3 comments/ 4038 views/ 4 favorites The Boys in the Box Ch. 16-18 By: jacksonblooms Author's note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings are morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :) ***** 16. JoJo was not a pony. Like Bongo and Sunshine, he simply wasn't built for the job, and on my relatively modest estate a true pony slave would be wasted. Ponies need space, and as such owning them is only practical where they can carry their master over long distances, running for miles and miles in the sun. Sprawling European manors, private islands, parts of the Middle East where sheiks and princes can display their slaves with impunity - these are proper homes for ponies, not my small, discreet three-hundred acre compound. I would no sooner keep a pony on my land than I would a mastiff in a Manhattan studio apartment. That said, JoJo was trained to shuttle me here and there on the estate. And like a proper pony, he had picked up the trick of napping on his feet while awaiting his master's pleasure. Exiting the stables in the late afternoon sunshine, I found my blond-haired boy standing and snoozing, a tiny ribbon of drool escaping his mouth around his bit gag. He was almost too cute rouse. Almost. A sharp flick of the riding crop on the slave's left flank brought him to immediate attention. "I need to check on the new stock. Be quick about it, it's nearly suppertime and we have a guest." We were off at once. It was a quick sprint to the unassuming shed where I store new acquisitions until they are ready for the stables. While we awaited the results of Dr. Bohrman's blood tests, the boys had to be properly shaved, cleaned, cuffed, and given time take in the gravity of their new situation. That day or two kept locked inside, gagged and blinded, completely unable to see their new world or communicate with their captors, is crucial to the understanding and eventual acceptance of a slave's fate. Entering the shed, I was greeted with a beautiful sight. There before me were six new slaves strung up from the rafters like so many slabs of beef, standing on tip-toes, eyes masked, mouths gagged, rectums lovingly plugged. Tyson and Jake had spent the afternoon giving them an initial grooming; gone was any hair below the eyebrows, save for the small patches of pubes I allowed. Most slaves are eventually permanently depilated, but in the meantime I liked to leave them with a small remnant of manhood. I find it charming, not to mention convenient to grab. "Looks like they're coming along well," I said to Jake. "They give you any trouble?" "The little wetback tried to bite me when I shaved off his trash 'stache," my assistant replied, "but otherwise they've been pretty docile." I looked over at Pollo, a small purple bruise on his jaw standing witness to his disobedience. I supposed he didn't require any further punishment. Nor, judging from the six-inch erection he was sporting, did I anticipate too much more resistance. "No slurs, please, Jacob." I only addressed him by his full first name when rebuking him. "This is a quality establishment, not some back alley brothel. Anyway, that one's a little pantywaist, in case you hadn't already guessed. Don't rough her up too much; she's going to make some old queen very happy. If you're done all done with the initial processing, you and Tyson may call it a night."A quick "Thanks, boss," from my chagrined assistant and he and Tyson were packing up to head home. It was an unusually early evening for them, but there was no need to guard six gagged, blinded, and immobilized boys. We'd all be pulling long hours in the coming weeks, and their was no reason not to give them a break while I could afford it. "Feel free to have a quick fuck or suck with Icarus, Tiny, or Cubby before you leave," I called over my shoulder, almost as an afterthought. "But hands off Bongo and Sunshine, they're working tonight." Alone in the shed, I allowed myself to drink in the sight of my six new slaves, raw and ready to be trained. "Hello, boys. You don't know me yet, but I am your new owner. Every inch of your bodies belongs to me. Over the next several months, I will train you into strong, capable, desirable pieces of slave flesh. You're going to resist me at first. Just know that the sooner you accept what you are, the better your new lives will be. I'm looking forward to getting to know each of you very well." A few gagged mumbles of anger, perhaps cries for help, struggled to make it past the thick rubber penises invading my slaves' mouths. Ignoring them, I sauntered up to Sparky, grabbed his chin, and leaned in close to his ear. When I spoke, my voice was firm, but not unkind. "You disobeyed a direct order, boy. You will be punished. For your sake, I hope you learn from your mistakes." Then, louder, "Sweet dreams, boys!" I kissed him on the cheek, feeling his body try to shrink from my embrace, before making my exit. I headed towards the door, flicked off the lights, and sauntered out into the early evening air. Placing a thick padlock on the door behind me, I called out, "Home, James!" 17. As we entered the big house, I dismissed JoJo to prepare dinner while I returned to my rooms to freshen up. One of the many benefits of owning a personal slave is having a live-in cook. I personally am a disaster in the kitchen, but fortunately Jake is an accomplished chef and was more than happy to train JoJo to save me from a life of canned soup and frozen tikka masala. Entering my bedroom, I was pleased, if not entirely surprised, to see that JoJo hadn't simply spent the day standing in the sun and waiting for me to finish my work. Instead, he had taken the initiative to quietly return home, select an appropriate outfit for dinner, lay out my clothes and return to the exact spot where I had left him outside the stables. A good slave does what is demanded of it; a truly great slave learns to anticipate its master's needs even before its master. JoJo was proving, time and time again, to be a truly excellent slave. Not for the first time, I reflected on his eventual "retirement;" he was still young, but sooner than later his youth would fade, his ass would begin to sag, and he would need replacing. Perhaps I could keep him on here to assist in training the new boys, rather than selling him to some Asian brothel or a plantation owner in need of field laborers in Africa. Perhaps. For the time being, though, I set to the task of preparing for my guest. Stripping out of my dusty work clothes, I slipped into the clean pair of dark jeans, fitted black oxford, and freshly shined black boots that JoJo had picked out. I made my way back down to the kitchen, where I found an ice cold martini waiting and JoJo hard at work. "How's the sauce, boy?" JoJo dipped a finger into the red wine demi-glace he was stirring and held it up for me to taste, smiling. Licking it off his finger, I let him know that it was indeed delicious. I stuck a finger in the pan, shoved my sticky digit in JoJo's hole, and knelt down to lick it out of my slave's beautiful ass. JoJo gasped and giggled as I sucked the sweet sauce back out of his perfectly smooth anus. "Oh dear, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything!" came a cry of feigned surprise and scandalization. There stood my veterinarian, Dr. Etienne Bohrman, at the kitchen door, flanked on either side by Bongo and Sunshine on their knees, both panting and slightly sweaty from exertion. "Not at all, Etienne! Looks like you gave my lads quite a work out!" "Well, you know me," said the slim, slightly effeminate doctor. Etienne was in his "early late thirties," and had a penchant for taut, young boyflesh. "I know we were supposed to come right over, but I had such a good time watching their little asses bouncing along that I just had to take a few extra laps around the property. I hope you don't mind?" "Not at all," I replied with a grin. "What's mine is yours. Isn't that right, boys?" "Master, yes, Master!" agreed Bongo and Sunshine between pants. The red stripes on their hindquarters indicated that Dr. Bohrman had enjoyed the ride. The doctor, the boys and I excused ourselves to the sitting room while JoJo continued preparing dinner. Watching Bongo struggle to mix Dr. Bohrman's martini, I made a note that the slave required more thorough domestic training. I nearly had a stroke when he looked like he was going to shake the drink, but Sunshine stepped in at just the right moment to remind him that a martini must always be stirred. Once Bongo delivered the cocktail, Etienne patted the cushion on the plush couch beside him. The boy gave me a trepidatious look; as a matter of course, slaves are not allowed on the furniture. I simply nodded my assent, and Bongo curled up on the seat next to Dr. Bohrman, placing his head in his lap. I gestured for Sunshine to do the same next to me. Stroking my slave's blond hair, the doctor and I began our pre-dinner conversation. 18. Etienne Bohrman was a client of mine before I was a client of his. We met on Fire Island about six or seven summers ago, shortly after he had begun his plastic surgery practice in Manhattan. I was visiting a prospective buyer and his husband at their home in the Pines, having brought along a couple of slaves I thought would be especially well-suited to their particular tastes. (I don't really make house calls any more, but in the earlier days of my operation it was an important part of building a clientele.) Etienne was a weekend guest at their home. The young doctor came from old money; he worked because he needed something to do, not cash. The amount of money and power his family wielded meant that, even if he didn't technically own them, Etienne was used to viewing everyone around him as a servant. We became fast friends, and he ended up purchasing the boy the couple passed on, a blond wisp of a lad who looked younger than his eighteen years. Etienne said he'd put him in his carry-on for the flight home; I'm still not entirely sure he was joking. In any case, we were soon business partners. I paid Etienne handsomely to ensure the health of my stock and perform the occasional elective procedure. To ensure his discretion, I also provided him with ample access to the freshest slave pussy available, along with the pick of the litter whenever he grew tired of his personal slave. I suspected he was cooling on his current boy and would be in the market again soon; he'd bought a 5'2 Mexican named Licorice with a tiny waist and beautiful ass from me about three years ago and hadn't even deigned to bring the boy along on this business trip. While I tousled Sunshine's hair, I noticed Etienne had removed Bongo's plug and was working his middle finger inside the boy's ass. The slim little slave was practically purring. As he casually finger-fucked the eighteen-year-old, Dr. Bohrman gave me the run-down of the day's activities. "I'm afraid there's nothing especially exciting to report. All your old stock seem fit and healthy. The new boys are dee-lish and I can't seem to find a fault. I dropped off their blood samples with my friend in town, but unless one of these vestal virgins stepped on a used needle somewhere I rather doubt you've anything to worry about." "That's good to hear. What about this new anti-aging treatment you thought I might find useful?" His eyes lit up as he slipped his index finger alongside its mate into Bongo's rectum. The boy's eyes fluttered open for a moment and he let out a little gasp before he settling back down. "Oh, YES, darling! I nearly forgot!" he exclaimed as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of what looked like lotion. Tossing it to me, he said, "Enjoy - first one's on the house. It's called Eroxofil. It was supposed to be the new Botox, only better because it's a topical treatment. Unfooooortunately, there's a teensy side effect that makes it rather unsuitable for market. It tightens the skin and sub-dermal muscles like you won't believe, but it makes 'em itch like a mother. Only way to relieve the sensation is to stretch the tissue back out." "So what good does that do me?" I asked, examining the bottle. "Well..." he said, drawing the word out into about seven syllables. "Say you stick it up Bongo here's pretty little cunt." He added a third finger; the boy squealed. "It's gonna tighten that hot little sphincter like shrink wrap under a hair dryer and he'll be literally itching to get his hole filled up and stretched out again. Boy'll practically beg for it, I imagine. Entertaining to say the least, could be useful as a training method as well." "Interesting." I pondered the tube in my hand. "I suppose we'll need to try this out.""I suppose we will," he chuckled, flashing a wicked grin. Right as he was about to stick a fourth finger up Bongo's ass, JoJo alerted us that dinner was ready. We finished our cocktails and made our way to the dining room, Sunshine and Bongo padding along behind.