Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2006 08:03:39 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Tables Were Turned, Part One

THE TABLES WERE TURNED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


The Tables Were Turned, Part One


I'd been watching this group of skater lads for two
days now.  One of them had to be suitable for me.
They were certainly all above sixteen - that's
important for two reasons:  firstly, you want them
with a bit of proper masculine development - the
fourteen and fifteen year olds just don't have it.
And secondly there's a huge fuss if a kid under
sixteen disappears - the police don't worry about
sixteen year olds so much as they assume they've gone
off on the razzle somewhere, fucking their
girlfriends.  Mind you, I don't want one of those
twenty-somethings who have never grown up and are
still boarding when they ought to be at work or Uni:
it's much more difficult to dispose of them.

This lot were almsot "professional", though:  they
started gathering about eleven, and went on,
displaying to each other, until about nine at night,
only stopping for the occasional can of something or
other, and a sandwich.  I like to see that - it means
their bodies are good and subtle, and hard.  Not hard
with those bulging muscles you see when blokes have
been too long in the gym, but strong and sinewy and
natural, as you get from all this twisting and turning
as the acrobatics proceed.

On day one I'd just sat there inconspicuously, I hope,
pretending to look at the river as they swooped up and
down the riverside walkway, so proud of themselves and
the way they were weaving in and out of the tourists
and office workers, causing not a few of them to be
thoroughly pissed off.  I like lads who have
confidence like that, with real "attitude" - it makes
breaking them so much more satisfactory.  My luck was
in during the afternoon, too, as the sun came out, and
once they started sweating they stripped off their top
layers of long-sleeved Ts and carried on in loose Ts
that were underneath.    It's difficult to get a good
idea of what their bodies are like, actually - those
very, very baggy jeans just don't reveal anything;
and even though you can see three or four inches of
their underwear, it doesn't really give you a clue to
what's underneath.  You can't see the curve of the
bum, or how big the package is at the front, when the
jeans are so loose and hanging down concealing
everything.  It's a mystery to me how they can wear
them so totally low and not have them fall off - they
don't even spend any time hitching them up.  I reckon
the belt line must be right on top of their cocks, and
having that jutting out is the only thing preventing
them falling down.

It's a bit of a risk therefore in selecting one too
early, as you really have to rely on them all being
reasonably slim and muscular underneath, and just
choose on the basis of their faces.  There again it's
not always easy, as they wear those silly knitted hats
pulled right down to their eyebrows and mostly
covering their ears, even in the very hot weather.
Nevertheless by the end of day one I'd identified
three possible candidates, so that on day two I could
spend all my time just concentrating on these three
and hoping that they'd reveal something - a snatched
glimpse of belly when a T rose up as they jumped, or a
proper look at their head or face if they pulled their
hats off to wipe sweat away.  By the time they'd
packed up for the night though, I was no closer to
making a selection, and I followed one of them almost
at random.

Someone in a car picked him up at the edge of Upper
Ground, the road bordering the riverside park, and
from the argument that went on I gathered that "dad"
hadn't been very pleased to have been kept waiting.
Just as well I hadn't picked that one - if that was
his regular pattern, he'd be missed quickly.

The fate of one of my three was sealed, though, when I
made my back along the embankment and saw he was still
there, alone.  Evidently he wasn't working to some
sort of curfew time in the evening, and I decided that
he would be the one.

So here I am on day three.  I've checked out of my
cheap B & B in Earls Court and moved my old van from
where I left it right out at the end of the District
Line in Richmond  to the car park under the National
Theatre right nearby - it costs a fortune, I know, but
I need it close at hand.  I've bought a sandwich - at
outrageous London prices - that will keep me going
until I get home, and I sit there on the riverside
walkway waiting for them to appear, and then watching
them as they do what has become almost a ritualistic
dance for them.  As luck would have it, it starts to
rain mid afternoon, and they casually break up - no
one decides, no one says goodbye or anything, they
just drift away as the rain gets heavier.   Even if
they are questioned, which is unlikely, they'll not be
able to give a definitive answer to who was there, or
who left first, or anything.

"My" one is finally left, alone.  I guess is he's got
nowhere else to go, as he was in no hurry last night,
and he's hanging around in the hope the rain will
stop, or some other boardies will come past, or
something else will happen to liven up his day.  I've
moved onto a seat under the overhanging terraces of
the National now, so I'm out of the rain, but he's
kind of hovering about under one of the trees, one
foot idly flipping his skateboard end over end,
looking totally bored.  He's still there at six, and I
go and retrieve my van from the car park and park it
on one of the yellow lines in the Waterloo Road -
getting there in time to beat the early arrivals for
something at the Festival Hall, who are hoping to beat
paying for parking by waiting in the street as soon as
six o'clock arrives.

I go back to the river, my heart thumping as it would
be a disaster if he'd chosen to go in those few
minutes that I was moving my van:  I'd have to start
all over again tomorrow, and buy another night in some
horrible B&B.  But my luck's still holding, and he's
still there, skating around rather slowly and
forlornly, all alone, sheltering under Waterloo Bridge
where it crosses the riverside walk.  Now's as good a
time as ever, so I go up to him and ask him in a
heavily accented voice "Waterloo Station?".

He jerks his thumb to indicate away from the river,
behind us, but I pretend not to understand.  Perhaps
he's a nice kid, good hearted, kind to foreigners; or
perhaps he's just terminally bored and the prospect of
doing anything is better than the prospect of doing
nothing.  But he gestures for me to follow him, and
moves off, one foot on his board, quite slowly.

We get parallel to my van and I pretend to stumble.
The kid bends down to help me up, and I've got him -
one quick stab of the stuff I get from the local vet,
and he crumples.  Even though the Waterloo Road is
teaming with cars and buses, everyone is too intent on
getting home, too intent on fighting for that extra
inch in the traffic, and I'm certain no one has seen
this little drama - or, if they have, with the typical
Londoner's desire "not to get involved", they've
ignored it and got on with reading their newspaper, or
chatting on their mobiles.  It's amazingly easy to
snatch someone from the middle of London, if you're
organised about it, as I am.

I've adapted the van specially.  I hoist the lad into
the passenger seat - with some difficulty, as he's
heavy:  always a good sign, as it says that there's a
lot of muscle there somewhere - and fasten the seat
belt.  I've replaced the usual one with one of the old
fashioned ones you can pull tight, and it stays that
way as there's no inertia fitting.  And on each side
of the seat, at the base, there's a cuff.  Once I snap
those over his wrists he's helpless, as there's no way
he can undo the seat belt and no way he can use his
hands to signal to anyone.    He's starting to come
round, so I put the ball gag into his mouth, one of
the ones with air holes in it so he can breathe
normally but can't speak or shout, and then pull a
balaclava helmet thing down over his entire face.  I'm
quite proud of that - I've painted the front to make
it look like a face - no good at very close range, but
to anyone looking from another car into my van, it
looks enough like a passenger sitting there, and it
neatly covers the gag.  I put dark glasses on him then
so he can't see - ordinary cheap sunglasses, but where
I've smoked the inside with the soot from a candle
flame to make them light proof.  I've found that if
they can't see they tend to be calmer and settle down
more quickly.

As I go around the Waterloo roundabout and head back
along Waterloo Road towards Westminster Bridge, he
starts to come around.  The traffic's thick, but it's
moving, and no one notices my passenger begin to
struggle and shake his head - his freedom of movement
is so restricted that it doesn't really look as if
he's struggling.  As we inch our way through
Parliament Square and I head towards Buck House to get
up to Knightsbridge and the M4, he continues to make
muffled noises, first of anger, then of questioning,
followed by pleading, followed by a sort of despairing
half silence.  I'm in a good mood as it looks as if
the traffic is flowing well and I'll be home early
tonight, much earlier than I thought, so I say "Shut
it, kid.  All will become clear.  Now just relax, and
no harm will come to you.  I'm not going to hurt you,
so just sit there and try to be calm - we've got a
long way to go, and if you keep struggling you'll only
exhaust yourself.  And it won't do any good, as I've
done this before.  You can't escape from hose cuffs
and the seat belt, and now we're on the motorway,
no-one's going to see you even if you throw yourself
about.  So settle down, and be good."

There's a whole lot of noise through the gag, which I
ignore.  I don't say anything else, as I've found that
they don't listen - or don't believe it, even if they
do listen.  So I reckon I might as well be silent, and
turn on Radio Four to listen to The Archers, and the
arts programme, and then, with any luck, it will be a
play tonight - I reckon you can't bat a good play on
the radio - the scenery's so good, as they say!

I stop before we cross the Severn Bridge as I need a
pee, and something to drink.  It's hard to know what
to do about the lad - I don't like to touch his cock
at this point, although the easiest solution would be
to get it out from his jeans and point it into an
empty bottle;  but touching him too soon spoils the
training - you need to work up to these things, I've
found.  Equally, I don't like to leave the van
unattended whilst I go into the services building -
once I came out and found some little toerags trying
to break in, as they thought my van might have
valuable builders' tools inside!  My heart almsot
stopped when I saw them, as I had a kid in there, just
like tonight, but fortunately they ran off.  So now I
park right on the edge of the parking area and piss
into a bottle myself.  I know he can hear me, so I say
gently "If you want to piss, I'm afraid you've just
got to do it in your jeans.  Sorry, kid, but I can't
let you go right now.  But make yourself easy - I do
understand, and it's only an old van and the  piss, if
it soaks through your jeans, won't spoil anything."

He shakes his head violently, so I say calmly "Suit
yourself.  But we've got a long way to go yet.  I
drink a lot of water, then pull my balaclava off him
and loosen the ball gag.  "I'm going to give you a
drink, and for that I have to take the gag out.  Now
don't try to do anything silly - we're a long way away
from anyone else at the moment, and the van doors are
closed anyway and the sound doesn't carry all that
much.  But if you do scream or shout, it will be the
last thing you do:  I can't afford to let you do it,
and the quickest way of stopping you will be to snap
your neck.  I was in the SAS, and I know how to do it;
 and I have done it, too, actually, to some fucking
Arabs when I was on a mission in the Gulf and they
disturbed us and were about to give the alarm.  So be
sensible, OK?"

I loosen the gag, and as I take it out he starts,
quietly, "Please...."

"Best be totally silent, kid.  All will become clear
soon enough."

"No, please, mom and dad...."

"Shut the fuck up!  Now, do you want a drink?  I don't
give him a chance to reply and put the water bottle to
his lips, and he takes deep, long swigs.  I give him
about half a litre, then go to put the gag back.  He
resists, and so I pinch one ear hard, very hard,
between my thumb nail and first finger.  He gets the
message, and opens his mouth, and I soon have him
gagged, masked and wearing the sunglasses again.
"After all that, you'll certainly need to piss, I
reckon.  So don't mind me, just do it.", I tell him.

I almost get tripped up - I always forget - I suppose
I wasn't brought up on them:  at about ten o'clock
there's one of those silly noises kids use on their
mobiles to say there's a text waiting.  I have to
fumble around in his pocket to find it, and stop for a
moment so I can read the "What time U home?" Message.
   I think I'll  postpone action there for a time, so
I quickly text back "Staying with a m8. C U tomorrow."
 Then, remembering that mobiles can be traced by
triangulating the signal between the cell stations, I
turn it off, open it up, pull out the SIM card, and
smash it.  At the next stop I hide the remains of the
SIM in a paper bag and drop it into one of the litter
bins, grind the mobile under my heel and put bits of
it into two others:  I reckon the chances of anyone
ever finding the pieces are so small as to be not
worth considering:  they won' even start looking for
this kid until at least the day after tomorrow, and by
then these bins will have been emptied several times.
But just in case, to make sure, I keep my collar well
turned up as I go around the bins, and my face away
from the CCTV monitoring the parking.

The last miles home are really torturous - I've got
this small place right up in the Brecon Beacons, miles
from anywhere.   I go along smaller and smaller roads,
then a narrow lane, then a farm track, and then along
my own private track that goes up the hill and around
it - I've deliberately left it deeply potholed and
rutted:  I know every inch of it and hardly need to
slow down, but if a police car tried to get up here, I
reckon it would have real trouble.  I bought the place
as a total wreck, and restored it myself.  I've got a
bit of a reputation as a "strange one" amongst my
neighbours, all of whom are a long way away, but I've
let it be known that I'm in the Exhibition Contracting
industry, so my hours are very, very irregular.  I've
explained that I'm often not working, but that when I
am, it's incredibly intensive and I work day and night
non-stop sometimes to get an exhibition open, and then
I get home as soon as I can, whatever time of the day
or night it is.  That seems to satisfy them, and the
Welsh farmers around here are a bit of a taciturn lot
and don't ask a lot of questions, so I reckon I'm OK.


Whenever I get back I always take a few minutes just
to stand there and enjoy the total silence.  I drink
in the air, and if it's night, as it is now, I marvel
at all the stars:  this far away from any other
civilisation, there's no ambient light and so you can
see the night sky perfectly.  It's also good to stop
like this as if there's anyone hiding, I'll almsot
certainly hear them as they shuffle slightly.  And, in
any case, it's a long, tough drive from London, and I
need to unwind, to let go, before I move on to phase
two of the operation.

It looks as if I'm alone as usual, though, so I open
the house and check the burglar alarms (the one I
bought locally and which anyone illicitly here would
probably know about), and the one I brought back from
a trip to the States and installed myself, secretly:
it's silent, and concealed, and I check the display to
make sure there's been no entry in my absence.

It's not all that cold, so I decide not to light the
fire, but to get the kid settled down and get to bed.
 I've got a nice old dresser against the back wall and
I push it aside (I like the way I've got it on really
smooth casters, to make it easy, but it can be
"locked" to deter casual searches) to reveal the door
to the staircase to the old cellar - one of my many
"improvements" when I did the place up was to make
this door really heavy and soundproof, and it takes a
it of effort to swing it open.

"I'm afraid it's another knockout shot for you, kid",
I tell him, "But it's almost over now....", and plunge
the needle into his thigh as he sits there helplessly.
 As he slumps I'm already undoing the cuffs, then the
seat belt, then I pick him up in a "fireman's lift"
and carry him across my little front yard, through the
cottage's one room, and down the stairs.

When I put the cage in I didn't do anything elaborate
- just lengths of that rebar stuff they use for
strengthening concrete:  it's really easy to get hold
of, and cheap and easy to cut.  But once it's sunk
into the stone floor of my cellar and fastened into
the ceiling joist above, it's totally secure - well,
at least without the right tools to get it free, or
cut it, and the kids don't have that.  I dump the kid
on the floor of the cage, and my pullover's  all wet,
I notice:  when I gave him the shot, the kid's bladder
must have let go.  Poor kid - it will embarrasses him
when he finds his jeans soaked... any moment now, as
he's starting to come around.   I close the gate of
the cage and fasten the big padlock, then stand there
looking at him.

Slowly he pulls himself to his feet, and comes and
stands by the bars.   He starts to shake them, testing
their strength, and he sees me smiling.  "Everyone
does that, but they're really solid.  Now, it's late,
and I'm dog tired after that drive and I need to go to
bed.  Here...."

I toss him some bottles of water and a couple of bars
of chocolate through the bars, together with a pillow
and two blankets.   "Make yourself comfortable - I'll
see you in the morning.  And you might want to toss
those jeans out here now, as they'll stink the place
out by morning.... That bucket with a cover is for you
to piss and crap in, incidentally."

I stand there waiting, and I can see him feeling the
damp fabric of his jeans, but he makes no move.  "OK,
suit yourself.... Try to sleep, as you've got a busy
day tomorrow."

"Please...", he stutters.  "Mom and dad... .the
number's in my mobile.... let them know I'm safe."
Actually, that' a fairly typical reaction.  Once they
see they're in my cage, and it looks pretty
impressively solid and they can see they can't break
out, they stop worrying about it and start thinking
about mom and dad!

"I'm glad you think you're safe.  But sorry, no can
do.  No mobile service up here.  We're very isolated.
And I have no neighbours, either - so don't bother
screaming and shouting to attract attention.  They
can't hear you anyway as this place is so solid:  I
had a lad in here once screaming at the top of his
voice and my neighbour came around looking for a stray
sheep or something - I gave him a drink in the room
above, and he heard nothing."

"Please... What are you going to do to me.....  Please
don't hurt me....."

"Now don't worry about that tonight.  Plenty of time
tomorrow.  Just try and sleep.  And as it's your first
night, I won't leave you totally in the dark - and it
is absolutely pitch black in here once I close that
door - I'll leave a small light burning.  See, I do
care about you.... I wouldn't do that if I was going
to harm you, would I?"

"Please...."

"Goodnight, kid!"

I clambered up the stairs, left the tiny pilot light
burning, closed the heavy door and pushed the dresser
back into place, and climbed the narrow stairs to my
own bed.  It is good, isn't it, to be home?  To have
your own things around you, and in particular your own
bed?  I've got exactly the kind of hard mattress I
like, proper goose down pillows, and a really light
but incredibly warm goose down duvet.  I just let my
clothes fall onto the floor,  I was so tired - well,
as I've told you, it is a tough drive from London.
And I hadn't slept well the nights before - not from
the tension of the mission, as that doesn't get to me
- but because the B&B had nasty cheap beds, and I
reckon there was a sailor, or a squaddie, next door
banging some bitch half the night.

I've got solar panels, and even in the Welsh climate
they work, so there was hot water for a shower - well
"hot" is perhaps the wrong word, but at least the
chill was off it:  it comes straight out of a spring
above the cottage, and it's icy otherwise.  So I had a
quick shower, then threw myself under the duvet and
just lay there, listening to the silence in my little
place.  And then I had a quick wank, as I thought
about the kid and what a prize specimen I thought I
might have.

When I'm at home I never have any problem in sleeping,
and as I was so dog tired I let myself sleep on until
ten (I can wake up at any chosen time - a trick I
learned when I was in the SAS).  The sun was streaming
in the tiny window, and I felt good.  My hand strayed
across my belly and grabbed my cock, which was hard as
usual, and I wondered whether to wank away my morning
hard-on or piss it away, so as I worked with the new
kid later I'd have the enjoyment of feeling erect all
the time.  It was an easy decision, actually - the kid
promised so much that I knew I'd keep getting stiffies
anyway, so I threw off the duvet and sprawled over the
bed, and began to wank.

I dressed "properly" after a quick shower as it wasn't
time to start worrying the kid yet about being naked -
but just a tight T and jeans, so he could see the
power in my body.  And I didn't bother to shave as I
think a really strong growth of beard looks good on a
bloke when he's working - I usually shave at night, as
I like people to see how virile I am from the dark
stubble that covers my face in the morning.  I'm not a
great one for breakfast, but you need to keep your
strength up, don't you? So I had a big mug of tea and
three Weetabix, then felt ready to start the day.

When I went down into the cellar he was huddled in the
corner of the cage.  "'morning, Tim", I said, sounding
upbeat and cheerful to try to ease his worries.

"I'm not Tim... You've made a mistake... I'm....."

"You're Tim.  The first one like you was Adam, the
next Ben, the third Chas..... And now you're Tim.  I
always decide on the name before I pick you up.  It
makes it easier for you, actually, to have a new name.
 A new name to go with your new life."

"Please... Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone...
Let mom and dad know I'm OK......"

I just stood there looking at him, and said quietly
"You must know none of that's possible.  You're an
intelligent kid, I reckon, and you'll know I can't let
you out of here."

"NO... Please... Please don't hurt me.... Don't...
Don't.... Don't kill me....."

I just laughed.  "Tim, stop worrying!  Do you think
I'd go to all the trouble and expense of capturing you
if I was going to kill you?  I'm not some sort of
pervert, you know.  Now put that silly idea right out
of your head, and stop worrying."

He didn't seem very reassured, and stayed there
crouched in the corner, as if that would be any help
if I did decide to do something violent to him.  So I
sounded cheerful again as I said quietly "Now, Tim, I
need your clothes.  It's not very good for you to have
those soiled things on... So come on, be a good lad,
and strip off."

"No!"   He was trying to sound fierce and brave.

"Suit yourself.  But it's a lovely day and I don't
want to waste it arguing with a silly kid who can't
see that I hold all the cards."    As I said this, I
climbed the stairs, turned out all the lights so that
the cellar would be in total blackness once the door
was shut, and went into the cottage slamming the door
behind me.

I only give them about an hour in total darkness - if
you haven't experienced it, and not many of us have
these days with all the street lights, pilot lights on
TVs and stuff like that, it can be pretty terrifying.
I didn't waste the time, though, and stripped off my
clothes and pulled on some running shorts (the old
style, that you can't now buy - I have to search
charity shops for them - nice and brief to show off my
thighs and bum, with a little inbuilt mesh pouch to
hold my cock and stuff, so you don't have to wear a
jockstrap or underpants).  I left my torso bare as the
sun was shining, and went for a run - an hour might
not sound a long time, but around here it's really
hard work as it's all hills, and I doubt that there's
more than twenty yards of level ground anywhere!

When I got back the sweat was streaming off me and my
chest was heaving and my heart racing - in the SAS
they teach you to push yourself, and I always do as I
need to be in really good shape:  seeing my muscular
body helps to intimidate the kids I find, so I have
fewer problems with them.  I showered quickly, pulled
my T and jeans on again, and opened the cellar door.

He was obviously surprised at where he was when the
light flooded in - even in the small space of a cage
they find it easy to get "lost" in total, pitch
darkness.

"Now, Tim, when I left I asked you to give me your
clothes.  Now please do so, start undressing before I
come down the steps, as if you're not going to be a
nice, sensible bloke, I may as well shut this door
straight away and leave you....."

"NO, please...."

"Listen, Tim, does it occur to you that I could leave
you there for ever if you really piss me off?  I could
shut this door, and simply go away - I'm due a nice
long holiday, anyway.  How would you like to die down
here, alone and forgotten, in the total darkness?  I
think it would be the dehydration that got you, rather
than the starvation....  Imagine, dying of thirst,
alone, in the total darkness.....  Would you like
that, Tim?  Or are you going to be sensible?"

It's the calm, even tone I use when I tell them that
which does it, I reckon.  No shouting, no gloating,
just a calm, even voice stating the facts.  All of
them give in at this point, and Tim was no exception.
He pulled off his long-sleeved T as I watched, then
hopped around from foot to foot taking off his
trainers, then stood there for a moment.  I came down
the steps and stood in front of the cage, watching.  I
said nothing, but nodded at him, indicating he should
continue, and his T came off then - my cock jerked
slightly as I saw he had a really nice physique, and
proper "man" tits as well:  the aureoles were dark and
a good size and he wasn't one of those "boy" types
where you can hardly see the tits at all.  He had some
of his dirty blond hair on his chest - just a
smattering - but running across his flat belly, down
from his neatly-finished navel, was a trial of
slightly darker hair that promised much.

"The jeans....", I said quietly, and he undid his belt
and pushed them down and stepped out of them.  I
gestured to him, and he pushed all that stuff through
the bars, then stood there in his socks and boxers -
the stretch jersey kind, with some designer name or
other on the thick waistband.  I could see he was very
respectably hung, and perhaps I had been right and it
was the bulge of his crotch that had been holding up
those baggy jeans.

"Now, Tim, when I said I wanted you to strip off, I
meant totally - I want all your clothes, as they
aren't very fresh, are they?  Come on.... Socks and
boxers off too."

"Why...?"

"Because I say so, Tim.  That's all you need to know.
Just obey me, and there won't be any problems for you.
 Or do you want to be left here again in the dark?
And I bet you're hungry, too - you'd like a bite of
breakfast, I reckon.....?  So come on, be a sensible
lad and strip off - pretend you're changing in the gym
and I'm just one of the other guys next to you, if you
like."

He hopped around from foot to foot pulling his socks
off, then turned away from me to push down his boxers.
 I was rewarded by the first sight of his bum -
beautiful!  A lot of fine hair over it, and no spots
or blemishes.  Long, lean thighs, nicely rounded bum,
and those little dimples at the base of the spine
before his bum flared out:  Tim was looking like a
rare prize.

"Come on, turn around, and bring me those things over
here....  You haven't got anything to be ashamed of,
have you?  You're not an 'asparagus dick', all thin
and weedy?  Or have you got one of those stubby little
cocks that you don't like to flash in front of other
men?   Come on, Tim - I'm going to see you naked
sooner or later, and I'm getting impatient, standing
here...."

He turned and came towards the bars, holding his
boxers and socks in one hand, and keeping the other
over his genitals.  I took the clothes off him, and
said quietly "Now, both hands in the air, please, as I
want to see what I've got here...."

He looked defiant, and I made a tiny move towards the
stairs.  I was pleased to hear him give a little
despairing sigh, then slowly raise his arms up to his
shoulders.  My cock definitely twitched now - no, not
only twitched, but pushed at the fabric of my jeans.
He was almsot perfect - a lovely long cock, but
properly proportioned so it was adequately thick.  And
behind it, those balls  I always think look really
good on a young guy:  low handing and good sized, so
that the end of his sac was below the end of his cock.
 I could hardly wait to get him on his hands and knees
and with his thighs apart, as those beauties would
look fantastic swinging there:  I know some men prefer
the tight, rounded sacs with cocks thrusting out from
on top of them - but then you don't get that
spectacular view that a low-hanging bloke gives you
when he's on all fours, do you?  His foreskin covered
the head, but it wasn't overly long.  I could see the
ridge of his helmet plainly, and I wondered if Tim
wasn't just the tiniest bit excited by this whole
thing - or was that his natural, un-erect state?
Still, I'd find out later.

I picked up all his clothes and bounded up the stairs
- it does them good to see their clothes taken away,
as it emphasises their total nakedness and dependency.
 But I left the lights on and the door open, as I went
into other kitchen and drew a big bucket of warm
water, then carried it down the stairs.  I was
pleased, though - unlike a lot of young blokes these
days,  from what I'd seen his skin wasn't disfigured
by tattoos, and he hadn't got any piercings, either.
Obviously I exclude any ""candidates" with rings in
their eyebrows, or even their ears, but you never know
whether any of them have had something done to their
navel, or their cock, even, until you've got the
stripped so it's always a bit of a gamble.

"Now, Tim, I'm going to have to open the cage to give
you this water - and I don't want any silliness, OK?
No trying to rush me, or push past me.... It's been
tried before, and I'm ready for it. You may have
noticed that I'm big, and powerful:  very powerful.
And I don't want to have to hurt you, and that's
almsot inevitable if you try to escape.  So stand over
by the back wall...."

He retreated, and I undid the padlock, pushed the
bucket in, then locked the gate again.  I smiled at
him, to give him a little reward.  "Very sensible!
Now, come over here so I can give you some soap and a
flannel:  there's no drainage down here, so there
can't be a shower or anything.  But I expect a nice
lad like you hates being dirty, so you can clean
yourself all over with the flannel and this warm
water...."

He approached the bars, his cock flopping up and down
as he moved, which I like.  He went to take the soap
off me, but I reached down and wet the flannel, then
soaped it up.  "Sorry, Tim - the soap stays out here.
One kid like you actually tried to eat it, to make
himself ill, in the hope I'd have to call an ambulance
or something..... Very painful it was for him, as he
vomited all day.... So I try to prevent accidents like
that now."

I handed him the soapy flannel, then watched as
slowly, very slowly, he began to wipe his torso and
belly with it.  Like most young blokes he was
incredibly shy at having to wash like this with a
soapy flannel and a bucket of water - I guess he was
used to showering with his mates after games or gym at
school, but then there'd be lots of them, a lot of
laughter, a lot of running water, and it would all
seem somehow natural.  Here it was very different:
the oppressive cellar, the silence, the unfamiliar use
of a damp cloth to clean himself with, and, above all,
my eyes watching, always watching, as he ran the thing
over his body and limbs.

He asked for the flannel to be recharged a couple of
times, and, rather touchingly, turned away from me to
clean his cock and balls - and I saw him fiddling
around as he peeled back his foreskin and washed
himself under there as best he could.  Another good
sign - I like a bloke who cares for his cock and
cleans himself properly, even when times are tough.

I told him to go back against the far wall then as I
opened the gate to retrieve the bucket, then called
him forward.  "Tim, when I told you to strip, I wanted
everything.  That necklace, and your watch...."

He had one of those leather thongs around his neck,
strung with native beads, the sort a lot of young guys
seem to wear nowadays as they think it makes them look
good.  "Please....", he whispered.  "My girlfriend
gave me this....  Please let me keep it..."

"Sorry, Tim!  Even though it may bring back memories
of her body against yours and that cock of yours right
inside her.... I take it you were fucking her?  But it
has to go.  And the watch...."

He blushed, so I assumed he was having it away, as
you'd expect.  He just stood there, though, and I
began, with a sad tone in my voice "We were getting on
so well, Tim, and now you're going to make me punish
you again.... You haven't eaten yet, and now you're
going to be all alone down here in the dark again....
Now, come on, I don't like having to punish you, and
we've got a lot to do today.  So just hand over the
necklace, and your watch...."

I could see him thinking, and held out my hand to
reinforce the idea that he was going to hand the stuff
over, and very reluctantly, he did.  I smiled at him.
"Good.  Totally bare now, all nice and clean, and
ready to begin your new life.  But first, I think you
deserve something to eat."

I bounded up the stairs again, and came back with a
carton of freshly-squeezed orange juice (the really
expensive stuff, but it is a lot better, with a whole
load more vitamins and fibre and stuff than the
pasteurised ones, and after all I want these blokes in
peak condition), two organic wholemeal rolls that I'd
filled with home-made marmalade but no butter (no, I
don't make it myself!  But the Women's Institute has
regular sales on a Thursday in the loca town, and it's
much better than the shop-made stuff;  and I wanted
him on a low fat diet, at least to start with), and
two really nice organic apples.

Pushing the stuff through the bars I commented "Sorry
there's no plates, or glasses, or anything:  but one
of your predecessors tried to attack me with a broken
glass and a shard of smashed plate.... It's for your
own good - he cut himself really badly as we fought:
he slipped and went down on to the broken glass ,and
with no clothes to protect him....  I don't expect
you'd be that stupid, but I take sensible precautions
now."

He must have been hungry, very hungry, as he devoured
the stuff, then pushed the empty carton and the apple
cores back trough the bars when he was told.    "Good
boy, Tim!  Now it's simple:  if you obey and are nice
and compliant, you get fed.  So that's lesson one -
disobey, and you go hungry.  Lesson two's a bit the
same, actually:  disobey badly, and I'll really punish
you.  It's all about obedience - do as I tell you, and
we'll get along fine.  Disobey, and you're punished."

"How...?"

"You'll find out.  Everyone who's been down here
disobeys badly sooner or later.  Now, come over to the
bars and stretch your arms out sideways...."

He did as he was told, albeit hesitantly, and I
snapped handcuffs around his wrists and the bars.  He
stood there, shaking his bonds, as if trying to get
free.  "They're proper police ones, Tim, not toys.
Don't pull too hard or else they will cut into your
wrists, and it takes a long time for them to heal -
and I'm told it's very painful."

As I spoke, I undid the gate and stepped into the
cell, and stood in front of him.  "Now I need to take
some measurements - and a lot of blokes don't like
this part.  But  it doesn't hurt, and I do need to
know the starting point of our little journey, so  I
can see how your training is working out...."

He was licking his lips nervously, as if scared at
what I might be about to do.  But when I pulled a tape
measure and a notebook and pencil from my back pocket,
he relaxed slightly.    I used the notebook to project
a mark from the top of his head onto the cage bar,
then went outside and measured the height from the
floor.  "Six foot!", I commented.  "Good -  I like a
nice tall bloke, and you've probably got another inch
to go - how old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen."

"Yes, almsot certainly another inch.  I'm six three,
and it's good to be tall.  Let's you see over the tops
of all the short guys!"  Actually, I like to emphasise
that I'm bigger than them, as it builds towards a
sense of overwhelming physical domination.

Stepping back into the cage I measured his neck size,
then his chest, then knelt down and ran the tape
around behind him over his bum, and did that thing
tailors do of sliding the tape backwards and forwards
a bit as if locating the biggest part, as I measured
his hips.  His waist was easy.  Then, still kneeling,
I looked up at him.

"OK, Tim..... Inside leg measurement next.  I expect
you've had this done before, right?  Had some trouser
altered, or fitted for a dinner suit for a fancy
function?  It's just the same, except that you're
naked now.... So spread your legs a little, and
relax....."

It's always exciting the first time I touch their
cocks and reach up into their ass - I make it appear
so casual, so the cock rests on the side of my thumb
as I reach right up to get the tape measure pressed
against their ass.  It only takes a moment, but for
most of them, and that included Tim, I thought, the
feeling of a man's warm hand there was not something
they'd ever experienced before.

I stood there in front of him looking at my
measurements, and nodded.  "Excellent - really nice
proportions, and slim.... You take good care of
yourself - you look to be in good shape.  Do you work
out?"

"No.  I use the skateboard a lot.  I do football at
school, and gym there, and I like swimming.  And I run
a bit, to get fit, as I'm on the first team...."

"Good.  So some of the stuff I'll be doing with you
won't be too bad.  Now let's take your weight....."  I
went over to my cupboard and opened it and took out
the scales, then slid them under his feet, and read it
off.

"Excellent!  A lot of good solid muscle there."  I saw
a look of almsot terror in his eyes.  The cupboard
door had fallen open, and he could see, neatly
arranged on the back wall, my collection of whips and
canes, and handcuffs and other restraining devices,
all in their proper places neatly arranged against
silhouettes of themselves so it's easy to see what's
missing.  I glanced over my shoulder and said cheerily
"Oh don't worry about those - a good lad like you
probably won't ever experience most of them."

I took the scales back and purposely closed the
cupboard.  "See - now you only have to worry if I ever
open it!  Opening that cupboard, Tim, is the sign of
bad news ahead for you.  But if you carry on being
sensible, we might not have to do it."   I always try
and sound calm and reasonable when I say things like
that, as I think the message sinks in better.

"OK, only two measurements left, and we're done....".
As I said this I reached down and held his cock,
laying the tape measure alongside it on the palm of my
hand.    "Very respectable, Tim!  Your girlfriend, the
one who gave you the necklace... She appreciates this,
does she?"

"Mind your own fucking business....."

In an instant my mood changed, and I stepped back, and
slapped his face, hard.  And my hard is very hard, as
I am very powerfully built.  He looked simply
astonished - I don't think anyone had ever hit him
like that before.  Most nice young middle-class guys
like Tim have never been hit.  A big red patch from my
palm was appearing on his cheek.

"We were getting along so well, Tim!  But I won't
accept outbursts like that from you.  In fact, I've
been meaning to tell you:  I like everything you say
to me to be prefixed and followed by 'sir'.... 'Sir,
yes, sir'... Like that.  I'm sure you've seen films
about life in the army and so on?  Well, that's what I
like to hear.  And sometimes, if it's appropriate, you
might use my name, which is Steve.  OK?"

"Yes", he mumbled, and I slapped him hard on the other
cheek.  He shook at his cuffs impotently, and glared
at me.  "Shall we try that again, Tim?  But before you
answer, I reckon your face will get tired before my
arm does.  So do you understand how to reply?"

"Sir, yes, sir."  He almsot spat it out, but it's good
to let them be a little defiant at this point.  I need
to break them, but  I want them broken so that the
pieces can be put back together nicely, and I don't
want some miserable, cringing ,whining, utterly
subservient thing.

"Now, one more measurement to go."  I reached down for
his cock again, and this time teased the foreskin up
and down, and rubbed my thumb over the exposed dark,
moist cock head.  Tim moaned, and began to whisper
"Please, no, sir...."   But it was having the desired
effect, and he started to go hard in my hand.  I
carried on stroking him and playing with his cock, now
letting my thumbnail rake across his piss slit, and I
was rewarded by a tiny jewel of pre-cum forming.  I
stopped then and used the tape measure again,
complimenting him on what a good size he was, and
knowing that he'd be hating being erect in front of
another man - in fact, I supposed this was the first
time he'd actually been that way (well, he might have
had erections with other men present, just like I had
now, but they'd always be covered by his clothes. It's
amazing how few men have let other blokes see them
with a hard-on - even after a game when you're all in
the showers, you pray you don't start to bone up,
don't you?).

I came out of the cage and locked the door, then freed
his wrists from the cuffs.  He stood there, rubbing
his wrists, and I told him to push them through the
bars so I could inspect them.   "No damage", I told
him cheerfully.  "See, if you listen to me, there
aren't many problems here.  Some of the blokes I've
had down here have ended up in a terrible state."

"Sir, how many, sir....?"

"...have ended up in a terrible state?"

"No, that you've had down here, sir?"

"You don't listen, do you, Tim?  A, B, C..... And now
Tim.  Count for yourself. I'm really experienced."

"Sir, please, what happens to them, and to me....."

"Stop worrying, Tim!  I'll take good care of you, just
as I did the others."

End Of Part One