As Ben comes around, he finds himself sitting, naked, in a very solid bondage chair. His chest and stomach are tightly strapped to the vertical back of the chair. His thighs are strapped to the seat, and his ankles are strapped to the substantial front legs. Premium leather wrist restraints snuggly secure his arms to the upright stanchions so his hands are held uselessly to the side and just below the level of his butt. A snug collar ensures that his head doesn’t sag and his eyes face forward. The whole construction is of 4-inch square section welded steel that is powder coated black, and reeks of rock-solid quality.
Ben can’t move and is going nowhere until I release him.
My captive is a straight male office worker who keeps himself fit by going to the gym three times per week before work. He’s 26 years old, short spiked black hair, small landing strip goatee, dusting of chest hair, dusting of lower abdomen hair leading to a trimmed bush and shaved balls. His cock is about 7 inches, cut, straight with a pretty pink bell end that cries out to be tortured.
Overall, Ben is a very saleable commodity that I’m looking forward to training. He definitely gets my spunk rising, and I can easily see myself fucking his arse and mouth, and I’m looking forward to both in the coming weeks.
As a large anxiety ball forms in Ben’s gut, he realises that the cold, plate-metal seat his butt-cheeks rest on has a small hole through which his scrotum passes so his balls are hidden from view below the half inch thick steel sheet. The hole is significantly smaller than the prisoner’s balls, which explains the extreme ache currently radiating from his ball-sac. It took a lot of thumb-pressure to pop those balls into place.
Despite the mounting fear, Ben’s cock is rock hard and dripping precum onto the unforgiving metallic surface between his bound thighs.
Ben holds his breath when he suddenly realises he’s not alone. I’m quietly negotiating with his wife of six years in the next compartment; a dark green velvet curtain the only thing between my “office” and “the throne room” where Ben is so effectively held captive.
Our dialog is calm and professional, and Ben strains to hear what is being discussed. He recognises her voice and calls her name several times. When he gets no response, he starts struggling against his bonds and is instantly rewarded with a searing pain to his bollocks. An agonised scream is followed by the sound of heavy panting and a much more compliant attitude.
It seems that Ben has been a naughty boy by cheating on his loving spouse, and, after putting up with his indiscretions for over a year, she finally broke and started looking for a solution.
That solution ended up being me. After extensive internet searches she came across my email address and so began five weeks of negotiation during which I agreed to purchase Ben and relieve he of the pain of living with such a rogue and liar. Now, after inspecting the goods, we are just settling on the final fee.
Ben starts to catch on to what is happening and cries out, “No! You can’t!” and tugs on his bonds. Again, an agonizing stabbing pain passes through the detainee’s testicles, and Ben’s whole world shrinks to the size of two small, unprotected globes of pain. Ben sees stars, his eyes glaze and tears threaten to overflow his squint. Eventually, the pain dissipates through his abdomen and his whole torso flushes and prickles with perspiration.
Reacting to the scream, I lock my gaze to the seller’s, we both smile, shake hands and hard currency is counted onto the table. I take the cash, drop it into the strong box, and show the lovely lady to the door.
She steps out and down the three steps onto the road surface, stilettos clicking with each step. I follow her so I can offer a farewell, thank-you handshake.
My “office” and the “throne room” are built into a large white panel van. It provides ample room for the collection of slaves for the odd occasion I don’t want to use my trusted employee “The Snatcher.” The vehicle allows me to travel anywhere in the country to pre-arranged locations, rather than revealing the whereabouts of the training centre. And it gives me a regular diversion from the centre whenever I need it.
I bounce back up the wooden steps, walk behind my desk, and stick my head through the curtain to find a horrified Ben, eyes wide, eyebrows pleading, staring back at me. “You belong to me now — all mine!” I smile, and retrace my route back to the busy city centre street, letting the velvet curtain billow as I close the rear door and walk around to the cab for the drive home.
The journey home is long and, bound as Ben is, could be very tedious. Being the magnanimous owner that I am, however, I’ve arranged some entertainment for my passenger so he doesn’t get bored.
Whilst its unconscious body was being strapped into the chair, its butt hole was carefully positioned over a two-inch small opening in the seat. Mounted perfectly in this hole is a special gimbal through which passes a quarter-inch steel rod. The rod extends both above the seat and below and, because of the gimbal, can tilt left and right, and forward and backwards.
Mounted atop the rod, five inches above the seat, is a one-inch diameter ball that currently sits just behind Ben’s prostate gland. Below the gimbal, attached to the rod under the seat, is a five-pound weight, taken from an old set of dumbbells.
As the van accelerates, in exactly the same way as the driver gets pushed back in the driver’s seat, the weight moves towards the back of the vehicle. Pivoting through the gimbal, the one-inch ball moves an equal distance towards the front of the vehicle. When the driver breaks, the ball moves in the opposite direction, to punch into the prisoner’s prostate. A similar thing happens, left to right, when the van turns a corner in the road.
In this way, the slaves arse and G-spot are continually stimulated during the long journey back to the Slave Training Centre, and I don’t have to worry about keeping it entertained.
Oh! Yes — almost forgot. There’s a vertical movement sensor on the vehicle’s suspension, so if I should “accidentally” hit a pot-hole in the road, the cattle prod connected to the slave’s balls will be triggered. I wouldn’t want it to think I was ignoring those precious baby makers.
Starting the engine, I dropped the van into first gear and pull out into the city traffic. A small tablet screen on the dashboard next to the radio clearly shows the captive wince as the anal intruder started to move inside his rectum. Sexual whimpers come clearly through the speaker, piped through via a microphone in the rear compartment of the van.
Being straight, he’s never experimented with anal sex, and the feelings produced by the invader pummelling his joy-spot are completely alien and very intense. Forty-five minutes later as I break for heavy traffic on the motorway, my new acquisition experiences its first-ever hands free orgasm. I knew it was coming, because the slave’s moaning has been steadily increasing for the last 15 minutes, but the guttural scream was unexpected as I forced the van to a violent halt.
Copious spurts of pure white, thick, concentrated, straight-man spooge shoot from the rampant pulsating cock like gun-fire. It blasts five feet straight ahead to stain the green velvet curtain. The creamy man-jizz hangs sensually from the drape for a minute before slowly slithering towards the floor of the van. The baby-batter paints trails down the full length of the material, resulting in what looks like some expensive designer fabric.
Ben’s sweat covered, tensed torso throbs in the aftermath of the shattering climax. Panting heavily, his heaving chest is a joy to watch and he fights for breath, gasping in massive gulps of air as his body tries to recover from the enforced milking.
I smile as I watch his expression change from ecstasy, to satisfaction, to relaxation, to concern.
The traffic has started moving again, and I accelerate to 50 miles per hour. Ben’s expression changes to panic when he realises it’s not over, and his limp cock begins to grow to its full potential once more.
Highways change to secondary bypasses, to urban expressways, town centre congestion, to pretty village twisting paths, to single lane country tracks. Over the 350-mile journey my hapless new procurement busts a nut five times.
Five completely hands-free ejaculations, the last one almost dry, tears running down its face, its body reeking of sexual essence and my green velvet curtains ruined.
Training this one is going to be great fun.
To be continued …
Metal would like to thank PredicamentBondage for this story!