0 comments/ 963 views/ 2 favorites The Boys in the Box Ch. 37-39 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. :) ***** 37. By now it was nearly two in the afternoon and the big boys still had not been fed. None of them had complained, of course, but I could hear their tummies rumbling. I dismissed my stock; the big boys with Jake for feeding, and the new boys with Tyson to return the wagon to the garages, with instructions to reconvene in the barn at three o'clock and spend the remainder of the afternoon exercising. For the first week or two, I like to focus on training the new slaves physically, rather than sexually. Getting in the habit of sleeping, bathing, feeding, and exercising every day helps the boys apart to the routine of life as a slave, gets them used to the structure of their new lives and softens them up for the more emotionally challenging prospect of learning to serve as sex slaves. Even Pollo, by far the most well-toned of my new stock, had a long way to go before his body was ready for sale. What passes for "fit" in the outside world is unacceptable for a teenage slave offered for purchase as a sexual plaything. By the time I finished with my merchandise, they would be taught, toned, and practically fat-free. Sparky and the twins had ample baby fat to lose, and all of the freshmen required extensive strength training. The seniors were much further along in their development, but they still had a ways to go before they reached the level of perfection my buyers expect. JoJo and I headed back to the big house for lunch. As I was finishing my meal, a salad of leafy greens with Asian vegetables and lightly seared tuna, Bongo came crawling into the dining room on all fours. I had instructed Jake to excuse the boy from working out; after his punishment not two hours earlier, I felt some less strenuous training was in store. So after we had both had our lunch, and I had changed out of my leathers into my traditional black tee and jeans, he and I made our way to the yard behind the house. On the patio, I kitted Bongo out for some puppy training, fitting him with rubber fist mitts (designed, unlike the one's he'd worn the evening prior, for durability rather than luxury), kneepads, and a black rubber tail plug. Since I'd first acquired him, Bongo had taken immediately to dog training. All of my slaves are trained to take pleasure in serving their master, but when it came to pup play, Bongo had needed no encouragement. Something in the boy's nature lent itself to performance as a playful, happy-go-lucky pup, and today was no exception. Despite his raw hide, or perhaps because of it, no sooner was he was geared up than he was bouncing around on all fours, tail wagging frantically, yipping happily and trying to climb up my leg like a dog greeting his master just home from work. "Down boy!" I said laughing, brushing him off my leg and back onto the patio. I picked up a rope toy and waved it in front of Bongo's nose, keeping it just out of reach while the slave nipped at the end. I tossed it a good thirty feet across the yard and Bongo followed it with his eyes, hopping from paw to paw as he looked first where the toy landed, then back at me, then back to the toy, and so on. After a moment I said, "Go get it, boy!" and he was off like a shot. Soon he came trotting happily back to me looking very pleased with himself, the length of braided rope hanging from his mouth. He dropped the toy at my feet and again I flung it away. We repeated the process countless times. Sometimes he wouldn't want to give his toy back, and I'd have to chase the pup down for a bit of tug-o-war. Every so often he'd make his way to the metal bowl at the edge of the patio and lap up some water. After about an hour or so of play, I noticed the slave visibly fidgeting. "Do you need to do your business, boy?" Bongo yelped and nodded. "Go ahead, then!" The slave scampered off to a large oak tree abut twenty yards from the patio, one of his favorite marking spots. Lifting his left leg, he loosed a long, steady stream of piss onto the trunk. After he finished, he came padding back to me, happy as could be, beaming up at me as I have him a good hard scratch behind the ears. I could have spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Bongo, but there was more pressing business that needed tending. Happily, Jake had brought his golden retriever, Sadie, to the compound that afternoon in anticipation of his extended stay dealing with the new merchandise (Jake and Tyson live off of the property, but it's important to keep a round-the-clock watch on the new boys for their first week or so, so I put them up at the big house when necessary.) I brought her outside and let Bongo and Sadie play in the yard, wrestling, fighting over the rope toy, and just generally whiling away the rest of the daylight while I read and replied to dozens of messages on my phone, dealing with clients, contractors, and someone I hoped could help me with my Icarus problem. 38. The first week is, in a way, the easiest on the slaves but the most taxing on myself and my assistants. I like to keep a twenty-four hour watch on the new boys, which means that Jake, Tyson, and I trade off spending the evening awake in the stables to keep an eye on the new merchandise and make sure they don't try anything dumb. It's mostly unnecessary; by the end of their day each boy is so exhausted that he passes out as soon as he hits the hay - in this case a literal description of the lodgings, rather than a metaphor - and as such doesn't really have the opportunity to attempt escape or self-harm or conversation with his neighbors. But I believe there is value in the boys knowing that they're being monitored in any case. During the daytime, the boys are pushed to their physical limits, spending hour after hour training their bodies to a salable state. This means different things for different boys. The twins, for example, spent most of their time lifting weights and doing exercises designed to develop their tits, abs, and asses, as they were likely to be purchased by someone keen keeping them on display when they weren't being used to satisfy the sexual desires of their owner or his guests. Cinnamon, on the other hand, spent most of his time running on a treadmill or elliptical and developing his lower body in training for likely sale as a pony. All of the boys spent time every day developing their flexibility and grace studying yoga and ballet; Tyson, although you'd never guess it, was a former member of the Joffrey Ballet and spent an hour or two each morning turning the boys from awkward teenagers into poised and pliable slaves. Like any discipline, some boys were better suited than others; while Pollo was of course already an adept dancer and could twist his body into seemingly impossible contortions, Sparky struggled desperately to get into a simple "downward dog" position. Like Cubby, the boy was almost improbably ungraceful, but he always made an effort. Since that first afternoon, Sparky had, in fact, been a model trainee. All the other boys had acted out at least once. Awol had refused to eat until he discovered that I was more than willing to shove a tube down his throat and force feed him like a duck being raised for foie gras. Cinnamon had made a break for the fence his first day training with a practice cart outside; Jake didn't even bother bringing the boy down via his cock ring, but simply allowed the ginger slave to lay a finger on the fence and get knocked back a few feet by the electric shock. On the second day of training, Flipper refused to leave his stall until he heard his brother screaming with pain. I suspected, and was proven right, that punishing one twin for the other's misbehavior would be more effective than punishing the perpetrator; Flipper soon fell in line to spare Flopper any further pain. On the third morning, Pollo refused his enema; Tiny was helping him in the showers and the bigger slave could have easily overpowered the boy and forced him to clean himself out, but I told him to let it be. After showering and shaving I replugged Pollo with a thicker-than-usual training plug and locked him into an old-fashioned iron chastity belt that kept the plug tucked immovably inside Pollo's ass. By the middle of the day the boy was begging to relieve himself. By the time he was allowed back to the stables to clean himself out properly, I had no doubt that he would avail himself of the opportunity every day going forward. In addition there were the usual ploys on the part of the new boys to talk their way to freedom, the empty threats, the attempts to bargain. Promises that their families would pay whatever ransom I demanded. This always made me chuckle; even if their families could afford to pay the astronomical sums these slaves would fetch, which they most certainly could not, turning a slave back over to its family would inevitably expose my operation and buy me a one way ticket to prison (or, likely, six feet under ground, as many of my clients would attempt to have me eliminated lest I implicate them.) I allowed these minor infractions with m usual graciousness, electing to simply eliminate the noise with a thick, six-inch rubber cock gagging the offending mouth for the rest of the day. By the end of the week, nobody was trying to talk his way out of anything. Sparky, though, hadn't slipped up even once. I was tempted to accept that he was simply an ideal slave, that his inclination to protect his friends and family and perhaps a discovery of his own natural submission had allowed him to embrace his role. I wasn't convinced though. I might have expected it from a less intelligent slave; neither Cinnamon nor Tiny, for example, were very bright, and had either of them simply ceased all resistance after his first punishment, I might have bought them as shrugging their proverbial shoulders at their fate. Sparky, though, was always thinking. His eyes were always alive. He wasn't smart enough to actually escape, but he was smart enough to look for a way out. 39. Near the end of the first week of the new slaves' training, Icarus finally crossed the line. While the other boys were exercising in the barn, I had Icarus and Cinnamon training outside, racing each other back and forth the north edge of the compound with traps weighted down to simulate a rider. Icarus, having trained as a pony for the past several months, always bested Cinnamon, even while pulling a heavier load, but the new slave was making an admirable effort. There are few things more beautiful than a slave at his physical peak completely exerting himself for his master's pleasure. It was a joy watching the slaves running back and forth across my property, Icarus' recently released cock flopping heavily against his thighs as he ran, Cinnamon's locked equipment bouncing up and down and glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Each slave was covered in sweat, their lean bodies positively glowing with their exertion under the scorching mid-June sun. At half past two, Icarus collapsed. I immediately rushed to the slave, and Cinnamon, realizing what had happened, halted his run when he his fallen brother. Icarus was breathing shallowly, and was completely unresponsive to my voice or touch. I unloaded the weights from Cinnamon's trap, pulled Icarus up into my arms, hopped into the driver's seat and ordered the redheaded slave to carry us to the big house - the only air conditioned building on the property - at double speed. While Cinnamon strained to get us there as fast as possible, I called Jake, who had training as an EMT, to meet me at the house as quickly as possible. Jake met us in a guest room. I had laid Icarus out on the bed and was applying a cool, damp rag to his forehead. Jake gave the slave a quick once over and determined that he had collapsed from heat stroke and was dangerously dehydrated. While I had availed myself of the slave's throat any time I felt the need to piss, he had been too proud to beg Jake or Tyson for a drink and had finally paid the price for his pride. I keep the compound stocked wth basic medical supplies; obviously I can't just run my merchandise to the local clinic if they hurt themselves or fall ill. Jake made short work of hooking Icarus up to a saline drip to replenish his electrolytes. Assured that the boy would be alright once he was rested and rehydrated, I dismissed Jake to continue with the other slaves' training. Once my initial frantic concern for Icarus' health and well-being subsided, I got angry. I was livid at myself and my assistants that we were so preoccupied with the new merchandise that we could be so neglectful of the health of one of the older boys, and I was I was livid at Icarus that he would be so deliberately disrespectful to me that he would cause to damage my property, potentially at the cost of his own life. I called JoJo into the room and the two of us strapped Icarus down onto the bed with thick leather straps, ensuring that he couldn't run off, remove the IV, or otherwise further harm himself or any of the rest of my property once he came to. I then instructed JoJo to see that the slave was fed and watered when he came around, spoon-feeding him his slave chow if necessary. I would see to my own dinner; Icarus was to join me in my study once he was lucid and strong enough to walk. Icarus' recalcitrance had heretofore been a nuisance. Now he had become a danger to himself and those around him. I would not allow it to continue. I had business to attend to.