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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 25

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 25: The Experiment Can Be Considered a Success

In a second the twins were dragging me out.  “Roger!” I shouted, but his expression of calm benignity never changed.  The door slammed.  I was back in the passageway, being propelled toward a room at the distant end.  If that was “the room,” then I was the “it.”

Champ and Chimp dragged me in, and Roger followed.

“Put the slap on the wall,” he said.  “And fluff.”

“Sir thank you sir.”  They moored my cuffs to a ring on the wall.  Then they stripped out of their browns and began to kiss and grope each other, groping and sweating and grinding and making each other hard, so hard that if their boots hadn’t anchored them to the floor they could have climbed to the sky on each other’s dicks.  Were they fighting or making love?  It didn’t matter.  They were two volcanoes, ready to erupt.  Then spotlights came on.  The windowless room was boiling with light.  And there were other lights—little red lights in the corners of the room.  Roger was filming this!  The lights seemed to set the boys off even more.  Molten mountains, beasts in a colosseum . . . .

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 20

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 20: Opportunities for Success in Uniformed Service

I’m leaving out a lot of stuff about the “guests.”  The kids that trip you in the hall.  The people that open their doors and see you and squirm and slither away as far as they can get, hoping not to catch your disease.  The old gentlemen who like to tell you jokes.  “Hey boy—how many slappies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?  Don’t know?  Well, what DO you know?  Ha ha ha ha ha!  I heard that one on the tour today.”  The young ladies who check in for their bachelorette party, four to a room, and totter off to shop for their bridesmaids’ dresses, leaving their puke on the couch.  The boyfriends muscling them past the ugly slappies that would otherwise want to rape them.  The annual guests who’ve learned that if Housekeeping turns up at an inconvenient time they can always say “Corner,” and the slap will have to find the nearest one and stand there facing it until the guests are ready to leave their room.

It was good that during those first days I had Dave to keep me standing at attention with my hands behind my back, anytime there might be trouble.  And to teach me a lot more things than how to change a hotel bed.  He went way beyond what hotel management calls Guest Relations.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 18

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 18:  The Best Place to Get Boeuf Bourguignon

Did you ever stand around naked?  Just stand around?  You shift from one foot to another.  You cover your nuts.  Then you uncover them, just for the hell of it.  Because you’re bored.  Bored and anxious.  You look around at the uniform stacks of uniforms.  You smell the ink as Dev rubs it over a stencil and into your clothes, turning anonymous pieces of cloth into YOUR shirt, the shirt of Tommy, slap number 21338.  First the front of the shirt, left pec; then the back of the shirt, between the shoulder blades.  Then the shorts, right thigh, left butt.  Then the underwear, right thigh, left butt.  Your boots too–21338, left side of your left boot, right side of your right boot.  And the cap.  There was room for your number on the back of your cap.  Dev was a perfectionist, so it took more than 20 minutes.

“Yeah,” he was saying, holding up a shirt to inspect his work, “like we say, they be seein you comin an goin!  Same with you shorts.  They watchin you dick, then they watchin you ass.  They wanta SEE whose ass it is.  You jus’ off thee slap farm, so you doan know.  So I’m tellin.  The freemen LOVE to look at us.  Not kiddin!  Even if you are like . . . older.”  Meaning me.  “These women jus love to flirt with you.  These men too!  Course you best not try any follow up.  Least so somebody find out.  Somebody in Crew 7.”

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 02

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 2: One’s Company

Roger let me know that he’d made not only the room arrangements but also an appointment for us with Major Timmons of the St. Bevons State Labour Program.  “I confess that I have had the tour already, but I will enjoy meeting him again, and I am sure that you will enjoy it too.  We will meet him at his office at 9:00 a.m. on the second day after your arrival.  As for our own meeting, may I suggest 7 p.m., local time, on the day you arrive?  I will make our dinner reservations for that hour in the restaurant of the King George Hotel.  I think you will find the Oak Room more than passable.  We can meet in the lobby.”

“Thank you—but how will we recognize each other?  Should I carry a copy of ‘BDSM for Fun and Profit’?”

“Oh yes, that is a question.  For purposes of recognition, my dear sir, I humbly request a photo of yourself.  You will note that I am not yet requesting an exchange of names.  After all, what, to the world, is a photograph without a name?”

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Story

The Bear Trap – Part 07

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By FirefighterSIR

Part 7: Destiny

Ben idly scratched his thick beard as he turned over inside the cage, the midnight moon covering the garden and hills beyond the grid of bars with silver light.  He reflected on the last few hours.

The Captain had returned from a week away on a large fire that had been burning in the mountains to the west, a range that cut off the Bear Trap Ranch from the blanket of cool moist fog along the coast.

The Captain had drove into the canyon camp late in the day, just as the heat gave way to cool evening shadows, His huge pickup covered with red dust and ash.  He jumped out, and came through the gate, where the slave was kneeling, excited at his return.  He tousled Ben’s thick mane of brown hair before stripping down and taking a long cool shower under the big blue oak tree, with the slave kneeling between his legs.

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The Bear Trap – Part 01

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By FirefighterSIR

If you travel over the rough Santa Lucia Mountains, past towering Cone Peak, and away from the white water Big Sur coast, you come to set of broad oak studded valleys and chaparral covered ridges descending eastward toward the Salinas Valley. The Bear Trap is named for a box canyon among the ridges where oaks stud the grassy north facing slopes and brush and ghostly grey pines the sunburn south faces. Long ago, Mexican vaqueros would lure grizzly bears into the steep sided “trap” with live bait, such as a steer, to be roped and killed.

The ranch in that canyon is accessed by a 7-mile dirt road, and no one lives out there except the Captain. And the muscled work slave.

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