you get for free. No punishment. How would you like me to get you off this once?" He paused for almost a minute, looking sheepish. "Could you fuck me again, please sir?" He took me completely by surprise. "You want me to fuck you?" "Yes, sir." Supplicating. "Are you sure?" "Yes, sir." He was crying, pleading, embarrassed. He was on film asking me to fuck him. He knew this. "Okay. Any particular way you'd like it done? Any particular position?" "Yes, please. I'd like to be on my knees, so I can masturbate while you do it." "Would you like me to masturbate you instead." He looked surprised, like he hadn't thought of that. "If you wouldn't mind. Yes, please." "You do remember that I'm filming this, right?" "Yes." "You don't care?" "I guess if I'm out, I'm out. I guess I'm already out." "Well, if you stay out, Bristol, nobody will ever see this. But if you recant tomorrow, everyone you know will have a copy; the whole damned country will have a copy; the world. You will be fucking famous. Everyone will see you with a dick up your ass. My dick up your ass." Quietly. "Please fuck me now." "Okay." I reattach the handcuffs to his cock and balls, and hook those to the ceiling winch. One press of the button, and he'll be hanging by his balls from the ceiling. I release his hands and remove the spreader bar, telling him to flip over onto his hand and knees. I then re-attached his wrists to the head of the table, and hook his ankles to the far corners. I detach the cuffs from his balls. He's not going anywhere. Standing in front of him, I slowly take off my clothes, and as I do this, his cock began to expand. He's looking forward to this. Reaching between his legs, I stroke him gently. He's ready. I grease up my dick, slowly, sensually, as he watches, and move behind him. "Ready?" "Yes, please." So fucking refined all of a sudden. The "pleases" and "thank yous" are killing me. I climb up on the table, behind him, and tell him to lay his head down. Then, I caress him, stroking his body, pinching his nipples. He begins to cry. Inexplicable. "What's wrong, Bristol?" "Nothing. I don't know. Why does this feel so good?" "Because you're gay? Because you're into it? Because nobody's ever touched you like this before? You tell me." "I guess." Pause. "But I don't think I want to be gay." "I don't think I want to be white. What do you think I should do about that?" He laughs. "I guess it is what it is." "Yup. Ready?" "Yes." He's become very submissive all of a sudden, and is waiting for me. I enter him in one slow trust. He's already stretched from the other penetrations. He feels really good. REALLY good. I drape my body over his, laying my head next to his, and start to kiss him. Surprisingly, he returns the kiss, tentatively at first, and then passionately, pulling on his wrist cuffs, trying to get closer to me. I back off and began to fuck him, establishing a rhythm, trying to hit his special spot with every thrust. He's moaning non-stop. Reaching around, I play with his nipple rings, and then start to stroke him. "No...no. Please don't touch me there. Not yet. I don't want to cum, yet. I'm really close." I stop, putting my hands on his hips, balancing myself as I continue to fuck him, slamming my dick into him with greater and greater force. I begin to kiss his back, to lick it. He's on fire. We keep at this for five, maybe ten minutes. I have to vary my speed to keep from cumming, but I'm still on the edge. "I'm not going to be able to keep this up much longer," he confesses. "Please, can you jack me off now?" I begin to stroke him again, very slowly, and it doesn't take long. His breathing has become ragged and abrupt, his moans almost constant, as his body writhes in rhythm to my fucking. With each stroke, I pull completely out of him, and then enter him anew, ramming my dick to the hilt as my balls slap against his butt. It's not clear whether what he feels is pleasure or pain, which is how the best sex usually is. Suddenly, he arches his back, hissing, "Oh...oh...oh." And he comes in gushes. It probably takes him two minutes, and twenty shots to empty his balls, coating my fingers with his cum. But, I'm not counting, because once his orgasm starts, the spasms sens me over the edge. It feel like he's caressing my dick -- sometimes strangling it. And I manage to get the rhythm right, so I'm pulling out with each constriction, and pushing into him when he loosens up. I'm in heaven, and I think he is, too. Both spent, we slump on the table, my body draped over his. We're both panting, face to face. I move closer, and start to kiss him again, and again he responds, but this time he's passionate from the start, driving his tongue into my mouth. We kiss for what must be twenty minutes. We kiss until my lips and tongue are tired. We kissed until he's hard again, his stiffy protruding uncomfortably between his legs. I release his right hand and ankle so he can turn on his side and we snuggled, his rampant dick now between my legs. He has a wonderfully compact body. Not skinny by any stretch of the imagination. He's quite muscular, but has a little layer of fat over those muscles making him quite soft, quite huggable. Almost no body hair, not even on his legs or under his arms. The only body hair appears to be around his dick. He's very soft, very pettable. "Thank you," he whispers into my ear at last. "For what," I ask surprised? "For getting me off without beating the shit out of me. For making love to me. No one has ever done that before, made love to me." "What about all those blow-jobs you said you'd given?" "I didn't really have a choice about those. The other guys were a lot bigger than me. Likewise the times I've been fucked. They were basically rape. And I was lucky if I was able to move afterwards. Brutal, and I usually got beaten up afterwards for being the fag, for taking it. This was different." "Well, probably you were different, too. Are you still gay?" "Yes." "Good. Stay that way." I caress his face, and begin kissing him again. He kisses back, and begins squirming, undulating his hips in order to move his hardon between my legs. Frottage. He meltes my heart. "Okay, one more freebie. How do you want to get off this time." He didn't pause. "Same way as last time." "Okay. But let's try a different position." I detach his left arm and ankle, and tell him to flip over on his back. Then I clip his wrists to the corner of the table. I like the feeling of control that bondage brings. My own baggage, I guess. I attach his ankle cuffs to ropes extending from the back wall, and pull so that he's essentially bent double. He's very lithe, and doesn't seem to be uncomfortable, but is clearly confused. Guess he's only ever taken it from the rear. I mount the table, grease my dick, and position myself between his legs. But, instead of instantly penetrating him (which is what I wanted to do) or leaning over and kissing him (which had also crossed my mind), I begin to lick...his ass. His eyes fly open -- in shock -- as I circle his hole with my tongue, coming oh so close, but not quite getting there. When I do get there, he lets out a loud, contented moan. He's never been rimmed before. Not surprising: the sexual experiences he's had have been servicing someone else. No one has ever considered fulfilling his needs and desires. I begin to lick the pucker, to suck on it...to nibble on it...aggressively, to drive my tongue into him. He moans loudly. "Oh, my God. Oh, fuck. Jesus Christ." After maybe fifteen minutes of rimming him, I squirt some lube on his hole, and spread it around, inserting one greasy finger to ensure that he would take me easily. He's still very loose. Then, moving back, I align my cock with his hole, and enter him in a single slow, sensual thrust, leaning over to kiss him at the same time. He giggles. "What's the deal?" "I taste myself on you." "Well, yeah. I taste you on me, too." "That doesn't gross you out?" "Not really. You always have to pass the sniff test first, but once you do that it's just raw pheromones down there, 100% aphrodisiac." I begin to kiss him while pumping in and out of his ass. I'm using my belly to stroke his dick with every thrust. It doesn't take him long. "Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ. I'm going to cum." And cum he does, in a torrent. How does this boy have so damned much spunk? I continue pumping, and soon join him in a torrent of my own inside him. He looks very satisfied. Pulling out of him, I release his ankles from above his head, and fasten them to cables connected to a winch at the foot of the table. I synch them up so he's stretched out, but comfortably so. "So, you still gay?" "Yes," he says, and smiles. "And, what'll happen when your friends and family find out. And they will, because we're going to tell them." He's thoughtful for a minute, and then looks up at me. "Hopefully they'll be okay with it," he says dubiously. "The guys I used to hang with, the three guys that beat up your friend, they'll hate me when they find out, but they're in prison for a while, so that doesn't matter much. My father will probably freak at first, but hopefully he'll get used to it. Do we have to tell everyone right away?" "Yup. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can start coming to terms with it yourself. By the way, there were four guys that beat up my friend, remember?" "Yes. I'm so sorry. I think I was afraid that if I didn't go along with the bashings, the guys would think I was gay." Bingo. He's figured it out. "So, this wasn't the only one?" "There was one other, but that guy got away." "That's some comfort, although I'm sure there are emotional scars. There are always emotional scars when you're made to feel helpless and terrified." "Yeah. I'm really sorry." "Well, it's good you're sorry. That shows progress. But I don't think you should get off scot-free, do you?" "Probably not," a tear running down his cheek. "Okay, so here's the deal. I'd planned to keep you here for three days and really work you over for what you did to him. But you have made progress, and we're going to cement that progress by telling your friends and family the truth. You seem sincere in your remorse." "I'm so sorry about your friend, about what we did to him. I'd like to tell him that." "We can arrange that. At the end of this, I'd planned to shave off your body hair as a way of reminding you of what you did, at least until it grows back. I'm still going to do that. It might be a little embarrassing in gym, but I'm sure you'll think of something to say, or you can tell them the truth." "Okay," he says, another tear appearing to slowly make its way down his cheek. In addition, I'm going to give you an enema to clean you out so I can fuck you again. I guarantee that I'll get you off and that it'll be one of the best orgasms you've ever had. "Better than the last two times," he says in disbelief? "Oh, yeah. I have my ways," I smile, "but the enema is not going to be pleasant. That's the punishment. It's going to blow you up like a balloon and you're going to have to hold the solution for forty-five minutes, during which your guts will cramp. It will be awful. And, after that enema, you'll need another to clean out the first solution, but you'll only need to hold that for a couple of minutes. You'll find that your dick will be rock hard during the enemas, though, because of the pressure on your prostate. Some people really like the feeling, but you're not going to be one of them. Yours will be a punishment enema, and will be truly punishing." He was crying in anticipation. "Okay," he says, dubiously. "If that's what it takes to make amends." "By the way, we're going to invite your victim to watch the enemas. You can apologize then. Then you're free to go, unless you want to stay and have me fuck you thirty or forty more times in the next two days." I smiled, and surprisingly draw a tearful laugh from Bristol. "Okay," he said. "I guess that's a fair punishment. I've had an enema once before, so I sort of know what to expect. And you're right, my dick was hard the whole time. It was very embarrassing in front of the nurse." I chuckle. "Believe me, they're used to men popping boners at some of the damnedest times. I'm going to go call Jimmy, and then you're going to have a shave," I say, mounting the stairs. Jimmy is stunned when he hears. "You've got him in the basement?" "Manacled to a table, waiting for a shave and a really big enema. Turns out he's a pretty nice kid. Seems genuinely sorry for what he did to you, and wants to make amends. He wants to say he's sorry, and endure the pain of the enema and the humiliation of losing his pubic hair in order to prove his remorse. He's also now admitted that he's gay, and has come to terms with the fact that we're going to tell his parents and friends once we're done here. So, you wanna watch the enema?" "No, I don't think so. I mean, I'm glad the kid is getting punished, really glad, and really punished. But, I really don't want to see him again, even if he is sorry. If he wants to apologize, you can call me after you're finished. I'll be around tonight and tomorrow, so whenever." "I understand. A bit traumatic seeing your attackers again. I remember how freaked you were by the trial." "Big time. I was so scared they'd get off and come after me." "Okay, then, I'll take care of it. If you change your mind, there's always the video," I say with a chuckle. "If this boy doesn't come out to his family and friends by Friday, it's all going on YouTube anyway." "Oh, you are evil," he says with a laugh. "I know. Talk to you soon." "Ciao." Hanging up the phone, I return to the basement. Bristol is still crying softly, sniffling, trying to control his breathing. "Why the tears, Bristol boy?" "Because I'm scared. I don't handle pain well." "Well, I can understand that. But you agree you should be punished." "Yeah," he says, resignedly. "What I did was pretty awful." "And you agree that the punishment we talked about is appropriate?" "Yeah, I guess," again, resignedly. "Your friend ended up in the hospital, didn't he? "For four days while they cleaned him up. He was off work for two weeks while he healed. But again the psychological scars are longer term. He doesn't, for example, want to see you. Given the chance to watch your punishment, he refused. He's too scared of you." "I'm so sorry. I guess I do deserve this. I'm scared of the pain, but I guess I owe him this." "He says we can call him tomorrow if you want to apologize." "I'd like that." "Good. Let's get started." I move to a cupboard and return with a can of menthol shaving cream, a disposable razor, a bowl of warm water, a wash cloth, and a bar of soap. Bristol is not particularly hairy. His legs and chest are hairless, and his cock and balls are sparse. Reaching between his legs, I trace his ass crack with my finger. That too is hairless. This will be easy. Going back to the cupboard, I return with a rechargeable electric clipper. Switching it on, I begin to mow his cock and balls. He watches, craning his head up from the table. "Do you shave your face?" "Not very often. Maybe once a week," he says, sniffling. "My beard doesn't grow very fast, and it's blond and pretty sparse, so it doesn't show very much. I think this runs in the family. My Dad doesn't have to shave every day either. We're Dutch. Maybe that has something to do with it." "Hmmmm... Maybe..." Having clipped the pubic bush, I apply a coating of shave cream, and begin shaving the area. It's not long before Bristol is hard again, and moaning softly. And it's not long before his cock and balls are totally bare. He looks about 14. "Okay, Bristol. You're really cooperating with this punishment, and I appreciate that. Do you want me to jerk you off before we do the enema?" "He looks surprised. His eyes become glassy. He looks like he's going to cry. "Yes, please," he chokes. I squirt a little more shave cream in my hand, and start to stroke him. I don't think he completely expects how this will feel. This is menthol shave cream. When that menthol hits his dick heads, it begins to burn a bit, and he moans again, and cringes, but his dick gets instantly rock hard. I continue to jerk him off, and in about five minutes he blows another wad. He lies back, contented. "How was it?" "Good, but not as good as when you fuck me. Will you really fuck me again after the enema?" "As often as you want it. But first, the punishment." I put away the shaving gear, and take a two quart enema bag from the cupboard. I fill it with warm water, add � cup of baking soda. Screwing on the top, I shake it to mix the solution. I grab a hose and clamp from the cupboard, clamp it off, and hang it from an I.V. stand. I take another two quart enema bag and fill it with cold water, adding two ounces of cider vinegar, again attaching a hose and clamp, and hang it from the other side of the I.V. stand, balanced. I add Y-connector to the two hoses, and another hose to the bottom of the Y. He's going to take a gallon of liquid, which is a large enema, but this mixture is insidious. Acid and alkali makes carbon-dioxide. It will blow him up like a balloon. I'll administer the baking soda enema first, and it will probably be very soothing. Then I'll add the vinegar enema after maybe ten minutes. He will look like he's pregnant, and will spend the next 35 minutes in the depths of hell, writhing in pain. He will not forget this punishment. I attach a double-balloon enema nozzle to ensure that he retains the liquid for the full forty-five minutes. I roll the I.V. stand over to the table. This is his first view of the enema bags, and his eyes are like saucers. He begins to cry again as he realizes what's coming. Lubricating the nozzle, I slide it into his rectum, and pump up the inner balloon, as he watches in the mirror above the table. He gets hard almost at once as the balloon presses against the prostate. Next, I pump up the external balloon, which pulls the inner balloon firmly against his sphincter, ensuring a solid, leak-free seal. There's no way any of this liquid is coming out of him until I release these seals. You can attach backwash valves to the enema hose to prevent the recipient from controlling the flow with their stomach muscles, basically shitting it back out. But, with the sheer weight of this much liquid, the sheer volume, that probably won't be possible, an even if it is, it will be so painful that it's probably even more painful than the enema itself. If he wants to try, more power to him. Moving back to the cupboard, I retrieve a large darkroom timer which I hang on the wall in front of the table, where he can see it and set it to forty-five minutes. Bristol is already writhing, in anticipation, I think, of what's coming. "We're all set, Bristol. This is your punishment for gay-bashing my friend. I understand that you were feeling insecure with your own sexuality. I understand that you felt you had to prove you were one of the straight crowd to your friends. And, I think you've made really great strides here, in admitting who you are. Are you still gay?" "Yes," he said. No smile. No giggle. Crying openly. "Good. But, despite those great strides, I still think you need to be punished for beating up Jimmy. He didn't deserve it, did he?" "No." "Do you agree that you should be punished." "Yes," he says, resignedly, through his tears. "Okay, then." I attach an external catheter to his penis, and a urine bag to the catheter. "Before we do this, I want you to pee. I know your dick's hard, but you'll be way more comfortable if you pee first. I'm going to wait until you've peed. He pushes and pants, and finally achieved a steady stream. He hasn't peed for several hours, and I'm pretty sure he's full, and sure enough, he nearly fills the bag. When the stream becomes a trickle, I returned to the table. "You ready, Bristol," I asked, tousling his hair? "I guess." I kiss him on the lips, a passionate kiss, exploring his mouth with my tongue, and he kisses back. For maybe 30 seconds we continued to kiss. Finally, I break the kiss, perhaps the last one I'll have with him after what's coming. "I'm proud of you, Bristol, for owning up to what you've done, for taking your punishment, and it's going to be punishing. It's going to hurt a lot, maybe more than anything has ever hurt in your life. You're a much better human being than I thought you were, and I'm happy to know you. Are you still gay?" He smiles through his tears. "Yes." "Great." I smile back at him and brush away his tears with my thumb. "You tell me when." He pauses, gulps, looked at me sorrowfully, and says it: "Go ahead." I hit the start button on the timer. The trick to a really painful punishment enema, besides a large volume of liquid and the baking soda and vinegar I've added, is how you release the liquid. In a soap and water enema, you want to release the whole volume of liquid in a gush -- fill him up as quickly as possible, overwhelm him by the flow. In this enema, you want to give him an initial false sense of security, so you empty the first bag, the baking soda enema slowly. Let him bask in the warmth of it. Let him assume that this is as bad as it will be. Then, maybe ten minutes later, you release the vinegar enema in a cold gush. I release the hose clamp for the baking soda enema by half only and let it drain slowly into him. He gasps slightly as his bowels fill, but seems okay. After perhaps two minutes, the bag is empty, and Bristol, whimpering a little, is in pretty good shape. I stroke his tummy, only moderately distended. "You okay, Bristol?" "Yeah." "Good." We wait ten minutes. I busy myself with other things. I see him peering at himself in the mirror above him, looking, perhaps, at his denuded cock and balls, at the slightly protruding belly. He's stopped crying. He hasn't noticed that there's another bag to go. At the allotted time, I return to the I.V. cart. "Here comes the second half, Bristol. This is when it gets rough." He looks surprised as I open the second hose clamp fully and the cold vinegar enema gushes into him. He is almost instantly in pain, writhing on the table. Good thing the restraints are padded and the table is strong, because he begins to thrash. After 30 seconds, the bag is fully empty, and after two minutes he's screaming, begging me to stop, to let it out. After four minutes, he's completely incoherent, thrashing violently. His belly does look like he's nine-months pregnant and ready to deliver, so bloated is he. I stroke his belly. "How you doing, Bristol?" "Please...no...pain...stop...breathe...please...please...pleasepleasepleaseplease..." "I told you this would be rough, Bristol, and you agreed that it should be. You have thirty-five minutes to go." Sobbing, wailing now. "Pleasepleaseplease...die...wanttodie...pleasejustdothat..." "Nope. You still have thirty four minutes. Then we can talk about your proposed death." Shrieks. He's throwing himself from side to side, thrashing violently. Because of the mixture of the acid and alkali in the two enema solutions, his belly has actually expanded since the second bag finished emptying itself. In fact, it's still expanding. "Nononononono..." I check my watch, and the timer, and head upstairs for a beer. I can just barely hear him downstairs, shrieking. I've tried this enema on a sub or two, and they've told me that it's the worst they've ever felt. In both cases they safe-worded out of it in under three minutes. But their submission was voluntary; Bristol's isn't. He's going to take the full shot. He's a cute kid, and certainly I'd like to fuck him again. I'd even like to get to know him. But he needs to be punished for what he did to Jimmy. I drink my beer at the kitchen table, rock hard, and then return to the basement. The minute I open the door I'm assaulted by his screams. He's hoarse now, but still shrieking. As I come to the landing, I see his belly. It's larger still that it was when I left. The mixture's doing its work. This will certainly clean him out. And he's hard, very, very hard. I gently stroke his belly, and then his dick. He begins to pant...and shriek...and pant... and shriek. I move away from the table, out of his line of vision, and sit down on a chair. He's still screaming, still begging me to stop. He has fourteen more minutes to go. He deserves this. He'll never forget it, of that I'm sure. His cries are deafening, and heart-wrenching, and I have to keep reminding myself what he and his friends did to Jimmy, that he got a free pass on that assault. Remorse or no remorse, he has to be punished. Jimmy got three broken ribs, a broken nose, a broken arm, bruised kidneys, an asshole that had to be surgically mended, assorted lacerations and contusions, and a world view that has left him emotionally incapacitated to this day. Bristol's three friends got three years of boredom, if they're lucky/ugly, or three years of gang rape if they aren't. Bristol got one day of intense pain. Sounded more than fair to me. His voice is going quickly. He's seriously raspy. It won't last the ten minutes he has left. His belly has grown slightly, but its inflation has slowed. I stroke it gently and he screams. I move to his dick, which is just as hard as before. I give his balls a gentle squeeze, and he screams again. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the tears are flowing. His nose is snotty, and his mouth is open in an almost perpetual scream. He looks like the Edvard Munch painting. I rest my hand on his obscenely distended belly. "Nonononononono...please...stop...please." "Eight more minutes, Bristol." He begins to sob. He's not screaming any more, has no voice left, and has realized that I'm not going to release him until the time is up. No one is going to help him. Maybe he even realizes that he deserves this, but that's an intellectual exercise that I think is beyond him at this moment. He hurts...at the core of his being. Justice is probably not big on his hit parade. At the five minute mark, he's quieter, still sobbing, and still very inflated, but no longer shrieking. "Good job," Bristol. I kiss him on the lips, without touching him anywhere else. Remarkably, he kisses me back, through his sobs. His face is a mess of tears, snot and drool. Yet he kisses me. At two minutes, I loosen the cables holding his ankles, and release them. Moving to the head of the table, I release his wrists. His eyes are still clamped shut. He's still sobbing. I don't think he knows he's free. At one minute I lift him horizontally off the table, being careful not to let him bend at the waist. His eyes fly open. I carry him to a small toilet in the corner and make him stand in front of it until the timer bell sounds. He is pregnant with this enema. In one fluid movement, I deflate both the enema nozzle balloons, pull it out of him, and force him down onto the toilet. He explodes immediately in one of the nastiest-smelling bowel movements I've ever witnessed. He's still crying, but wrinkles his nose in disgust. It's foul. He stays there for maybe ten minutes, draining, and is still in pain, still crying. "You remember I told you you'd need another enema. That's to rinse you out. Without it, you're belly is going to feel awful for a long time. Come back to the table. He cleans himself up, reluctantly, and comes back to the table, lying down on his side. Fetal position. "This'll be just a rinse, and I think we should do it twice. Plain water. No retention." I refill one of the enema bags and re-insert the nozzle, this time only inflating the inner balloon. I open the hose clamp fully, letting the water drain quickly. After about thirty seconds, the bag is empty. "Hold it for two minutes." He nods, sobbing, and in the allotted time, I extract the nozzle, and he expels. We do it again and, because what comes out of him is still not quite clear, one more time. "Okay?" He's a bit wobbly on his feet. I help him upstairs, and lay him on my bed. "You okay," I ask again. He starts to cry. "That is the worst pain I've felt in my whole life. I can't believe how painful that was. I thought I'd explode. It wasn't like a stomach ache. I'd prepared for that. It was like an atomic bomb. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't think at all. I will remember that my entire life." "That was the idea. You still gay." He laughs through the tears. "Yes." "Good, because by the end of the week we're going to tell your family and friends you're gay whether you believe that or not. Best case, you're going to confess it, tell them who you are. Worst case, all the videos I've made of this day go out on YouTube. The last bit of punishment left. So you're sure. You're ready to confess it." "Yeah, I guess," he says apprehensively. "Don't worry. It's a lot easier than you think it'll be." "I guess." "So, if you're gay, having paid the price for your transgressions, having been thoroughly punished..." "Amen to that..." "Is there anything you'd like as a reward for your reclamation?" His tears have nearly dried as he's wiped his eyes. He's hard again. He smiles coyly, almost coquettishly. "Could you fuck me again, like you promised?" "How many times?" "Thirty or forty in the next two days would be good." "Yeah," I said, trying to sound bored, but half-smiling. I winked at him. "I guess I can do that."