Date: Thu, 25 Sep 2008 00:04:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Keppler <nemoami@yahoo.com>
Subject: Prague

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 therein.

PRAGUE

Prague.  1989.  He is the most beautiful boy I've ever seen: loose abundant
golden curls, bright green eyes, a very full pouty mouth, rather flat nose,
slim though muscular body, about 5'9" and very young, 17 at most. He's
dressed in jeans, a U2 Boy t-shirt, and Vans. I had paid Mr. Petrov, the
concierge at my apartment a lot to find me a cute companion, and had
described what I wanted. This is what he brought me. Perfect. He looks very
scared.

"What will he do," I asked.

"Anything you want him to do. He's been paid. Anything short of long-term
physical damage he will do. He knows he might be spanked . . . severely
. . .  so severely that he might not be able to sit for days. He knows he
might be fucked in the ass. I told him this. He knows he might be shaved,
punched, or even have objects inserted into his anus, his penis. All of
this he knows. He is a virgin to both sexes, he says, though he says he is
attracted only to girls. He will do what you tell him to do, and if he does
not, tell me, and I will see him beaten. He speaks some English."

"He is very pretty. How old is he," I ask?

"Old enough. He is sixteen."

"You're sure of that?"

"Ano. I checked his documents."

I give Petrov a generous tip. "I appreciate your attention to this. He's
perfect."

He beams, and begins speaking to the boy in Czech. The kid goes
pale. "Ano," he finally says.

"Take him," says the concierge. "He knows what he's been paid for. He's
yours for eight hours. Bring him back here when you are done, to prove he
is still alive. This is the agreement we have made."

I shake Petrov's hand, and smile at the kid, placing my hand on his
shoulder, and guiding him to the elevators. He feels frail to the touch,
but his package has filled out as we wait. I reach down and feel him
up. He's rock hard.

Looking him in the eye, I ask "Are you excited?"

"I am very frightened."

"Of what?"

"Of pain. Of you."

"Why?"

"Are you not frightened of pain?"

"Of course, but isn't that part of the thrill? Isn't not knowing what's
going to happen to you part of the excitement?"

He stares at me for a long moment.

"I am going to hurt you," I assure him. "There will be pain. But there will
also be so much pleasure that I think the pain won't matter.

He looks to the floor, and a tear forms in his left eye and rolls down his
cheek. He looks up at me. "I am very afraid of you. Pease do not hurt me."
The Czech accent is thick. He's adorable.

"But that's what I paid for."

"Yes. I know." He smiles bleakly. "I need the money very badly. But I am
not good with pain."

"Yes. I know. That was why you were chosen. Well, one of the reasons." I
smile brightly. "I am good with pain. Yours. But, we'll get you off, too,
many times judging from the state of your dick. You'll enjoy much of this."

Another tear. And then he hugs me, kisses me on the cheek, and we walk to
my apartment.

We arrive at the apartment, and I motion for him to sit down on the
couch. "What's your name, and would you like something to drink?"

"I am Misha. Do you have Coke," he asks?

"Of course. Nothing stronger?"

"Actually, I would like a beer, if you have it. But I am less than the
correct age."

"A beer, then."

I walk to the fridge and take out two pilsners, open them, pour them out
into crystal glasses, and take them into the living room. He hasn't moved,
probably hasn't breathed. I give him his drink, and as he reaches for it I
notice that his hands are shaking.

"Do you do this often, sell yourself to men, I mean?"

"No. Never have I done this. But I am needy for money. So, when this man
comes to me in the train station, I listen. He tells me the price, and it
is very much. Then he tells me what I must do, and I become very
frightened. I think of saying "No" and walking away, but the money is so
big, the salary of three months. I accept."

"And, are you normally attracted to men or women?"

"Only women. I am never attracted to men."

"What kind of women are you attracted to? What do they look like? How do
they behave?"

He thinks for a minute. "I like strong women, women with short hair, strong
faces, tall, taller than me."

"Dominant women?"

"Dominant?"

"Strong. Assertive. Women who take control, who tell you want to do."

Again, he thinks for a moment, probably translating, and then flushes a
bit. "Yes," he says. "Women like my mother."

"And how did your mother take control? Did she spank you?"

"Oh, yes," he replies. "Severely."

"Did you deserve it?"

"Oh, yes," he replies, smiling for the first time.

"And your father?"

"I did not have father. Not correct. I had father in America, but mother
left him to return here when I was eight. She is Czech. He was American. He
used to hit her...and me. She left him to come back to this country. He was
... how to say ... abusing.

"Abusive. So, you've had a dominant woman in your life, but not a dominant
man, not at least since you were eight. Did you ever want one?"

"Oh, yes. I dreamed of father to take me fishing, hunting, who would
correct me, who would shape my life, my character."

"And how would he do that? What were your fantasies about a father?"

Before he can answer, I get up and get us each another beer. As he pours it
into his glass, he considers the question.

"I was embarrassed to be beaten always by my mother, to be guided always by
my mother. This is not something woman should do for son. This is man's
job. My school friends had fathers to discipline them, but for me it was
always my mother. I was teased."

"What would a man have done that your mother didn't?"

"Nothing different than my mother, I think, but would have given me model
of how men behave. I was considered like a girl in school. Mother chose
clothes, applied discipline, taught me how to behave. But she was woman,
and I was not. She beat me once in front of school-fellow, very common here
if you misbehave with others. Parents beat you like this to embarrass, but
also to show school-fellow what to expect when she tells their parents of
misbehavior. But I was naked...in front of my mother...in front of
school-fellow. Very embarrassing. He was not silent about what happened.

"Okay. So what have you done sexually with a girl?"

"Nothing," he replied.

"With another boy?"

"Nothing. I would never do this?"

"Why not?"

"Because it is wrong."

"Have you ever thought of doing something with either sex, and be careful
how you answer, because I'll know if you're lying, and I already think you
lied to that last question. If you lie to me, these eight hours will be
really unpleasant."

He looks at me for a long moment, then looks at the floor. "Yes, you are
right.," he says, turning crimson. "I did touch another school-mate's
privates, and he touched mine."

"Did you cum?"

"Cum?"

"Ejaculate, explode, produce white cream?"

"Yes, we did."

"Did you enjoy it?"

Slowly, and very softly, he responds, "Yes."

"Do you think about that when you masturbate?"

"Masturbate. Touch yourself." I made the universal gesture for jerking off.

"I do not masturbate," he replies, looking me straight in the eyes. "It is
wrong."

"Another lie. Everyone masturbates. Nothing to be ashamed of. Is that what
you think about when you do it?"

He hangs his head even lower. "Yes."

"So, tell me again why you think you're straight, why you think you are
attracted only to women, and never to men. Sounds like an attraction to men
– boys – to me."

"No. I am attracted only to women. It is bad to be attracted to men."

"Why?"

He looks hopeless, lost. "I do not know. That is what I have been taught."

"Do you ever question what you've been taught?"

He looks confused. "No."

A true submissive.

"Why did you take this job? Was it only for the money."

"Ano. Yes. Only for money."

"But, surely you could have gotten other jobs, servicing women, for
example, that would have given you a more comfortable living. It may not
have paid as well as this job, but with your looks, it wouldn't have taken
long to find clients. Straight hetero-sex. Yet, I am the client you chose,
knowing what I wanted. Why?"

He pauses a long moment, probably ten seconds. "For the money," he asks?

"I don't think so," I say, smiling. "Take your clothes off here, and then
go shower in that bathroom," I say, pointing to the right. "When you're
done showering, towel off, dry your hair, brush your teeth with a
toothbrush you'll find in the glass on the counter, and come back out here
for further instructions. The festivities have begun. Get to it."

He stands slowly, looking frightened, very frail. He takes off his jacket,
his shirt, and his undershirt. Sitting down, he takes off his shoes and
socks, and then, standing, his pants and his underwear. He is so beautiful:
slender but toned, his skin is smooth and milky, no blemishes, and,
surprisingly, very little hair where I would have expected it. He began to
move to the bathroom.

"Wait."

He stops.

"Turn around."

He turns, presenting me with his backside.

"Turn, again."

He turns, facing me.

"You are very beautiful."

He flushes, awkward with the compliment.

"Do you shave - your body, not your face?"

"No, or course I do not shave my body. I also do not shave my face. I am
naturally hairless there." He looks a bit ashamed. I was surprised, because
his legs and ass were almost entirely hairless. For a sixteen-year-old that
strikes me as a little strange. Late-bloomer, I guess.

"You are very pretty. Turn around and bend over."

I take a medium-sized butt plug from the drawer next to the couch, and a
bottle of lube, which I apply. Slicking my finger, I ease it into his
rectum. He hisses like a goose, but takes it without moving. Adding a
second finger, I begin to stretch him. He moans. Finally, I pull out of
him, and begin to insert the butt plug in an in-and-out motion. He begins
to whimper and finally to cry, but by the time he's crying, the butt plug
is lodged firmly inside him.

"Go get showered," I tell him, "And make sure the butt plug doesn't come
out, but don't touch it with your hands."

He stands, awkwardly, and walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind
him. Privacy. It's the last he'll have.

I get another beer from the kitchen, and a few toys from the bedroom. He's
been expensive, but this is going to be a blast. He's so submissive, more
submissive than anyone I'd ever played with before, and, Jesus Christ, he's
almost a virgin. I couldn't believe my luck.

Twenty minutes later, he comes out with the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Take the towel back and hang it where you found it."

Returning to the bathroom, he emerges perhaps 15 seconds later naked and
embarrassed, covering his genitals with his hands.

"Hands at your side," I command, and he obeys. "Don't try to cover yourself
while you're here. I want you completely naked. I want you to feel
completely naked. Turn around."

He really is beautiful. "First, we are going to shave your cock and
balls. I want your body totally hairless."

We move back to the bathroom, and I take an electric clipper from the
cupboard next to the sink and clip his public hair. Then, with menthol
shave cream and a disposable razor, I shave him completely. He now looks
about twelve, a very cute twelve. He is mortified by this transformation,
by my manipulating his cock and balls in order to shave him, and by the
faint tingling of the menthol on his genitals. He is hard, flushed and
whimpering.

"Much better. We're going to start off with a spanking, a spanking your
mother would probably appreciate, something severe."

"But why?"

"Why not? Because it pleases me? Because your ass is too
lily-white. Because I'll bet you haven't been spanked in a long
time. Because I'll bet your mother went soft on you. This spanking will
make you cry. That's the intention. If it doesn't make you cry, I will not
have done my job. I'll start with my hand, move next to my belt, and then
to a flogger and a cane. Come and lay over my lap.

He feels so good draped over my legs, his dick, smooth and hairless,
between my legs. I hold him by his balls to keep him in place, and as I
begin spanking, he begins whimpering and moaning. I begin to smack him
harder, and while he tried to restrain the signs of his pain, his sniffling
becomes more pronounced. I order him to stand, and move him to the dining
table where I tie him, belly-down, spread-eagle. Taking off my belt, I
begin to use that in my assault on his ass, which goes from white, to pink,
to crimson. He is crying freely now, as I moved to a flogger, a
multi-tailed leather whip, each tail ending in a knot. Each stroke leaves a
nasty welt and elicits a scream. Finally, I finish with a light-weight
plastic cane intended more for its sting than to do any real damage. Each
stroke leaves a horizontal wheal. He's sobbing, and still erect.

After twelve strokes of the cane, I take out a larger butt plug from my
collection of toys. I extract the medium plug from his rectum, lube the
larger one, and begin to penetrate him with it. Screams. This one has a
diameter of 1.75 inches, and really does stretch him as it slides inside
him. He begs me to take it out, but once it's seated and his sphincter has
clamped around the narrow neck, he settles down a bit, though still
sobbing.

"I'm going to fuck you in an hour or so, and I don't want to feel guilty
when I penetrate you. These stretch you out. By the time I'm inside you,
you'll be open enough that it shouldn't hurt too much."

"Please do not fuck me. Please do not. I am not homosexual..."

"Yes, but I am. What do you think I paid for? Do you want to give all that
money back? Do you want me to tell Mr. Petrov that he must return his
`finder's fee,' that you were uncooperative?"

Softly: "Ne."

"Good," I say, untying him. "Now stand up and turn around."

He stands up awkwardly, painfully, his ass red and swollen, though not
bleeding, and turns toward me. I pick up a pair of butterfly nipple clamps,
and, massaging his left nipple to erection, attach the clamp.

"Yow...yow...yow.  Prosím...prosím..." He doesn't move.

Massaging his right nipple, I attach the other clamp. Again, he begins to
cry.

"Ne...ne...ne...ne...prosím... Take them off. The pain is too much. Prosím
..." He is rock hard. His dick is throbbing with the beat of his
heart. Reaching to my toy collection, I pick up a dick-plug, moisten it
with spit, and slide it into his erect cock, pulling the head through the
retaining ring. He is stunned, astonished, I think, that any such device
exists, then he begins to sob, not from pain as much as from the idea of
being treated this way. Plugged in the front. Plugged in the rear. His
nipples sensitive and sore, his ass bruised, he anticipates being fucked by
another guy to whom he is not attracted. Yet, he is still hard, still
throbbing. (It's time to start working on his balls.)

"You said you were straight, right? So, why are you so excited? Why are you
so hard?"

He looks down at his own rampant penis, ashamed. "I do not know. I am not
attracted for you."

"But you're rock hard."

He flushes, looks away. There's really nothing he can say. He's so
obviously turned on by this, at some visceral, animal level. Reaching into
my toy collection, I select the ball flask, and move a chair over for him
to sit on. I begin attaching the collar of the device to his scrotum. This
is a nasty device. Weighing 2 pounds, once it's attached it acts as a ball
weight, encasing his balls in a stainless steel cylinder. But that's not
the best part. Once attached, I can attach a screw to the bottom, allowing
me to press his balls to any desired level of compression (desired by me,
that is, not by him). The ball flask in effect becomes a very effective
ball crusher. Grabbing a pair of handcuffs, I secure his hands in front of
him. I don't want him swinging at me in the middle of this. I begin turning
the compression screw until I feel the faintest resistance, until I see in
his face that I've made contact with his balls.

"We're going to give this half a turn every time you tell me a lie in
answer to one of my questions." I hook the handcuffs to a winch from the
ceiling, and pull his hands above his head, forcing him up from their
chair. He can still stand on his feet comfortably, but his hands are fully
above his head, and the two-pounds of stainless-steel handing from his
balls is causing him some discomfort.

"How often do you masturbate?"

"I do not masturbate."

I tighten the ball-crusher half a turn. He gasps, but it's not yet tight
enough to be causing him much pain.

"Let's try that again. How often do you masturbate?"

He pauses. Softly. "Two or three times a day."

"That's more like it. What do you think about when you masturbate?"

Pause. "I think about when I fuck girlfriend."

I tighten the ball-crusher, and this time you can see the pain in his eyes,
and hear the desperation in his cries.

"You said you'd never had a sexual experience, male or female. Which is
it?"

I give the ball-crusher an additional turn. He remains hard. "Which is it?
Do you like boys or girls."

"Girls. I like girls."

I take the ball-crusher in my hand and prepare to make the next turn.

"Ne...ne... I lied. I like boys. But it is wrong. I cannot like boys. You
cannot tell anyone I like boys."

"Okay. I won't tell anyone. But, you lied. What do you think that's worth?"

His head drops, and he begins to cry, again, to sob.

"What's it worth?"

"Yes," he said, "another turn... Please...please don't hurt me anymore."

"But, you'd like another turn?"

Sobs. "Yes, please."

I lower his hands, disconnect them from the overhead winch, and unlock the
handcuffs. He stretches, but is clearly in great pain. I motion him into
the chair. "You're going to do this. You do the lying, you should do the
punishing. Give the ball crusher half a turn."

He looks at me long and hard, and then takes the ball crusher in his hand,
and turns the handle, screaming as he does it.

"So you like boys. You prefer boys. Yes?"

Sobbing. "Yes."

"What type of boy do you like?"

"Effeminate. Smaller than me. I like them to shave. Pale. I like them to
look young, younger than me."

He's panting all this time from the pain.

"And, what do you like to do with them?"

"I like to fuck them..."

"Ummmm. But you said you weren't sexually active. Was that a lie."

Pause. Sobbing. "Yes."

"How many boys have you fucked?"

Still panting, trying to catch his breath. "Seven boys."

"Tighten the ball-crusher by one-half turn for your last lie," I order. He
looks at me, sobbing. "Do it!"

He reaches to his balls, takes the steel crank in his hand, and turns it
one-half turn, screaming in pain as the pressure is increased. I re-attach
the handcuffs behind his back, threading them through the rungs of the
chair so he can't move, and tell him that I'm going out for a cup of
coffee. When I get back, we can continue our discussion.

"Please...please... Don't leave me like this!"

"Like what?"

"In this much pain."

"Are you in pain?"

Sobbing. "Yes."

"Why?"

Long pause. "Because I lied to you?"

"Exactly. I'll be back once I've had my coffee. Would you like anything. A
coffee or a scone?

Sobbing. "No, thank you."

Around the corner is my favorite coffee house. Very strong French-roast, at
a fraction of the cost of a Starbucks. The Czechs know their coffee, and
this is good. Neighbors and friends meet up here, and, sure enough, my
neighbors living on the street in back of me are there with their two
children. The little girl is losing her first baby tooth, and this is very
much the subject of discussion. She wiggles it for me to see. So cute. We
chat for maybe half an hour about local politics, the projected completion
of a local swimming pool, the upcoming birthdays of their children, and
local gossip. Having finished my coffee, I excuse myself and amble back to
my house. Stopping in the bedroom, I strip off my clothes. It's a hot day,
and I might as well be comfortable.

I'm 5'11", fit but not especially muscular. I'm trim. I must admit that I
shave my chest, and trim my pubes, but other than that, I am as god made
me. My nipples are pierced, as is my right ear.

I return to the living room, where Misha is attached to the chair. He's
still crying.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because of the pain. I cannot catch my breath. Please don't hurt me any
more."

"I don't think we've finished our discussion, have we?  When did you know
that you were gay?"

"I am not gay, but I do like boys sometimes."

Reaching for the ball-crusher, I turn the crank one half turn. He screams,
sobbing, begging me nearly mindlessly in Czech. "Prosím ... Prosím ..."

"Stop lying."

"At ten. I knew that I was different at ten. I didn't know what it meant,
but I knew I was attracted to boys at ten. It was with friend, Sasha, that
I used to experiment. Please don't hurt me anymore. He was year
younger. When I was twelve, we got caught touching each others parts. I was
beaten by my uncle. Very soundly. I cannot be gay. Please release my
balls."

"You say your uncle beat you. What did he do, exactly?"

"He took me into mother's barn, made me take off all clothes, and tied me
over saw-horse. He beat me for long time, until my ass and back were
bloody. He beat me with belt, with paddle, with birches, and with bamboo. I
could not sit down for many days. It was my mother who came finally out to
release me, many hours after beating. She was surprised by what she saw."

"And what did she see, exactly?"

"Welts, blood, bruises."

"The real question is, and think about it before you answer, did you enjoy
it.?"

Misha pauses. You can see the question register in his mind. His dick is
still hard, recounting this experience, despite the pain of the
ball-crusher. And, though he doesn't want to admit this, he knows that his
dick is betraying him.

"Yes."

"Your balls are very compressed now, yet your dick is hard. Do you think
you're enjoying this?"

"Please do not hurt me any more," he pleaded, starting to cry again.

"I won't," I assure him, stroking his hair. "I really want to fuck you now,
and I'll take the ball-crusher off after I've fucked you. We'll do
something else after I've fuck you. Okay?"

"Please take it off now."

"Not until I've fucked you. Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Please."

"Not until after. Should I fuck you now?"

"Please..."

"Please what?"

In a whimper, "Please to fuck me now."

I tell him to stand up, turn, and brace his arms on his knees, bending at
the waist. You can see the pain in his face as the two pound weight of the
ball-crusher is added to the pressure on his balls as it dangles between
his legs. I ease the butt plug out of his anus, and lube up my dick. I
enter him in one trust. He moans, but takes it with apparently little
additional discomfort. I begin fucking him, hoping I can make this last,
the ball-crusher undulating in inverse rhythm to my pumping. Reaching in
front of him, I remove the plug in his dick, and begin to stroke him,
already hard and throbbing. He begins to pant, to squirm, and his dick gets
even harder. He is sobbing from the pain, but so turned on he can't stop
moving, causing the ball-crusher to sway even faster. Reaching upward, I
removed the nipple clamps, and he shrieked as I massage his nipples to get
the blood flowing again. I continue to masturbate him, and in a few
minutes, he cums in a torrent – eight, ten spurts that travel probably
eight feet – each shot contracting his anal muscles and eliciting a
scream of pure pleasure. This puts me over the top, and I begin to cum
inside him, one of the most powerful orgasms I've had in a long time. As we
come down from the euphoric high, I move in front of him and abruptly
eliminate the pressure to his balls. I don't think he expects what he will
feel when the pressure is removed. I think he thought it would be pure
relief. But, like his nipples, his balls have had circulation curtailed. As
the blood begins to flow, his balls began to ache. The pain must be
massive, because he howls and begins to cry again, falling to his
knees. Those green eyes with tears flowing – I am so turned on, and
oddly, so is he.

I don't remove the ball-crusher because I think I may want to play with it
again, and because I like the idea of him walking around with a two-pound
of stainless steel hanging from his scrotum.

I take him to my very spacious bathroom, and tell him to shower, but when
he's finished, not to get out of the shower, but to lie down in the tub and
wait for me. While he showers, I fill a two-gallon enema bag with cold,
soapy water, and fetch a two-quart bag of sterile saline, a Foley catheter,
and a double-balloon enema nozzle. These I hang from an IV stand that I
roll out next to the shower. I know when he's finished, because I hear the
clang of the ball-crusher as it connects with the floor of the cast-iron
tub. As I roll open the shower door, he looks up at me fearfully from the
floor of the tub.

I cuff his wrists to the faucet handles, which serves to increase his
apprehension, and roll the IV stand closer. Lifting the ball-crusher onto
his belly, I apply some lube to the enema nozzle and insert it into his
rectum. He flinches a bit, but is sufficiently stretched that nothing much
is going to hurt him there. When I pump up the internal balloon, he goes
instantly hard; I assume it's pressing against his prostate. Pumping up the
external balloon draws a gasp. I guess he didn't expect that, and it does
look a bit odd. It will supply maximum discomfort, though, with a minimum
of mess.

Putting on a pair of sterile latex gloves, I apply sterile lubricant to the
Foley catheter, and begin guiding it into his penis. He freaks, struggling,
trying to free his hands. I must not do this, he says, but as it slides in,
the pain is less than I think he expects. He is still uncomfortable,
clearly, but by the time we reach his bladder, and pump up the retaining
balloon, he is quiet, perhaps resolved to what is to come.

I connect the Foley to the Saline, and the enema nozzle to the soapy water,
and open both valves at the same time. I don't think this boy is going to
like this, and sure enough, he begins to struggle and complain almost
instantly. His bladder is filling with sterile saline, and his bowels with
soap-suds. He must feel like a balloon., his abdomen rising with the
pressure. He looks almost pregnant, and, because of the soap, he is
cramping. He begins to cry.

"Please, stop," he pleads! I allow the bags to empty into him, watching his
inflation with detachment. When both bags are empty, I get up from the side
of the tub, and move to the door.

"I'll be back," I assure him. "I'm going to get another coffee."

He begins to sob, knowing that he's going to be in this much pain for at
least half an hour. "Please do not leave me like this" he pants. Please..."

I close the bathroom door on my way out. Wouldn't want him to disturb the
neighbors.

Dressing hurriedly, I leave the apartment, and, on the way downstairs, meet
Dmitri, my neighbor, and we talk about his latest software venture. He's
building telephony software that will compete with Skype, he says, and
outlines the advantages of his design against that of his competitors. It
does sound very clever, and after chatting about it for about ten minutes,
I continue to the coffee house. Ordering my latté, I find that I'm in line
just ahead of Sonja, a co-worker, and we begin to chat about a project
we've both been working on. Sonja is both sweet and vivacious. I like
hanging out with her, and we sit down at one of the tables and begin
hashing out a plan on how to proceed. She's Czech, but her English is
flawless, so she's easy to work with, and after about half an hour, we have
a plan.  We exchange smiles as we leave the coffee shop, and I stroll back
to my apartment.

When I get home, I finish my coffee in the living-room, throw away the cup,
and head to the bathroom, where I find Misha still sobbing. His wrists are
red and bruised from tugging on the handcuffs. He is lying on his side now
in a fetal position His dick has deflated a bit, but when I touch it, it
comes once again to attention. I begin to stroke his obscenely-distended
belly, and his sobs lessen.

"How are you," I ask.

He begin to sniff, having seemingly cried his way though my absence. "I am
fine. The cramping stopped several minutes ago. Before that was agony. Now
is not so bad."

"Good. Would you like to use the toilet?"

"Please."

"Fine. When you stand up, we'll take the tube out of your ass, and you can
empty your bowels. When you've done that, I'm going to fill you up again to
rinse you out, but you won't have to hold the water for long. I find I want
to fuck you again, you see. Once I've fucked you, I'll let you empty your
bladder."

He is crying again, but not sobbing. "Yes," he says, simply. He is the most
submissive boy I've ever met.

I un-cuff his wrists, and he stands up in the tub. I deflate the enema
nozzle, and draw it out of him. He is clearly making quite an effort not to
leak. Once the enema tube is out of him, I point to the toilet, and he runs
for it, but doesn't immediately sit down. Instead, he turns to face me, a
quizzical expression on his face.

"I will stay," I say. "Taking a dump is no more intimate that the intimacy
we've already shared."

He looks embarrassed, but sits down on the toilet anyway, and in a huge
tidal-wave of shit, empties his bowels. His stomach deflates considerably,
although the bloat from his bladder is still evident, and he does look odd
with his dick resting on top of the toilet seat with the catheter extending
maybe five inches. While he empties his bowels, I take off my clothes and
hang them on the hook on the back of the door.

After several minutes, during which he continues to drain in small
explosions, I ask him if he thinks he's empty. "Yes," he replies.

I motion him back to the tub, reattach the hand-cuffs, and prepare another
two-gallon enema of plain, cool water. Lubing the nozzle, I insert it back
into his rectum, and inflate the balloons. I explain that he will have to
hold the two gallons for only five minutes, that it's intended to rinse out
the soap suds. He sniffs, teary-eyed, but nods that he understands.

I open the valve on the enema bag, and the water begins to empty into
him. He begins to groan, then to cry. Once again, he looks pregnant. When
the bag has emptied, he begs me let it out. "Prosím ... Prosím ...," he
sobs, almost incoherently.

"Five minutes," I remind him.

The sobbing continues, his breathing sounding like he is once again unable
to catch his breath.

"Prosím ... Prosím ..." He continues to plead.

At the five minute mark, I unlock his hand-cuffs and ask him to stand up. I
deflate the enema nozzle once again, and draw it out of him. He races to
the toilet and explodes once again, and after ten minutes draining, is
empty.

"Are you ready to be fucked?"

"Yes," he says, dubiously.

"Well, are you, or aren't you."

"Yes," he repeats.

Back to the bathtub, we wash him thoroughly, and then I motion him out of
the bathroom and onto the bed. "Lie on your stomach," I order.

"I cannot," he replies. "I am still too full."

"Lie on your stomach," I command again, "unless you want to stay like that
for hours and hours."

He lays on his stomach, beginning to cry again, still very bloated, his
once flat stomach protruding beneath him.  "Please let me pee," he pleads
through his tears.

"After I've fucked you, you can pee," I reply. "Bring your knees up so your
ass is in the air, and keep your face on the mattress."

He complies, and I begin to lube his ass, inserting first one finger, then
two, and finally three. He is still pretty stretched from our last
penetration, and I am soon able to enter him with ease. He continues to
whimper softly, but isn't, I think, in any real pain. Because he is still
catheterized, he isn't going to get to cum this time, but I begin stroking
him anyway, and he is soon hard and throbbing, panting with desire. As I
fuck him, I begin to nibble on his ear-lobe. Unexpectedly, this drives him
crazy, and he began to actually have an orgasm, despite the catheter. And,
of course, the orgasm contracts his sphincter muscles around my excited
cock, sending me over the edge. I cum in gushes, collapsing on top of him
in a moment of sheer contentment.

Having recovered, I help him off the bed and lead him to the toilet where I
unclip the catheter tube, allowing him to drain into the toilet. I then
deflate the catheter's retaining balloon, and slowly remove the tube from
his penis. You can see the relief etched on his face as he looks up and
smiles at me.

"Better?"

"Yes, much better."

I take him back to the bedroom, and tell him to lie on his back. Again he
looks frightened, but does what he's told. Crawling between his legs, lying
on top of him, our naked bodies in full-frontal contact, I begin to kiss
him passionately, pressing my tongue into his mouth. At first he resists,
but he's soon reciprocating my passion. After several minutes of kissing
him, I begin to suck him, alternating between his cock and his ass. I don't
think he's ever been rimmed before, because when my tongue first makes
contact with his asshole, he gasps, moaning "Jesus."

"It's your turn to get off, because you couldn't do that properly with a
catheter inside you. What do you want me to do to you?"

He thinks a moment. "If you would fuck me, that would be nice."

"I can do that. Do you want to be in the same position? Do you want me to
jerk you off."

"Please."

He gets onto his knees, face on the mattress, while I lube my cock. "The
only caveat," I say, realizing that he is still wearing the ball-crusher,
"is that for each minute until you cum, I'm going to tighten the ball
crusher one turn. That should add a little spice to the exercise."

Turning his head, he looked into my eyes. "Please do not hurt me...too
much."

"Orgasms are always better with a little pain."

He lays his head back down on the mattress, and I enter him in one slow
thrust. He gives a low moan as I began to fuck him, slowly at first, then
faster, and finally slamming my cock into his asshole with each thrust. I
begin to stroke him, thinking this won't take long, so hard is he, but
after three turns of the ball crusher, he is sobbing again. "Prosím
... prosím ... Do not hurt me."

At four minutes, I give the crank another turn, and he screams, and at five
minutes, just as I am giving him the fifth turn, he shrieks again, and cums
violently, leaving a river of spunk on the bed sheets. I immediately
un-clamp him, and he nearly faints as he sinks to his belly, the
ball-crusher lying on the mattress between his legs.

"You like the pain, don't you?"

He is trying to slow his breathing, and to stop crying. "Like the pain?
No. But I like the result. I have never, how do you say, "cum", so hard in
my life. I have never felt this pleasure. I think the pain causes this. I
do not like the pain. No. But I love it."

We have been at this for seven hours and ten minutes. Misha is so
beautiful. Green eyes. Blond curls. A perfect submissive with a
still-crimson ass.

"Misha. What is your proper name, by the way?"

"Michail."

"Michail... I would like to own you. I would like to buy you. You're
perfect for me. In return for your complete submission, and a lot more pain
than you've felt today, I will give you a place to live, feed you, and take
you off the streets. You will have a generous allowance, nice clothes, and
a vibrant social life. You will also get a college education in whatever
field you choose. If your grades are not good, you will be beaten, and you
will otherwise be subject to my sexual whims, which can be rather brutal."
I began to kiss him, and we were both once again instantly hard. "Those are
the terms. What do you say?"

He didn't pause. "Yes, please. I do not like the pain, but my life is shit
now. I have been often assaulted, and can not afford a place to live or
enough food. And I have no way to change these things. I am dying, I
think. Will you allow me to ejaculate – to cum – regularly?"

"Unless you misbehave, I will get you off multiple times a day. If you
misbehave, I will withhold orgasms."

"And what will be `misbehave'? What must I do for you?"

"Whatever I tell you to do. If you don't follow instructions, if you don't
strive to please me, that's misbehavior. I will never ask you to do
anything that will be permanently physically damaging. But there will be
pain."

He leans into me, sealing his lips to mine. We kiss for several
minutes. "You promised me pain, but much more pleasure. This you gave
me. When do we begin?"

"You can move in at once. Shall we go and get your things?"

"I have no things. Everything I own is here with me now. Exactly
nothing. And there is no where to go. I have been sleeping under a bridge
for the last six months. I will work to please you."

"But you know you won't."

"Ne. What I know is that not pleasing you will please you more. It will
mean that you can punish me." He smiles.

I smile back. "Ano. Yes, but, I will punish you anyway, pleased or not. But
I will love you, too. You are very beautiful, and very sweet. I have great
affection for you, and will try to show it often...when I'm not enjoying
tormenting you."

He smiles. We kiss. I remove the ball compressor.

Five minutes later, we are in the lobby of my apartment building. I have
dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt; my hair is combed, my face
washed. Misha is naked, hands behind his back, as I've instructed him to
keep them. He is flushed, embarrassed. The occupants of an apartment
several floors below ours stroll in, the teen-age son staring at us while
his father lectures him on the dangers of misbehavior.

"Mr. Petrov, we are here to validate Misha's continued existence. He will
be staying with me for the foreseeable future, so please let him enter at
will. If he tries to leave, though, please let me know so I can validate
whether or not he has that privilege on that day."

Misha nods.

Petrov smiles. "Yes, sir. I will also alert you to any misbehavior."

I leave with him a generous tip, and we return to my apartment. He really
is beautiful, but I want to hurt him some more.