Group Sharing for 5-1-21

Hi Guys,

An experiment to see if we can help each other expand our enjoyment of the Net and TV!

If you see something you think others on this site might like, please share it in the Comments to this weekly Saturday post (click balloon in upper right corner) .

Movies, episodes, stories, websites, your own sites, even pay sites, special sales, etc. – be as descriptive as you like. Be sure to include the URL or Network.

Sharing the fantasy,

Aquadude

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The Three Hundred and Fifteenth of One Thousand and One Nights – by Amalaric

[Click image to enlarge.]

Corporal Jim Tanner had fucked up once too often. A man’s man, he liked nothing more than carousing off base, maybe scoring some pussy, and usually landing himself in a bare-knuckle brawl. Sprawled in the brig with heavy shackles weighting ankles and wrists, he waited, barefoot, stripped to the waist, and with his worn khakis opened at the fly, for the commencement of his sentence; fifty lashes strung up buck naked on the parade ground followed by a month under lock up. Though he tried not to show it, the handsome young corporal was scared shitless.

The door to his cell swung wide and the MP barked, ‘On your feet, soldier, and strip down- NOW!’ The military cop grinned wickedly, ‘You got yourself an appointment with a hungry coil of braided leather and there’s already a big crowd anxious for the show to commence.’ Jim Tanner slowly stood on suddenly rubbery legs and, swallowing hard, removed the rest of his clothing before being escorted into the glaring sunlight of the parade ground.

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“Executive Retreat, Part 2: Dickie-boy On the Job” – by Steve McHalperin

Chapter 27

A Vicious Night

Terry handcuffed my wrists behind my back, as instructed by Sir, and then I ate my “dinner” of dog food and washed it down with water I lapped from my water bowl.  Eating this way really makes you think you’re a dog, a pet to Someone, not worthy of eating at a table with other humans.  Terry told me it’s  part of Sir’s program of ego deconstruction,  That and the droning obedience tape are designed to reduce willfulness and refocus the slave’s mind on Sir.  It’s not mind destruction; that would be counter-productive and not make for a spunky slave boy.  It’s simply a refocusing of the slave’s mind so that Sir is the new center of its universe.  And there are two big parts to serving Sir:  taking any kind of pain or torture He might wish and total sexual servitude to Him.  It’s that simple. 

The only problem for any young man is that the training program takes a long time ‘cause us guys are pretty independent-minded.  It requires tremendous pain to enforce total obedience.  A really good potential slave already has the neural wiring for mixing pain and pleasure, so that intense pain also involves intense sexual pleasure.  I told you earlier that I had that.  I always got a boner when my step father whipped me and that was followed by a powerful JO session once he cut me down from the ropes.  In my senior year in high school, the pattern was so strong that sometimes I had a hands-free cum during the whipping.  This usually enraged my step father and he took out his anger on my back and ass.  I could still muster up a private JO session even after a whipping cum.   

After I ate I dropped into slave A the best I could in cuffs, planting my forehead to the cement floor of the dungeon.  I didn’t steel my eyes until I heard Him coming down the dungeon steps.  Guess I was still “willful,” as Sir put it.  This evening’s project was a big escalation in pain.

“Let’s call it Pain 202,” Sir laughed at me as He stood over me.  “OK, get up and go over to the frame!” he ordered.

This slave boy jumped up from the floor and trotted over to the big wooden frame on its platform in the center of the dungeon.  I stretched out my arms and legs without being bidden and Sir buckled the wrist and ankle cuffs on.  There was no need for locks; I couldn’t reach the cuffs with my fingers.  He had me in a tight spread eagle. 

“Two things tonight, dickie-boy,” Sir leered at me.  “The first is a good thrashing with my single tail on your back and ass, followed by a caning.  The whip will tenderize your flesh.  This makes the caning hurt more.  You need to feel the full fury of a sound beating,” he added.

Like I hadn’t had sound beatings from my step dad.  My stomach knotted again as fear took over.  My dick tingled in the cock cage.  It really wanted to go hard.  Not tonight, dickie-boy, I told it.  Maybe never.

Sir unhitched the whip from his leather chaps waist band and lashed it in the air a few times.  I jumped at the shark cracks, not knowing when the beating would start in earnest.  Then it started.

There was a big whooshing sound as the leather sliced the air.  Then the expected splatting noise as the braided leather sliced into my upper back.  Then the explosion of pain and a scream.  “A-a-a-h!  A-a-g-h!” echoed in the dungeon, as I guess it had many, many times in the past.  I pulled violently against the cuffs and chains holding me and every muscle in my body flexed and mounded.

Two lashes in quick succession.  Redoubled screaming and struggling.  Two more.  Two more!  I was screaming nonstop and having trouble getting air to breathe with the big bit gag strapped into my mouth.  You need air to scream, but I couldn’t get enough.  My body was on survival autopilot.  Somehow I didn’t suffocate and somehow I couldn’t stop screaming from the blinding pain in my back. 

Whosh/splat/scream/struggle/gasp.  Whosh/splat/scream/struggle/gasp for air.  On and on, up and down my back.  Then Sir switched to my ass, slicing the leather across my ass cheeks.  This was agony.  I couldn’t escape the bondage.  I was screaming like the primal trapped animal now, raw, full-throated yells of pain, struggling like a maniac to pull free of the chains and cuffs. 

I had no idea of how many lashes I took that night.  I saw Terry standing by but he had not been told to keep the count.  His face was white but he kept his cool.  He knew better than to do otherwise.  His face did twitch a few times.  He full well knew what I was going through from his own training sessions, including the most recent one two nights ago. 

The beating did stop.  I was covered in sweat and so was Sir.  He massaged his leather jock which was at total bulge.  Sir came over and stood directly in front of me.  He reached up and put His hand under my chin, forcing my head up.  The leather slave collar dug into the back of my head.  We locked eyes. 

“That’s what slave boys get when they disobey.  Remember this any time you want to disobey.” He said slowly as he closed his hand and pushed in my cheeks.  “I can still see the flame of defiance in your eyes, boy.  Masters are skilled in assessing the state of Their boys by their eyes.  I have only begun with you,” He said.

Guess He was right about defiance.  I couldn’t help myself.  The more He hurt me, the more that stupid little flame of rebellion was stoked.  I was determined He wouldn’t break me.  How dumb can you get!?

The next torture almost broke me. 

NEXT: Ch 28, The Cane

The Three Hundred and Fourteenth of One Thousand and One Nights – by Amalaric

[Click image to enlarge.]

He cost a fortune but Ahmad didn’t care. Standing tall in the cool breeze of a coastal village, freshly taken from some nameless European ship transporting troops from one endless infidel battle to another…it didn’t matter, the captive’s life (in that respect) was over. Ahmad wondered if the handsome blond soldier realized that yet- head still unbowed, dressed in his slightly tattered uniform on the busy quay of the tiny North African port. The trader, suddenly in a pensive mood, wondered if the young man had a name, perhaps some brothers not unlike himself in the fabled lands of leafy trees and green grass across the water. Shaking his head, he pushed all distractions from a besotted mind. Those things mattered little, but of one thing he was certain- the handsome infidel had to be purchased…at any price.

Haggling was fierce and Ahmad’s purse was notably lighter as he led his bemused merchandise from the quay. Of course, he had insisted on a cursory examination of the ‘goods’ and the young man’s linen shirt gaped open to his navel revealing a sculpted torso of rippling, smooth muscle- chest dusted with fine gold hair that caught the desert light, matched by parallel glints on forearms and the narrow blond river running into the waistband of his baggy trousers. Deep gray eyes burned with anger and, perhaps, shame as he was groped and tested and that made Ahmad smile. The buck clearly had no idea of what else might be in store.

The tiny caravan headed inland veering east through tall shifting dunes of burnished sand. Ahmad sat, like a king, astride his camel; eyes riveted on the broad back and scantily clad narrow muscled ass of the plodding young slave tethered, like a dog to its leash, by a long rope anchored to the pommel of his saddle. His intention was to deal the strapping prize in the bustling slave market at Algiers but, as the days rolled by, the trader’s resolve slowly weakened. Trying to resist the crazy impulse bubbling irresistibly from the hot depths of riveted vision, he reminded himself that he had to make a living and this one would fetch a fine profit…yet, Ahmad was somehow loath to contemplate that possibility.

The turning point came late one afternoon as the caravan staggered to a halt near a scrubby stand of desert grass and tiny spring of water. The slave was allowed to drink his fill and Ahmad watched, sitting languidly in the shadow of his resting camel, as the handsome soldier moved, marveling at his muscular grace and tones of gold on gold as sun-bleached hair and tanned skin gave him the aspect of a god in the mellow light of the waning sun. ‘Come over here, boy.’ The slave reluctantly obeyed, biting back simmering anger, struggling with the strange cadence of a new language, and shuffled forward to stand before his master. Of course, he was shirtless and had been for some days- all the better to bronze his northern skin and enhance the sting of the discipline whip liberally wielded against broad shoulders. ‘Strip off your trousers.’ Ahmad’s heart pounded with a timeless kind of ecstasy as the tall soldier reluctantly complied and stood naked in all of his muscular glory; hard proportion of broad, deep chest, smooth back, narrow hips, high jutting ass and thick, hairy manhood swinging between slightly spread legs, all on view for the trader’s hot pleasure. The buck was ordered to pose- ‘Turn around, nice and slow…arms up, hands behind your head, that’s right! Spread your legs, lad, so I can see what rides between them a little better…ahhhhh!’ It was then that Ahmad surrendered. Oh, he would continue along the road to Algiers, and somehow gather something to sell in the fabled souk…but not this one, no!

A thousand sweet scenarios swirled through his suddenly brightening mind. Fingers itching, he nevertheless caressed the chiseled jaw and deeply shamed gaze of his golden captive for a while with hungry eyes. Finally, unable to stand it any longer he gasped a guttural command that caused the wary young slave’s heart to race with a potent mixture of fear and frantic denial, ‘Come closer, boy. The time has come for your training to begin.’

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“Executive Retreat, Part 2: Dickie-boy On the Job” – by Steve McHalperin

Chapter 26

Yeah, More Pain

OK, so. The evening drill was the same:  strip, self-collar, drop to slave A and wait.  I screwed up again.  When Sir came to us in the changing room, I looked over at Him to see what He was wearing.  Bad move.  That brought me two slashes with His whip across my back and a loud yell from me.

“Keep it up, dickie-boy,” Sir said to me crunching down on the back of my head with his heavy boot.  “Every time you screw up, you will get punished.  Even a dumb slave like you will eventually learn.  But if not, you can expect more of my whip.  As of now, I am doubling the whip lashes.  You will go from two to four, so feel free to disobey.  I do enjoy whipping that muscular back of yours.”

I remained silent, my eyes glued to the floor, afraid to move a muscle.  My back stung from the whip.  Being in the presence of Sir was going to require all my concentration and focus.  The slightest mishap and – whoosh! – I’d get lashed with his friggin’ whip.  Four times, no less.  ‘Houston to Dickie-boy, Houston to Dickie-boy:  Wake the fuck up!’

Sir continued to upbraid me:   “You have put me in a foul mood, boy.  There’s only one cure for that.  I need to hear you scream your guts outs and that’s exactly what we shall do right after dinner.  I will eat upstairs.  Terry-boy will bring you your dog food shortly.  Then you will get into slave A and ABSOLUTELY hold it until I return.  Do you fuckin’ understand, boy?” He yelled at me.

“Sir, yes, Sir!!” I shouted back.  “Sir, thank You, Sir!” I added, trying to be a good boy. 

He said nothing in return but stormed out of the changing room.  Terry motioned for me to get up.

“Go downstairs and I’ll bring you dinner,” he said.  “For God’s sake, after you’re done, get into slave A and hold it for dear life.  He might calm down.  I can’t promise anything.  Just do it.”

“Got it, Terry.  Thanks,” I said as we left the room.  I went down into the dungeon and Terry came down with my “dinner” a few minutes later. 

I ate the dogfood and lapped up the water.  I was afraid to lift the water bowl and drink from it.  Sir was surely watching on the video system and the last thing I wanted to do was rile Him up any further.  I got into slave A and held it like a statue.  After a while I was going out of my mind with boredom but I was at the same time terrified of moving a muscle lest Sir see it and get mad at me. 

He and Terry came down an hour later.  I could tell from the tone of His voice that He was a few notches down from His previous anger.  Whew! I thought.  Saved my bacon.  As usual, I was wrong. 

He ordered me over to the frame in the center of the dungeon, put me into a spread eagle stance, and then manacled my wrists and ankles to the cuffs on chains bolted to the frame.  OK, I thought, this was going to be bad.  He then gagged me with a bit gag.  I could tell as he pulled the strap in He was not happy. 

A bit gag is like a horse bit.  It’s a solid bar, in this case a metal bar covered with hard rubber.  When the straps are pulled in tight, it goes way back, stretching your cheeks.  Obviously it garbles any speech.  All you hear are weird vowels.  Like a ball gag, however, it does not stifle screams.  They come out full-throated and loud.  It also has an embarrassing side effect:  you drool like a baby.  It screws up swallowing, so the  normal saliva production trickles out of the sides of your mouth, down your chin and neck, and makes rivulets on your chest.  That’s part of the abuse and humiliation side of His training program.  Your basic bodily functions become embarrassing. 

“So, tonight, the program consists of a gut punching lesson with the club and I also want to show you the delicious impact of a caning on your ass and back.  You saw Terry-boy last night get a gut punch with the club.  Now it’s your turn.  As for the caning, I want you to experience one of the worst disciplines in the world, so you can file it away in your little brain and remember it later if you are tempted to disobey.  The gut punching and the caning will hurt a lot.  Feel free to scream.”

It’s always that last statement that scares me.  He didn’t say ‘groan’ or ‘grunt.’  It was scream.  I almost pissed myself in fear.    

“Terry-boy,” Sir said to his #1 slave:  “Get me the gut punching club and the plastic cane.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” came the reply as Terry walked over to the equipment wall and retrieved the items which were on the menu for torturing me.  Thanks, Terry.  But, then again, you have no choice.  Just like me.

“Terry-boy will bring your dog food,” Sir said as they both left the dungeon.    

NEXT: Ch 27, A Vicious Night

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