2 comments/ 2580 views/ 2 favorites The Boys in the Box Ch. 31-33 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. :) ***** 31. When the boys were shaved, washed, and properly plugged, I dismissed my assistants and the senior slaves to prepare the carriage while I dressed the new boys for their tour of the grounds. I reattached JoJo's leash and retrieved six three-meter lengths of chain from the wall, clipping an end of each to a black leather loop, and looping other ends around the new slaves' cock rings. When I finished leashing them, I led my seven slaves, the new boys by steel in my left hand, and JoJo by gold in my right, out the door and onto the grass outside. I allowed the slaves to walk upright, as it is difficult to lead a slave by its cock on all fours. We stepped outside just in time to see the carriage coming to meet us. I don't train teams of ponies; my operation is decidedly boutique in nature, and I simply don't have the inventory, facilities, staff or space to properly train more than two or three ponies at a time. All of my slaves do, however, receive remedial training as beasts of burden, and today was the seniors' chance to show off their skills. Jake and Tyson had hitched the teens up in a traditional "pickaxe" style, with three in front and two in back. All were outfitted like proper ponies, complete with bit gags, blinders, and long silken tail plugs protruding from their anuses. Jake and Tyson had even taken the care to match the boys' tails to their actual hair, from Sunshine's bright blond to Icarus' midnight black. Cubby led front and center, flanked by Sunshine and Bongo. They were the leaders, providing steering and acceleration, while my two strongest and most experienced ponies, Icarus and Tiny, took position as the wheelers behind them, providing the real muscle and, most importantly, breaking power. They were the only proper ponies in the bunch; Cubby certainly had strength, but only Icarus and Tiny had the long, lean musculature and stamina to properly carry passengers over the long haul. Sunshine and Bongo would always be too small to be much more than decoration, but they were strong enough to help the bigger boys carry myself and my assistants around the estate for our tour. JoJo dropped to his hands and knees on the ground in front of me, flattening his back and bracing his core muscles to provide a step up onto the carriage, a good four feet off the ground. Once I settled down onto the rear seat, facing the six slaves trailing behind the carriage, he scampered on and curled up on the cushioned bench next to me. I allowed him to unfasten the front of my leather jock and release my manhood, his to nurse in front of his little brothers for the duration of the ride, a perfect image of their future.I gave the word and we were off. Jake steered while Tyson manned the whip. The team up front started at a gentle trot around the stables towards the front gate, giving the overwhelmed, leashed slaves a chance to understand what was happening and start jogging along. I like the new boys to think they're in danger of losing their balls if they don't keep up, but of course I'm not about to ruin hundreds of thousands of dollars of perfectly good merchandise by dragging it along behind a team of ponies running at full speed. By the time we made our way to the inner gate, Tyson's liberal use of the whip had Cubby and the rest just under a full run, and the soft, untrained slaveboys trailing the cart were sweating and panting and doing all they could to keep up. 32. The compound's inner fence is nine-foot high chain link. The fence is lined in razor wire and fully electrocuted. Not enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate anything smaller than a bull elephant. It fences in the inner two hundred and eighty-five square acres of my compound, the training and living area. I'll admit it's rather an eyesore for those of us on the inside, but it serves its purpose. The outer wall is composed of twelve-foot tall pine logs and serves as both a physical and visual barrier between the compound and the outside world. The space between the inner fence and outer wall is essentially a moat; it keeps unwanted elements out and it keeps my merchandise in. As we approached the inner gate, the cart made a right turn and I explained the situation to my boys. "Now, I know that you boys are too smart to attempt to escape," I shouted over the low roar of the carriage's wheels and the sound of eleven pairs of young feet pounding the earth beneath them. "But let me explain what would happen if you decide to be that dumb. That fence on your left is electrocuted and will knock you on your ass quicker than you can say 'no, thank you.' Even if you made it to the top that razor wire would cut your pretty hides to shreds. But let's say through some miracle of science and ingenuity and plain dumb luck you did manage to get over the top, or dig under, or slip through the gate. On the other side of the fence is No Man's Land. "We call it that because if you did somehow make it to that big wooden wall over there, you'd find yourself detached from those lovely locked cocks bouncing between your legs. Think of it as the world's nastiest invisible fence. You try and cross that barrier and a small explosive charge in your rings will blow your bait and tackle clean off. It won't kill you, but it'll leave you down and bleeding long enough to be collected and sewn up by my veterinarian. Now, I don't have much use for steers myself, but there's plenty of men out there who will be willing to buy you at a reduced price with a reduced anatomy. You're welcome for that little warning." "Master, thank you, Master!" came the panting reply. They were learning. Having given the boys a proper sprint, I signaled my assistants to rein the team in and continue on a slightly more leisurely pace. I was in no hurry. As we made our way around the property I pointed out each landmark that would compose the map of the next half a year of my boys' lives. Here was the big house where I lived and entertained, making special note of the entrances the slaves were to use when summoned. Here behind the house were the compound's rear gates, much like the front's. Here was the barn that housed complete workout facilities to melt away puppy fat and perfect the untrained slaves' musculatures. Here was the garage that housed my personal vehicles as well as the various traps and carriages used for pleasure and practice. Finally, here was The Slaughterhouse. 33. Back when they raised more traditional livestock, my ancestors used the slaughterhouse to butcher their meat. I use it to, shall we say, tenderize my stock. Nowadays, it serves as the farm's center of punishment. I have precisely zero interest in the dismemberment of my property (nor would I ever do business with someone with such unsavory appetites), but the aesthetics of the building are not lost on the merchandise. I've left the large metal shack mostly untouched from the days when it served its original purpose. I've even retained many of the original butcher's tools, bone saws and skinning knives and cleavers and the like lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling alongside my actual tools of instruction, the various paddles and canes and whips that I find more useful. I'd never use any of those barbaric implements on my boys, but they add an undeniable touch of drama to what can be the otherwise tedious act of discipline. (Former actor, remember?) In the center of the building Jake and Tyson hung Bongo and Sparky by their cuffed wrists from two meat hooks, adjusting the hooks' chains so my slaves were standing on tip toes. Sunshine knelt next to a steel chair between them. On one side of the room are a few large steel cages; originally used to hold livestock awaiting the slaughter, they make excellent cells for a captive audience witnessing their brother's punishment. I directed Tiny and Icarus to take Pollo and Cinnamon into one cell, while JoJo and Cubby took Awol and the twins into another. The older boys were responsible for making sure their little brothers observed the punishment due, with Cubby taking charge of the twins while their older brothers and his little were disciplined. "I hope you boys enjoyed your little tour. Before your training begins in earnest, it's important that you understand the consequences of disappointing your master. Sunshine, Bongo, and Sparky have all let me down. Whether through willful disobedience or simple failure to meet expectations, disappointing its master is the worst thing a slave can do. Your owner punishes you not out of malice or spite, but rather to help you be the best slave that you can be. Is that understood?" "Master, thank you, Master!" came the reply from the boys in the cells, as well as Bongo and Sunshine. Sparky was silent. I walked over to the suspended slave. My face from his, my voice low, I asked again. "Is that understood, Sparky?" "Master, thank you, Master." It was barely more than a whisper, but already I could see the wheels turning, the understanding that would one day become acceptance. "Good." I smiled. "Sunshine, I believe you are owed a spanking," I called out, settling into the chair. I patted my knee and the naked teenager laid himself over my lap. Jake and Tyson favor paddles for delivering spankings; I personally prefer to use my hand. Few things are as intimate as the act of using one's own extremity to deliver punishment, feeling a boy's smooth, pert cheeks heating up like an electric blanket with each swat, watching them turn crimson beneath your fingers. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" Some masters make their slaves count strokes of punishment. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" Some masters inform their slaves how many strokes they will receive or how long their punishment will last. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" I simply demand that my slaves thank me for each correction. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" Whether a slave receives five strokes or five hundred makes no difference. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" All that matters is that he understands why he is being punished and chooses to be better. SWAT! "Master, thank you, Master!" By the time I had finished spanking Sunshine, his twin globes were an appealing, rosy red. I may have spanked the slave twenty times. I may have spanked him fifty times. I simply stopped when I knew the slave had learned his lesson. "I think you're done, Sunshine," I said, giving the boy a little tap on the ass to urge him off my lap. "What have you learned?"With tears in his eyes and hands massaging his stinging buttocks, he replied, "Master, to always come as soon as you call me, Master!" "Good boy. Now it's Bongo's turn. Go fetch the cat o' nine tails." I could see the regret in Sunshine's eyes, but he knew better than to argue. The little muscle twink trotted off to fetch the whip from the wall, jogging as fast as his burning ass would allow. Upon his return, the boy knelt in front of me like he'd been trained, head bowed, presenting the whip with both hands like a supplicant offering sacrifice to his god. "You misunderstood me, Sunshine," I said with a smile as I placed one finger under his chin and lifted him up to a standing position. "I'm not going to whip Bongo. You are." The slave's mouth dropped open in mute disbelief, not knowing what to do but not daring to talk back. "You heard me boy. You helped earn him his punishment, and now you will help deliver it. Is further explanation required?" "M-master, no, Master!"