2 comments/ 2448 views/ 2 favorites The Boys in the Box Ch. 19-21 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. :) ***** 19. Dinner was a simple affair - rare steaks in JoJo's delicious demi-glace (although, for my money, it tasted better served out of the lad's tender hole), a light salad, and roasted fingerling potatoes. JoJo served the wine, making sure that neither of our glasses went dry, while Bongo and Sunshine paid similar attention to our cocks beneath the table, gently lapping at our shafts and sacks while we dined. Occasionally my guest would discretely slip a morsel of food to Sunshine, giving into the boy like a doting pet owner capitulating to a dog begging for scraps. The slaves beneath the table knew better than to bring either of us to completion while we ate; such a breach of etiquette would be embarrassing to the diners and ensure a nasty punishment for the boy. I thought perhaps Sunshine had gone a bit too far when, near the end of our meal, a look of surprise crossed my guest's face. Fortunately, it was only his phone buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, Dr. Bohrman glanced at his screen and shared the good news. "Ah! I've just received the final results on the blood work from your new batch. Looks like you're in proud possession of six perfectly healthy young bucks. Congratulations." "Wonderful, that means I can stable them in the morning. I'm pleased we won't have to wait another day; no doubt Bongo and Sunshine are eager to meet their new brothers. Isn't that right, boys?" Their mouths full of our free cocks, the two straight teens beneath the table nevertheless managed to answer a muffled, "Mffter, yeff, Mffter!" "What say we skip dessert and make our way to my den, Etienne? I'm eager to get the evening's entertainment underway." Immediately, the boys eased off our cocks and tenderly returned our half-hard equipment into our pants, zipping up our flies as we stood. Of course I've seen Etienne's cock plenty of times (and it's quite impressive, especially on his slim frame), but while I try not to stand on ceremony, I believe that certain traditions are worth retaining. I find it much more dignified to walk from room to room without my tumescence bouncing as I go. Some things must separate man from slave. The two of us headed to my parlor to unwind, followed by the boys. Bongo and Sunshine padded along behind on all fours, while JoJo carried himself on his hind legs with the dignity befitting his station in the house. Upon reaching the luxuriously appointed room, I invited the good doctor to avail himself of a richly overstuffed armchair. As soon as he sunk in, the two young slaves immediately removed his shoes and began worshipping his tired feet. I fetched some drinks, pouring two healthy tumblers of Pappy Van Winkle 23-year-old bourbon from my prized Steuben decanter. The entire set was a bit of a splurge I made celebrating my first sale, a remarkably beautiful redhead I'd met at an audition in Manhattan, with green eyes and seemingly as many freckles dotting his milky skin as stars in the Milky Way. The slave must be over thirty years old now, I realized with a start, although in my mind's eye he was still that nineteen-year-old boy. For a moment, I wondered where he was. I'd sold him to a an impossibly wealthy, and ancient, Broadway producer who died three or four years later. It was possible a favorite nephew inherited the boy, or perhaps he was sold on by relatives eager to liquidate the old man's estate. Snapping out of my brief reverie, I turned to my guest. In my right hand I held his tumbler, in my left JoJo's rapidly inflating cock. Placing the tumbler beneath the slave's piss slit, I slowly began stroking his shaft. "I think I remember how you like your whiskey? Just a drop?" "You, sir, are a truly unparalleled host," chuckled my friend, as a thick dollop of precum leaked out of JoJo's turgid member and into Dr. Bohrman's glass. I gave the slave's balls an appreciative squeeze and dismissed him to clean up in the dining room, reminding him to return after. I once again gazed lovingly at JoJo's bouncing cheeks as he returned to his work, a sight I truly never tired of. Handing my guest his drink, we settled down to business. 20. The two eighteen year old slaves worshipping Dr. Bohrman's feet each jumped a little bit at the sharp SNAP! as he put on his latex surgical gloves. "You don't want to get any of this stuff on you," the doctor explained, sensing my puzzlement, "unless you relish the sensation of a swarm of fire ants nibbling at your fingers." "Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose?" I asked with some trepidation, "I'm not going to use a rubber to fuck my own slave." "Oh, dear me, no! No need! Once the Eroxofil has been completely absorbed by the tissue, there's absolutely no danger of transfer." "And how will we know when it's been completely absorbed?" "Trust me. You'll know," he giggled. His voice dropped about half an octave and took on a decidedly authoritarian tone as he instructed, "Spread those slave cheeks and present your straight little assholes, boys." The boys turned away from the doctor and fell to the floor in anal presentation position: knees bent, chest and heads on the ground with asses stuck straight up, arms thrust back spreading their cheeks as wide as possible to expose their tight little rosebuds, still securely plugged. Not exactly comfortable, but nothing compared to what was coming. Etienne bent forward to inspect his work space, popping out their plugs and making a show of checking their sphincters for any tearing or bruising, despite the fact that he'd already been well acquainted with them not three hours prior during their physicals in the stables. Apparently satisfied, he dove face-first into Sunshine's smooth boypussy, dancing over the slave's crack and inner thighs with his latex-covered fingers while his tongue lapped at his asshole. The ticklish teen, unable to control his laughter, started to giggle and squirm, desperately trying to maintain his posture. It was pretty hot, but not what we were there for. After thirty seconds or so, I casually cleared my throat. "Is this part of the application process?" I inquired. "Oh, you never let me have any fun," Etienne sighed as he reluctantly extricated his face from the slave's anus. I tossed him the bottle of lotion, whereupon he squirted a large dollop on his right index finger and began slowly circling Sunshine's sphincter. After a few moments, he announced, "Here we go!" and unceremoniously shoved the entire digit into the boy's asshole as Sunshine gave a little squeal of pain and pleasure. After working the lotion into the slave's rectum for about a minute, he repeated the process with Bongo. Satisfied with his work, he peeled off his gloves, dropped them in the waste bin by the wet bar and washed his hands. As he finished washing up, he remarked, "We should probably do something to keep their fingers out of there. Otherwise these little pieces of boyflesh are going to be elbow deep in their own assholes in, oh..." He trailed off, glancing down at the Patek-Philippe Grand Complications on his wrist. "Eight and a half minutes." 21. One entire wall of my den is occupied by an enormous mahogany breakfront cabinet. It's been in my family for generations, but whereas previous owners used it to show off their finest china and crystal, I've elected to showcase the various custom dildos, butt plugs, and implements of erotic torture I've collected over the years. Ambling over to it, I opened one of the top drawers and retrieved a two pairs of fist mitts. The mitts were custom-made in Florence from full-grain, Italian calf and lined in cashmere. As I called my boys over to me and fitted their hands inside the mitts, snapping them in place with small silver padlocks, I idly wondered if my slaves truly appreciated the level of luxury I bestowed on them. The hand-crafted sacks of leather wrapping Sunshine's hands had cost as much as a semester's tuition at the small state school where the boy had been studying before his capture. But then, I supposed that was the beauty of slavery. They no longer had to consider such pedestrian trivialities as expense, any more than a cow or a pig might consider the cost of its feed; whether the mitts cost twenty dollars or twenty thousand was beyond their ken. "Now what?" I asked my friend as I clipped each slave's mitts together in front of him, making it impossible for the boys to reach their assholes. "Now, I need a refill," he replied. "The Eroxofil should kick in any moment. Maybe let them stand in the center of the room and wait for the show to begin?" "Fair enough," I nodded as I rose to refill our glasses. "You heard the doctor. Back to back, boys. Sunshine may face me. Bongo, present yourself to our guest." We lounged in our chairs, considered the toned flesh of the teenage slaves on display in front of us, Sunshine with his broad pecs and bulging biceps and Bongo with his narrow waist and almost girlish definition, and sipped our bourbon while we waited for the drug to take effect. We didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, the boys' eyes widened to the size of saucers, and my normally well-behaved and docile slaves began fidgeting. Sunshine couldn't help letting out a little moan. I couldn't see Bongo's face, but the way he was clenching his shoulders and shaking his shaggy hair told me he was feeling the effects as well. The slaves began, perhaps subconsciously, rubbing their pert asses against each other as each struggled to maintain his composure. These efforts were ultimately in vain. I've obviously never experienced, first-hand, the effects of Eroxofil, and I have precisely zero intention of ever doing so. But Etienne was kind enough to share some medical research, and after reading up, I feel confident in relating what can only be described as a singular experience. Patients in the clinical trials of the drug compared the sensation to the itch of poison ivy. One particularly colorful respondent said it was "like scabies and pubic lice got together and had an orgy on my face." One can only imagine what the drug was doing to the sensitive tissues of my slaves' tender fucktunnels. I didn't even fault the boys for falling to the floor, panting and moaning and scooting their asses on the carpet like a pair of dogs in heat. "How long will this last?" I inquired, barely suppressing a laugh. "Indefinitely," came the giggling reply. "They'll go on like this until the tissue gets stretched back out. I suppose it might wear off eventually, but I wouldn't want to be the one to wait for that!" By now neither of us could contain our laughter as we enjoyed the sight of the two straight lads squirming on the ground, desperate for something, anything to fill their itching holes.