Date: Mon, 27 Feb 2017 11:36:50 -0600
From: Jeff Moses <chainedcoot@gmail.com>
Subject: Filling the Hole

This is a work of fiction.  It includes scenes of BDSM sex between an adult
and a 16-year-old. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended.
If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area,
leave now.  Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury
or transmit diseases, including HIV.  Please play safe--I don't want to
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Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please
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Enjoy!

Filling the Hole

It was basically a covered hole in the ground.  The stone foundation of a
barn that had collapsed long ago, it had been roofed over by an
enterprising moonshiner during the Prohibition era, then abandoned when
Prohibition was repealed.  I wouldn't have even known it was there if I
hadn't found the hidden entrance at the back of my property.  Once I got
inside, though, I immediately realized my fantasy could come true: a fully
equipped dungeon. I would need help, though.  I'm pretty good with tools,
but there was going to be a lot of sweat involved, as well.  So I placed an
ad:

"Slave wanted.  Room and board in exchange for lots of hard work and
personal service.  You will be used.  Send pics, and tell me a little about
yourself."

I posted it in leather bars and published it in some of the racier gay
papers.  The responses started pouring in almost immediately.  Most of them
were obviously clueless--some of them even thought I was the slave.  But I
pretty quickly collected a stack of possibles, and I sent them a more
detailed description of the job, along with a very personal questionnaire.
A lot of guys weren't interested, once they realized there was actual work
involved; others dropped out because they only wanted a brief trip.  And
then there was Billy.

"Dear Sir, I saw your ad about a slave.  I am 16 and, in good shape Sir.  I
will work hard.  I am gay.  I haven't got any family.  May name is Billy I
need room, and board, and I will serve you Sir. I do not go to school here
is a picture Sir.  Please right me at xxxx Sir.  Thank you Sir."

He had taken the picture himself, naked in front of a mirror in what looked
like a cheap motel room.  Shaggy brown hair, nose ring, skinny but a decent
build.  Somebody had written "cocksucker" across his chest with a
felt-tipped marker.  And there was a rope around the base of his cock.  It
looked like the other end might have been tied to the bed.  I sent him a
questionnaire.

According to his answers, he'd had "a lot" of sex with men and he knew how
to "sweep and clene and pound nales and stuff."  When he jacked off he
imagined he was "all chained up and got fuked by a gladeater." And he liked
it when men told him what to do. The envelope had the motel's address on
it, but it didn't match the address in the note, which probably belonged to
some friend, or something. I decided I should be careful about my answer.

"Billy, Thank you for your reply.  I am not sure you can do all the work,
but I would like to meet you.  Where is a good place?  Mister Carl"

"Dear Mister Carl Sir.  There is a shopping mall it is called RiverEnd Sir.
I will meet you in the food court whenever you say Sir.  Slave Billy"

Slave Billy and the River End Mall were about a four-hour drive away,
conveniently located near a freeway off-ramp.  I specified a time and date
and enclosed a tee shirt for him to wear so I could spot him.  I told
myself I was being a nut, that Slave Billy was undoubtedly a hustler, that
I was playing out another fantasy, but hell--the worst that would happen
would be a wasted drive.

I watched him for a while before I approached.  He was obviously nervous,
standing at the entrance to the food court, then walking in and wandering
through the tables, then coming back out to stand again.  I timed my
approach so I could come up behind him just as he finished a circuit.
"Billy?"

He practically jumped out of his pants, spun around, and then just froze,
staring at me.  "Mister Carl, sir?"  he sputtered.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"No, Sir."

"Follow me."  I walked into the food court and ordered a pizza, coffee for
myself and milk for Billy.  I handed the pizza and milk to him and led the
way to a table near the end of the court.  I sat down.  He stood, tray in
hand, waiting.  Nice.  "Sit," I said.  I took the pizza, split it and
pushed his part across the table.  "Eat."  He was pretty hungry.  When he
finally slowed down and started his last slice, I spoke.  "Who have you
told about this?"

"No one, Sir."

"Nobody has any idea where you are right now?"

"No, Sir.  I didn't tell anyone anything."

"Family?"

"They kicked me out a year ago, Sir."

"Who's the last person you talked to, then?"

He mentioned the name in the reply he'd sent.  "I thanked him, is all."

"You didn't tell him you were going to the mall?"

"No, Sir.  He might have known, though.  I come here a lot to...to meet
guys."

"For sex?"

"Yes, Sir."  He blushed.

"Once and for all, Billy, if you agree to be my slave, we will leave here
and immediately head out of town.  You take nothing but what you have with
you right now.  You don't say goodbye to anyone, you don't leave any notes
or make any calls.  We just leave.  Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Finish your milk and follow me."  I left the food court and strolled
through the mall, eventually making my way to the parking ramp.  Billy
followed like a puppy, but I didn't see anyone following him.  As soon as
we got to my truck, I ordered him into the passenger seat.  When he was
buckled in, I cuffed his hands behind his head, secured to the headrest.  I
covered him with a tarp I'd brought along, got back on the freeway, and
headed out of town. I drove for an hour or so, to one of those "Minimum
Services" rest stops, pulled over and got Billy out of the truck.  "This is
it, slave.  Strip."

He obeyed quickly.

"You still want to be a slave?" I said, holding his clothes over a trash
can.  "Speak now or I drive away without you."

"I want to be a slave, Sir.  I want to be your slave, Mister Carl, Sir."

"Why?"  This was the real test.  Depending on his answer, I was ready to
give his clothes back and return him to the mall, despite what I'd
threatened.

He dropped to his knees.  "I want to be a slave, Sir.  I want to be told
what to do, and be a slave to a man.  I want to be fucked and whipped and
chained up, Sir."  His cock was sticking straight out.

"Forever?"

"For as long as you want me, Sir.  And then you can sell me, Sir.  You can
do whatever you want with me, Sir."

I dropped his clothes into the can.  Now, my cock was pressing against my
pants.  Why not?  I pulled it out.  "Suck me, slave."

Billy dropped to all fours and crawled over to my crotch.  He took the tip
of my rod in his mouth and did a pretty decent job of swirling his tongue
around it.  Then he started to go down on it, back and forth, in and out
and in a little deeper each time.  I kept expecting him to hit his gag
reflex, but it didn't happen.  He just kept taking my cock deeper and
deeper.

I grabbed his hair, pulled him off of my rod, and shot all over his face
while he tried to catch at least some of my juice in his mouth.  "Well,
slave?" I said, when the last drops had fallen.

"Thank you, Sir.  Did I please you, Sir?"

I nodded.  "Get back into the truck."  He scrambled into position and put
his hands behind his head.  "Last chance to back out, slave.  Now or
never."

"I'm your slave, Mister Carl, Sir."

I walked around to the driver's side, climbed in, covered my slave with the
tarp, and started the engine.  I pulled back onto the freeway, and drove
straight through to my place.

***

I put Billy in an old tee shirt and torn jeans, took him into town and the
free clinic for an STD test.  Then we went to the lumber yard for supplies.
I made him carry most of them, of course.  He was all "Yes, Sir" after
every command.  He actually seemed happy, even though he was obviously
hurting by the time everything was on board.  As soon as we got back to my
place, I ordered him to strip and unload the truck.  I worked him hard,
even though it took longer than it would have if I'd been doing it myself.
But dammit, a slave is a slave, after all.  I ordered him to take a cold
shower while I whipped up dinner, then fed him from a pie tin on the floor.

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

"Granted."

"If you tell me how to make your food, I'll do that for you, Sir."

"In time, slave.  In time."

After supper, I supervised him while he washed the dishes and tidied the
kitchen.  Then I took him into the bedroom and pointed to a spot next to
the bed.  "Lie down on your back with your legs in the air, slave."  He
obeyed, and I locked leg irons on his ankles, then attached a chain from
the irons to the bed leg.  I took my time, watching him strain to keep his
legs up. "From now on, you're not to touch your cock without permission,
slave.  It's not yours any more, it's mine.  Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And from now on, you address me as Master, understand?"

"Yes, S--Master."

"The only cock you should be worrying about is mine, understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You'll sleep there, on the floor, chained to the bed, if you're good.  If
you're not, you'll be standing up in the closet until morning.
Understand?"

"Yes, Master."

I could tell by the sound of his voice and his rigid abs that the strain
was getting to him.  "Lower your ankles and go to sleep."

"Yes, Master."

The chains rattled on the floor.  He rolled over onto his side and closed
his eyes.  He fell asleep almost immediately.  I turned off the light and
let exhaustion flood over my own body, and I fell asleep, as well.  The
first task after breakfast was cleaning the space.  We put on dust masks
and went to work.  I'd rigged up some work lights, and I left the door open
and set up a portable fan to get rid of the foul air.  There were spider
webs and animal droppings, long-dead squirrels, and a few plants that had
made it through the floor and somehow managed to get enough sunlight to
survive--that sort of thing always impresses me.  There was other stuff, as
well: crap that animals had dragged in to make nests, desiccated corpses of
those animals and of other once-living things.  There were a few busted
coils of copper, some rusty lab equipment, and several boxes of glass
bottles.

My slave worked in his leg irons, growing filthier by the minute. "Master!
I found something!"

"Never yell at me, slave!" I roared up to him and slapped his face.  "Beg
for my forgiveness!"

He dropped to his knees.  "I'm sorry, Master.  I got excited, Master.
Please forgive me, Master.  Please punish me, Master!"

I had to admit I could understand his excitement.  He'd stumbled upon a big
pile of rusty chains.  "On the floor!"  I commanded, and spent the next ten
minutes or so layering chains across his body until he was completely
covered with them, several layers deep.  Every time he moved, the chains
seemed to grip him tighter.  He tried to speak, but as soon as he opened
his mouth, it filled with rusty metal.  "Aren't you glad you found the
chains, slave?" I said, squatting near his head.  "I'm going to get some
lunch.  Don't go anywhere."

I whipped up a sandwich, grabbed a soda, and headed back to the dungeon.
The slave had moved some, but he was still covered.  "I'll want all these
cleaned, slave.  You have some heavy work ahead."  I cleared off enough of
the metal for the slave to untangle himself.  "Drag all of these outside.
Move!"  He went to work while I got as much of the debris as I could to the
entrance.  I ordered him to haul that outside as well, and put the larger
pieces in the truck.  The sun was setting by the time everything had been
moved out.  "Now, drag each one of your precious chains up and down the
driveway until the gravel's scraped the rust off.  Don't stop until I call
you!"  The driveway isn't visible from the road, but I was pretty sure the
slave would be humiliated anyway, walking back and forth, stark naked
except for his leg irons and the athletic tape I'd used to cushion his
ankles, dragging long chains behind him.

I showered and made supper, then called the slave to the house and hosed
him down.  The night air was cool and there was a breeze.  He was shivering
by the time I let him into the house to eat.

After dinner, he cleaned the kitchen while I watched.  He got a swat on the
ass for everything he missed, but I think the rest of his muscles hurt so
much he barely noticed.  I lay in bed and ordered him to give me a massage.
Massage wasn't one of his skills, yet, but he did well enough.  When I was
satisfied, I chained him up for the night and jacked off all over him.

After breakfast the next morning, I had him drag several buckets of water
to the dungeon.  I ordered him to clean the walls as high as he could
reach, and then to start on the floor. I locked him in and drove to the
dump to get rid of my truckful of trash.  When I got back, he was hard at
work.  Good.  I wanted him exhausted.  I wanted his muscles screaming from
the lactic acid his labor was producing.  By lunchtime, he was having
trouble carrying my tray to the table.  "Slave!  On your knees.  Right
here." I pointed to the floor between my legs.  "You're a weak, pathetic
excuse for a man.  Hell, you're not even a little boy.  A little more work
and you'll probably die from it.  What are you?"

"Your slave, Master."

"My slave?  Mine?  You're a slave, all right, but you're not mine yet.  I
wouldn't pay fifty cents for you in a slave market.  You're a pathetic
sissy!  Say it!"

"I'm a pathetic sissy, Master."

"You're worthless."

"I'm worthless, Master."

"You're a piece of shit!"

"I'm a piece of shit, Master."

"Put your finger in your asshole."

"Yes, Master."

"Wiggle it around.  Get it in there!"

"Yes, Master."  He was whimpering, now.

"Pull it out and look at it!  Smell it!  What does that smell like?"

"Shit, Master."

"That's what you are--shit!  Lick your finger clean!"

"Please, Mas--"

"You want to get flogged?  Lick that goddamn finger!"

The slave obeyed.  He was fighting back tears, now.

"This is what you begged for, slave!  This is the rest of your pathetic
life!"

"Yes, Master."

"Thank me, dammit!"

"Thank you, Master.  Thank--" He sank to the floor and pressed himself
between my boots, sobbing.

"Show me how grateful you are, slave.  Lick my boots."  I watched him go to
work, tears streaming down onto the leather.  I ordered him to roll over
and lick the bottoms of my boots while he fucked himself with his finger.
I pressed my boot down.  "Can I break your face, slave?"

"Yes, Master."

"Can I kick the shit out of you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Can I kill you?"

"Yes, Master."  He kept licking.

I had a slave.

***

He spent the rest of the day tied to the coffee table, getting spanked
every half-hour or so, thanking me every time.  I untied him at nightfall
for a light dinner, made him give me a hand job, and we went to sleep.

The next day, I had him dig a trench so we could bury cable to provide
permanent electricity in the dungeon.  I got things hooked up while he
finished scrubbing the walls and floor.  Over the next few days, we loaded
out the rest of the trash, I epoxied ring bolts into the right places on
the walls, and hung up a winch. I showed him how to mix concrete by hand
and kept him at it while I patched the walls where the original mortar had
failed.  I had him lift the concrete blocks in place for a punishment cell,
three by five by five, so I'd have a place to put him if he pissed me off.
When I had nothing else for him to do, I made him drag the chains along the
drive until they were clean enough to install in the dungeon. I made sure
he went to sleep exhausted every night.

We'd finished the stocks and pillory and installed a whipping post before
word came from the free clinic.  Somehow or another, the slave was clean.
I could fuck him with impunity, and I did.  Just being in the dungeon with
him kept me aroused.  I fucked his ass and mouth, taught him how to jack me
off so I could shoot all over his face, did it all over and over again for
a week.  By then, the rack and the bondage table were finished.  I put him
to work cleaning leather straps for the bondage chair.  Each piece of
furniture was made to his exact measurements, so he'd get the maximum
enjoyment from it.

I had him custom fitted for a variety of harnesses and bridles.  I had his
septum pierced for a nose ring that wouldn't tear out.  Summer was nearly
over by the time everything was the way I wanted it.  The slave was the way
I wanted him, too.  His body had hardened.  His muscles were more sharply
defined.  I got him a pair of tight-fitting jeans, strategically torn, and
a tee shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. When I took him to
town now, nobody got in his way or gave him shit. I'd made a decent cook of
him, as well.  He obeyed my commands instantly.  It was time.

He lay on his back, legs lifted, while I secured an iron on each ankle.
This gear, as well, was custom fitted and carefully polished so he could
wear it indefinitely.  I ordered him to stand, arms out, while I put irons
on his wrist.  Finally, as he knelt in front of a mirror, I secured his
collar.  "Now," I said, "you are my slave."

There were a lot of chores for him to do--while we'd been working on the
dungeon, the house itself had been neglected.  Harnessed and butt-plugged,
he emptied one room at a time, scrubbed walls and floors, cleaned the
furniture, and put everything back.  It probably didn't help when I came
in, my boots full of dirt, and stomped through the house inspecting his
work.  He begged to be allowed to clean my boots as soon as I came inside,
but most of the time I waited until I was done with the inspection.  As
usual, he was spanked or paddled for anything that wasn't done to my
satisfaction.

He never knew when I would decide to take him to the dungeon.  But at least
once a week I would clip a leash to his nose ring and lead him across the
yard for a session.  I stretched him on the rack and sat on his face so he
could lick my ass.  I put him in the pillory so I could experiment with my
dildo collection.  I sat him on a pile of "his" chain with his ankles in
the stocks and tit clamps tied to the whipping post so he'd have to sit
erect.  I made sure he could see a clock, as well, so he would know how
much longer he'd have to sit.

I used the winch and a spreader bar to hang him by his wrists for a
whipping, then I hung him by his ankles and did it again.  I tested a
variety of floggers and paddles on him.  I made him practice dragging
weights around by his balls.  I tied his feet in place and beat the soles
until he was screaming.  I put a hook in his ass and hoisted him to his
tiptoes.  I tied his nuts to his big toes so he had to crawl around the
dungeon.  I put him in a gas mask so I could control his breathing and feed
him poppers.  I tied his wrists to his upper arms and his ankles to his
thighs so he'd have to follow me around on his knees and elbows.  And every
once in a while I'd free one hand and give him a ten-count to get off.
"Shoot and I'll untie you, slave.  Shoot and I'll let you down to the
floor, slave"--that sort of thing.  I filled his ass with polished stones
and punished him every time one fell out.  And I fucked him.  I fucked him
every way I could think of, then did some internet searches to discover
other ways.

He took it all.  He loved it.  Sometimes, I was the gladiator he'd dreamed
of.  Sometimes, he was the high school bully and I got my revenge; he was
the prostitute who'd been sold into slavery or I was the pirate captain
using the cabin boy.  He was the rich spoiled brat and I was the gardener
who'd had enough of his lip, the cruel duke, the wicked teacher, the
sadistic inquisitor.

***

Every six months or so, I take him to a doctor who's familiar with my
games, tell him to speak freely and leave them alone in the examining
room. After about half-an-hour, the doctor comes out to report.

"Well, Doc?  Everything okay?"

"Kid's amazing.  He's happy.  He's in good shape, and he loves what you do
to him.  You may be the luckiest Top I ever met!"

I nod and manage to say, "Yes, Doc.  I am."

He comes out of the examining room and he is gorgeous, a work of art--my
work of art.

We have dinner at a leather hangout, while I enjoy the admiring looks.  We
drive back home.  He strips and lays down, feet up and ready for his
shackles.  I picked them up, and this time, I stopped.

"Get into the bed."

"Yes, Master."  He looked at me for just a second, baffled, then hurried to
obey.  I stripped, got into bed next to him, and pulled him to me, my
crotch to his ass.

"Hey, slave," I whispered into his ear.

"Yes, Master?"

I can feel his heart beating, speeding up.  "Watching you is like watching
porn.  I love your body."  I run my hand over his torso and down to his
crotch.  He gasps as I grip his cock and feel it growing in my hand.  I
can't resist giving it a few strokes.  "Get on your knees, slave, ass up."

"Yes, Master."

I grab some lube and slick up.  "Gonna fuck that slave hole."

"Thank you, Master."

"You be ready to come, slave.  When I tell you, not before, understand?"

"Yes, Master."

I slip my cock into his ass, and he flexes his hole the way I trained him.
I take my time and then, when I'm ready, give him the word.  I feel his
ejaculation in my own cock, and I shoot as well.

"Thank you, Master!"  It was somewhere between sobs and a scream.

We stay like that for a while. I am the Master and he the slave, and we are
locked together, forever.