Date: Mon, 3 Nov 2003 23:47:12 -0000 (GMT)
From: ok_uwater@merlads.net
Subject: rob-and-gordon-rob-2

Night 2 - Rob's version

Copyright by Speedyboy, Sept 2003.  This story is submitted to Nifty
under their submission guidelines.   No part of this story can be
submitted or archived by anyone else without my express permission. If you
are too young or don't like stories about rough play with erotic overtones
press the back button NOW!

This story is fantasy.  The author does not endorse, encourage, or
consent to any attempt to make any of the below described scenes real.

Please send feedback to ok_uwater@merlads.net.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

	It may sound funny, but I felt really at peace after the night at
the pool, and so I slept very deeply, knowing that a deep need within
me had finally been fulfilled. I could rest for a while without my
over-active brain and body demanding more torment, at least for the
time being. Gordon annoyed me by telling me afterwards that I looked
really innocent and cute when I slept. I wanted to look tough all
the time, but I guess that's quite difficult for a milky-white,
smooth-skinned ten-year old, with a mop of straight brown hair
constantly flopping into his eyes, a small button nose, and rather
full red lips. I was quite tall for my age, but still pretty skinny,
even though some of my muscles were starting to develop, thanks
to long hours training at the swimming club, and time spent with
Gordon. I guess I can't have looked that tough, particularly to my
sixteen-year-old master, but I was feeling bolder and bolder every day.
	We did some great stuff at my house while the rest of my family
was away on holiday - he'd tied me to the bed and leave me there all
night, occasionally coming in to whip me, or bust my balls, which
was a lot of fun. He also used to grip me by the hair and force my
head underwater in the bath to increase my breath-holding capacity,
which improved rapidly. Sometimes he'd leave me tied up in the water
for long periods, only adding hot water when I was starting to shiver
and turn blue. My only condition, strange though this may seem, was
that I should perform all my ordeals wearing speedos. I just loved
looking at my young body being terrible abused as I was wearing only
a brief, soft, silky garment, that offered my body only wafer-thin
protection from the blows that Gordon inflicted with such skill.
	I showed Gordon some of the contortionist skills I'd learned from
a book from the library. I'd seen a kid of about my own age doing
it on a TV talent contest show - a blond Russian kid wearing a tiny
pair of green towelling trunks, concentrating hard as he bent his body
into wildly improbably positions, helped by a pitiless coach, who was
described as his uncle. Eventually, I could bend over backwards and
grab my own shins. To my great delight, Gordon ordered me to remain
that way for several testing minutes, while he grabbed by balls with
the ferocity of a wild animal hungering for its prey. I always loved
to feel of the savage clamp on his hand on the front of my little
speedo. Then he'd squeeze hard, and manipulate me roughly with his
long, skilful fingers. That always gave both of us wild erections, and
set me wondering if he'd ever honour me by talking my virginity. Some
of my ten-year-old friends at swimming club had already been deflowered
by sixteen year old boys on the same team, and were boasting opnely
about it. But I was too shy to ask about such things, and I wasn't
really sure exactly what Gordon was into anyway. In my childish mind,
I reasoned that a ten-year old kid like me probably couldn't be of
much interest to a big, mature sixteen year old like him...
	But all the time we spent together was great fun, and I was
happier than I'd ever been in my life. Soon, however, I wanted another
night like the fantastic evening that Gordon had given me in the
pool. That had been so awesome that I had to write down every single
detail in my secret diary, painstakingly illustrated. I loved writing
and I loved art - and combining these two things with the thrill of the
ordeals was almost too much.  I felt my head popping with delight as I
wrote about my experiences. I never wrote down Gordon's name in case
the book was discovered - I referred to him simply as "Sir". Looking
back at the diary now, I did exaggerate some of the descriptions of
the ordeals a bit - Gordon never put my life in danger, or caused
any permanent injuries. He was very, very careful to take things to
the limit but not beyond, especially for a ten-year-old who hadn't
yet reached puberty.  I guess in hindsight I was a really lucky kid -
I could so easily have fallen into the hands of a callous sadist who
wanted to snuff me, but instead I got the best master any boy could
have wished for.
	Anyway, I pestered Gordon day after day for another big night,
assuring him that he could do anything he wanted - anything at all. I
did have a bit of a deathwish in those days, I must confess, because
of stuff that had happened to me when I was much, much younger. I
needed pain so badly that I inflicted it mercilessly upon myself at
every available opportunity, but it felt much, much more satisfying
if someone else was doing it, as I never knew exactly what would
happen next. Gordon didn't disappoint me. One night he just used that
amazingly commanding tone of voice of his to say, suddenly, "Let's
go." I knew exactly what he meant. My cocklet almost exploded through
my speedo when I finally heard the words I had been waiting for. I
knew this would be awesome - far, far more testing than anything I'd
ever done before. Gordon didn't know I'd been spying on him from afar,
watching him creep into the boiler room at school when he thought
he had be tied securely to my bed (yeah, I was a real Boydini!).
So I was prepared for the boilder room. I was wearing one of my more
unusual speedos - a blue number with white swirls that I hoped looked
a bit like steam.  I knew Gordon would appreciate this, as he had a
real eye for detail.
	Although I was fizzing inside and buzzing around him like a
excited puppy for most of the way, I felt different when we actually
arrived. The sight of the steel doors, and the deathly groaning of the
machinery, filled me with a terrifying premonition that I was going to
meet my death in that room that night. But the horror was mixed with
a morbid excitement at the idea of my own imminent demise - I began
to wonder how much pain I would have to endure before my young body
finally expired. I imagined newspaper reports with phrases like "the
ten-year-old boy's body was found mutilated in a manner which police
refused to describe in detail...in all his years as a police officer,
he'd never seen anything so horrific...". Those stories always caught
my attention at that age, I'm ashamed to say.  I've grown out of it
now, but at that age I was a real little sadist with absolutely no
conscience. Just a typical pre-teen boy, I guess.  So when we actually
went in, and Gordon slammed the door shut with a terrible finality,
and locked it, I was perspiring with excitement, and unable to leave
my cock alone. Gordon knew I would need all my strength to get through
the ordeal, so he distracted me from my labours with a curt order to
strip. I tore off my black tracksuit, yellow swimming club t-shirt,
yellow football socks and black trainers. I looked down at my speedo
admiringly, and adjusted my cock to that it was pointing straight
upwards and erect. The organ wasn't long enough yet to peep over the
top of my tight trunks.
	Gordon was barking orders at me, but I couldn't actually hear
what he was saying above the mechanical cacophony, so when he stopped
speaking I just nodded.  I'd have done anything for him anyway, so it
really didn't matter. The one word I did hear was "March!". I stepped
smartly down the staircase and into the hellish world, kicking my
knees right up to my chin with each step, knowing it would arouse my
master. Then, yelling right into my ear, he ordered me over to the
two horizontal pipes and the saw horses. My wayward hand caressed
my balls quickly as I understood the first game right away, and I
positioned myself as quickly as I could once Gordon had issued his
latest instructions. This was going to be fun - and quite easy, I
thought at first. Then I saw the huge, heavy pliers. I assumed they
were for crushing my balls - that's what I'd had used them for at that
age, but Gordon was about to open up a whole new, uncharted chapter
of pain for me. I'd never considered my boyish nipples particularly
interesting before - in fact I'd hardly even considered them, to tell
you the truth. But when he unexpectedly locked the pliers on them as I
hung face-down over the pipe, the waves of pain that surged through my
naïve body were unlike anything I'd felt before. I remember thinking
savagely "This is cruelty, real cruelty", and my cocklet hardened
further at the thought. Then the way he screamed "BEGIN!", with his
face contorted in a mass of rage, heightened my sense of excitement
even further. I could tell he was going to be a real bastard to
me tonight! The burning pain of the boiling pipes was just right,
hard to bear for a fair-skinned young boy, but not impossible. It
was the press-ups themselves that were more difficult. They were
really gruelling, and Gordon had such high standards - every single
one had to be perfect. His dedication to his work of training me was
very flattering to a boy so young. He always added great touches too,
to keep me inspired. Just when I was weakening during the press ups,
he went underneath me and suddenly scored a great punch, busting
my balls, which filled me with enough anger and aggression to carry
on. But I really hated the way he ripped the pliers off me so nastily,
and I couldn't believe the way he grabbed my broken nipples and
squeezed them so ferociously - it seemed so unlike him to introduce
a gratuitously callous element into the carefully-choreographed
violence, but eventually I contented myself with the idea that some
elements of the game had to be entirely unpredictable, to keep me on
my toes. Maybe he just assumed I'd done nipple torture before, but the
thought had simply never buzzed into my ten-year-old brain. Overall,
I felt OK after the ordeal, apart from my sore nipples.
	I was glad to have learned something new. The pipes hadn't hurt
that much, I told myself. Gordon cheered me up further by reaching
between my legs, clamping his magnificent hand over my balls, and
lifting me up by them. Just the touch of his fingers was enough to
make me want to carry on.
	I didn't understand the tomato juice thing at first at all.
It just felt silly, and I wanted desperately to find out about the next
ordeal instead. But eventually I realised how desperately thirsty
I was, and I remembered Gordon had noticed me refusing to drink
the disgusting stuff at his house once. How kind of him to notice,
I thought ruefully. I was sure that Gordon had also chosen it because
the spilled juice looked like blood as it dripped down my chest and
onto my speedo. I looked down longingly. A tortured boy's briefs soaked
in blood - totally cool! I wish we'd had a photographer there. It was
a moment worth preserving. Again, I wanted to throw my arms around
Gordon and tell him how clever he was, but he'd never have stood for
it. "Attention!" he barked, as he ordered me to hold onto something
from behind. I had no idea what was coming.	A burning pipe? A
rope? (His cock? I even thought, mischievously). The weight of the
hammer was extraordinary. I soon knew it was a hammer because of the
way Gordon rammed it into the back of my speedos. (I remember thinking:
"No! Not the hammer! Ram your cock there instead, Sir! Please! I'll
be good! Piledrive me!"). I had to content myself with Gordon tying a
cord around my balls..and that was good enough. I have to say I really
hated being clamped again.  It was just so painful. But in a strange
way I kind of got used to it, and eventually warmed to the idea. It
was very uncomfortable, but there was a real sense of achievement in
every minute that passed without me using my safeword to stop the game
("Bagheera"). I reasoned that if all the pain just sent a sexual thrill
though me, and I wasn't in agony or terrified at any point, it wasn't
really a tough enough ordeal. And it was all for Gordon - that was
the clincher - I wanted to do it for Gordon. I couldn't quite figure
him out, but I knew he really enjoyed the spectacle of a young boy
being brave enough to push himself to the limit, and a bit beyond. I
wanted with all my heart to be that boy. I couldn't let him down.
	I was very scared about having my balls ripped off if I dropped
the hammer, so my raging hard-on subsided completely as I concentrated
all my effort on walking along the narrow corridor. The setting was
so perfect. The cruel feeling of the metal walkway on my unprotected
feet. The sweaty, steamy atmosphere that promised a scalding at any
moment. But again, my muscles seemed too weak to obey me, and I began
to fumble with the hammer as it slipped a few dangerous inches through
my fingers. When I'd completed the terrible journey twice, and Gordon
untied me (handling my cock beautifully, but all too briefly, in the
process), my spirits were high, but my body was just refusing to do
anything I wanted. I loved the way he threw me down onto the deck
so brutally.  I was getting a real taste for it now, but I just had
to lay there, feeling my useless body quivering, hyperventilating. "If
only I was a bit older!" I thought, "If only I wasn't a kid.  I can't
take much more, and then Gordon won't want me to be his friend". The
thought was so terrible that I found new reserves of strength from
somewhere. Then came the tomato juice again, which I pretended to enjoy
in an exaggerated manner, hoping that I'd get a vicious punch in the
balls for my rudeness. What I actually got, instead was... another
bottle of tomato juice! That Gordon was a real sadist!
	Then he upset me a bit by telling me my gorgeous blue speedos
stank. I know this is childish, even for a ten-year-old, but I
hated any suggestion that I wasn't looking utterly beautiful in my
speedo. It spoilt the whole game for me for a moment, so I ripped them
off furiously, pretended to give Gordon a slight smile even though
I was really angry with him, and found a new garment in my bag -
a special one, in which I'd be able to endure even greater cruelty.
Black? No - that meant death, and Gordon would never go that far. So
I settled on black but with a vital red stripe up each side. Black
and red were my favourite colours at that age - so devilish, just
right for a wicked young boy bursting with life.
	"Warm up is over!" barked Gordon. "Now the real pain starts!" He
was always so great at raising my level of excitement to fever pitch
again, even though I felt dog-tired. Looking back on it now, he was
quite an artist - a great entertainer, with an instinctive grasp
of what his audience wanted. Just when I was feeling at my lowest
physically, he'd always pull something out of the bag to set my pulse
racing again. Very few other boys can ever have been as lucky. I
knew he'd want me to look a bit worried by the threat of real pain,
so I tried my best to do so. I guess we were both great entertainers
for each other, in our way.
	The next ordeal was completely awesome - one of the best ever. I
was almost moaning with pleasure right from the start, because he
made me lie down face up spreadeagled - my very favourite position -
while I felt him tying my boyish arms up with ruthless efficiency,
and a genuine touch of cruelty. My engorged cock, such as it was
at the tender age, was trapped really painfully inside my speedo,
and I could already feel I was coming to a point of dry orgasm, as I
lay there bound and helpless in the nightmarish place. I had to stop
that from happening, as it would have taken all the fire out of me,
and I wouldn't have lasted another minute. So I thought about really
unsexy things to cool myself down. School dinners. The fat girl at
in my class. Her mum. And It worked! I was always having to do things
like that to stop getting erections in my speedos in public. At diving
club, whenever I stepped up onto the board and took up a Y-position,
I always got really over-excited, particularly if it was a really
high or dangerous dive. Some of the judges used to notice.
	One really old guy in particular wouldn't leave me alone,
joking about it as he gripped me by the shoulder, demanding to know
what I'd been thinking about, wiping saliva away from his lips as I
grinned sheepishly back at him, utterly mute. I guess that's why some
boys don't like wearing speedos - particularly once they reach their
teens - there's just no way to hide an enormous boner!  Anyway, I was
soon aroused again when I heard the motor start up, and I was raised
into position against the boiler. My wildest dreams coming true - the
torture chamber had been made real. From the rather tender way in which
Gordon caressed my glistening speedo, I could tell that some serious
pain was just around the corner. I wasn't disappointed. As I felt the
first staple searing into my flesh, I knew I was reaching the heart
of real sadism. It hurt way beyond anything I'd ever done to myself,
or Gordon had done to be so far. There was an odd clicking sound in
my head, as my brain rebelled against what I was allowing to happen to
my vulnerable young body. As each staple followed, a delicious series
of phrases and images ran though my feverish mind. I was a boy-slave
being branded for sale at a Roman market - then branded again when I
was sold to a sadistic master for his orgy that night. I was a boy-colt
being branded at a rodeo, ripe for castration. Then the burning needles
seared through my boyish nipples. That was it?  I was going to die
there, as I could take no more pain, especially in my nipples. Gordon
had pushed me too far. He knew I'd rather die than use my safeword. As
the racking began, I consoled myself with the thought that there was
no finer way for a bold young boy to expire. As the blood ran freely
from my nipples, I was dimly aware that Gordon's whole face and body
were aroused to a point at which he shone with an even greater vitality
than I'd seen in him before. As more blood trickled from the staples,
I imagined myself as Saint Sebastian. The image of the naked young
saint pierced with arrows had been the very first erotic image I'd
ever come across, as a sweet five-year-old at Sunday school. I knew,
as soon as I saw it, what my destiny was to be. It had taken five long
years to fulfil it. Although these thoughts were extremely comforting,
they couldn't blot out the pain that was encompassing me.  Every limb,
every muscle, every joint, felt as though it was at breaking point,
so that my young body would be ripped apart in a explosion of flesh,
bone and blood. The boy-rack is one of the cruellest experiences I've
ever had. I felt my lips move, silently mouthing the word "Bagheera",
but I resolutely refused to say it out loud. Then, when I thought
could take no more, Gordon  raised the game to an even higher level,
cutting my chest and my stomach with a red-hot blade that I would have
been glad to use on my own throat, to make the game stop. Then I felt
his delicious finger tracing circles around my genitals.  My whole
body felt as though it was swimming in sweat, and the sensation of
feeling my slippery balls stroked amid the noisy mayhem around me
caused my small penis to stiffen again. Then, as Gordon squeezed
my balls and punched them, I could feel  my speedo was deliriously
drenched in blood, and the thought kept me from losing consciousness.
	"And now for the real pain", roared Gordon. That sealed it
for me. I knew I could take no more. I frantically imagined the
insertion of red-hot poker, being dropped right inside the boiler,
chainsaws, fistings...mechanical rape...again, I mouthed "Bagheera",
but no sound came out. As the tension on my limbs slowly subsided
with the motor going into reverse, I felt a new level of pain as my
broken body desperately tried to return to normal. I flopped forward
uselessly onto Gordon's body. I was sure I would never get up, and
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Gordon revived
me with that bark of his:
	"You have one minute to get upright". I had to obey.  My whole
world depended upon it.  I counted to thirty slowly, and as I did so,
a sense of triumph flooded through me. I had been right into the jaws
of death and come back out again.  Nothing could stop me now. I was
super-boy. I was the resurrected boy. I was the boy who lived.
	I dragged myself up, and imagined I was at the swimming pool. I
limbered up as if for a race, knowing my movements would provoke
Gordon to set another challenge. I had mastered some of the pain,
even though I'm sure my discomfort showed on my face. When Gordon
told me to look up, I couldn't believe what I saw.  It was a prize
to die for. I had a red speedo already of course, but just a normal
one. The red speedo dangling in the steamy shaft above me was amazing.
Just the right size for my ten-year-old hips, but metallic, like
an exotic theatrical costume. It was perfect.  The colour of fire,
devilish, hot, sexy - what more could a bright young boy with a bit of
imagination want?  I could already tell I'd have fun trying to reach
it. I'd been experimenting with steam for a year or so by myself,
when my parents were out. It was a great game. I used to boil up an
electric kettle of water on a wooden chair, and stand with my balls
right over the spout as the steam came out. It's the greatest buzz,
as you force yourself to boil your own balls! Ouch! I counted the
number of seconds I could last, flicking the switch to re-boil the
kettle over and over again, as my young balls got lobster-red! I found
it didn't work if I actually splashed the boiling water inside the
kettle - the direct scalding pain was too great (or was at the age of
ten anyway), but the boiling steam, as it soaked right into my speedo,
felt awesome. Now, thanks to Gordon, I was slowly being boiled alive us
I climbed to reach my prize. My whole body felt battered and scalded
by that stage, but I didn't care.  The sense of achievement was so
overwhelming as my fingers closed around the suggestive garment that I
felt like a new boy again. After I'd jumped back down, I even managed
to raise my hands like a gymnast. When I saw the look of admiration
on Gordon's face, and that he was actually applauding, I cried openly
for the first time since we'd entered the boiler room, my shoulders
heaving terribly as I buried my head into his body. The top of my
head barely reached his chest. Then I felt his strong arms lifting
me onto his shoulders, and I clung there like a monkey, never wanting
let go as I snuggled my boyish face into his neck. Then he washed me
and treated my cuts and burns with all the care of an older brother,
or a father. These moments of pure gentleness really broke my heart -
he was capable of such tenderness and sensitivity, after a session
of such brutality, and the contrast was just too great for my young
mind to comprehend. But as we left, I found I was walking tall, with
my hero at my side. He was really nice to me on the way back to my
house, saying for the first time ever how tough and brave I was. I
knew he never said things like that normally, not to anyone, so I felt
really special. I began dancing along the pavement, whooping. But for
once, I didn't start asking him what was coming next.  We both knew
he'd found my limit to absolute perfection, and that would probably
satisfy both of us. For a little while, at least.  Anyway, the first
thing that both of us wanted to do was to see how I'd shape up in
that metallic red speedo?

(ENDS)(copyright by Speedyboy, Ocy 2003)