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Story

Island Paradise – Part 2: Chapter 13

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 13: What Everyone’s Wearing on Palmerston Road

When you first get your collar, it feels so heavy, it’s almost like you’re an animal wearing one of those wooden yokes you see in pictures of, like, primitive places or whatever.  Of course you get used to it pretty fast.  But when they first put it on you, it’s a big thrill.  I mean, it’s not like, hmmm, this is a new piece of clothing, I wonder how I’m gonna like it, maybe I’ll take it off.  Your collar is fuckin ATTACHED to you!  And you’re gonna be wearin it for the rest of your life!  So like I said, big thrill!

“What’s this?” Malcolm said, looking down at my cock.  Which was sticking straight up.

“Dunno,” I said.  “Guess it likes my number.”

“He really is a smartass,” Jojo said.

“Whatever,” Malcolm said.  “Now sit on that chair.”

Too bad, I thought.  Nobody likes my dick.  Anyway, there were some old wooden chairs in the room, and I sat down on one of them.  Behind me, something switched on.  Something electric.  Something that made a loud whirring noise.  “Hold still,” Malcolm said.  “I’m gonna buzz you off.”

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Story

Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 03

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 3: Exceeding the Ideal

The flight was beautiful — the turquoise sea studded with emerald islands, then the purple thrust of St. Bevons, relic of an extinct volcano, with a city relaxing on its flank.

The Wellington International Airport is small but friendly.  In an American airport, you have to fend for yourself.  At Wellington, a gang of attendants in brown uniforms lines up in the luggage department, waiting to take your bags and carry them to Ground Transportation.  The first one in line grabbed my belongings–one bag in the left hand, one in the right, the third tucked under his arm–and before I knew it he was stowing it all in the trunk of a cab.

The guy was young and fresh-faced and very cute, with a strand of yellow hair poking out from under his little brown cap.  Too bad our encounter was so rushed!  I reached in my pocket for an outsized tip when the cab driver, an elderly black man with a rum-thick accent, intervened.  “No wurries, sirr.  You doan tip thee slappie boys.”

Slappie boys!  So this little corn-fed Midwesterner with the brown shorts and the brown short-sleeved shirt and the glint of a silver necklace underneath his collar—he was a slappie!  Obviously, St. Bevons had several ranks of hierarchy, and they weren’t arranged in order of race.  But fuck!  How hot can this be!

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Story

New Year’s Party

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By Mister-X/Spartan

Normally at work on New Year’s Eve we are let out early.  But this time I had work that needed to get done that day.  Naturally we had chosen that day to go to a party, and I needed to get home to get dressed for it.  The party was one in which my partner, Dan, was to be dressed as a police officer and I was to be dressed as an escaped criminal that he was returning to prison after capturing me.  He would be putting me in an authentic prison uniform, one that we purchased on e-Bay, covered with a lot of chains.

Dan had a friend who worked in the state prison about 100 miles away, and he had gotten an authentic prison uniform and badge, as well as an authentic prisoner metal collar with the identification of a real-live prisoner on it, one that was in prison for life.  We hoped to win the party’s contest for best dressed.  Dan’s friend told him to make sure that these are not revealed to any law enforcement personnel, or he would get into trouble!

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Daily Thread

Bareback slave pounded

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Jack is compliant. When his friend Ryan slips a collar around his neck and offers the shape of his growing meaty cock in his pants, the captive is soon on it. Obedient Jack sucks and slurps the veiny meat and gets it sopping wet before sliding his naked hole down on it, riding his master and loving every second. The raw fuckmeat in his hole feels so good, especially from behind, and with Ryan spunking all over his hole and seeding his chute with cum he’s ready to lay back and jerk out his own thick load.

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Story

The Bear Trap – Part 09

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By FirefighterSIR

Part 9: Work

“Only 3 more feet!” shouted the Captain just before he began swinging the pick again.  The slave did not look up but continued to shovel the dirt and rocks out of the trench he was buried in up to his knees.  The sweat ran down into his face and made it hard to see.  But when he did take moment to look up, he could see the Captain was right.

They had almost finished the trench, its end marked by a tiny yellow flag snapping in the warm breeze blowing down the length of the canyon.  The Captain had taken the lead on the digging, swinging the pick to break up the soil enough for the slave to shovel it out and carve the trench.  The only fortunate thing about the project is that it was almost done and that the day had not been hot.  The slave had been trying to focus on each shovel full of dirt, pushing himself to complete each toss, not looking up, should he lose focus and strength on another grueling day as the 24/7 labor muscle slave at the Bear Trap Ranch.

The Bear Trap storyArranged just beyond the tiny flag were 8 concrete piers that the Captain and slave had cast days earlier.

The Captain had decided to build a new truck shelter with a solar array on the roof.  That meant digging and casting foundation piers and digging a 200-foot long trench across the dry grass from the camp compound to the new structure.  What that meant for the slave was days and days of backbreaking work.  The soil of the Bear Trap Ranch had long since given up the last of its moisture to the summer heat and even now, in September, months since the slave had been collared on the ranch, the ground was more like rock than soil.

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