A gay story: The One-Way Voyage (Day Two) DAY TWO
I make a break for it.
I lay awake most of that night, mind racing. I filled in the hours devising various ways I might escape, alternating with visions of what would happen to me if I got caught.
Unfortunately, I had a vivid imagination.
My only means of measuring time was the gradual pressure increase in my bladder. At some point, he was either going to have to come and take me to the bathroom, or I was going to pee my bed. I considered deliberately doing exactly that, but my vivid imagination kicked in again, so I gave up that idea. If I was going to pee the bed, it would be because I couldn’t hold it anymore.
Thankfully, Master came for me before it got that far. I heard him open the door, walk in, hesitate, and sniff the air. “Stinks in here,” he remarked. “Time to wash the slave.”
He pulled me to my feet and led me to the bathroom. The hood still blinded me, but when he plunked me down on the toilet, I knew where I was.
“Spread your knees,” he said. He took hold of my dick and pointed it down. “Piss,” he ordered. I complied. “Do you have to take a shit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, get to it. I don’t have all day.”
Try to poop when you’re sitting on the toilet blindfolded and naked, your hands bound to your sides, while a stranger has his hand on your dick. I grunted a little, but nothing came.
“Nervous?” he asked. To my surprise, he sounded sympathetic. His hand moved from my dick to my abdomen and rubbed my belly. It was soothing, and a minute later, a little dropped out. “Good enough,” he declared. “Now hold still.” I jumped at the sudden sensation on my butt. A spray of warm water rinsed my asshole. “Get up,” he said, when it was over.
He attached a leash to my collar and pulled me into the hallway, and into another room, then another room. I shuffled along on my shackled legs, unable to tell where I was. He clipped my collar to a chain hanging from the ceiling, removed the leash, and then detached first one, then the other of my wrists from my belt and attached them to the chain over my head.
I steeled myself for another session with the whip, but when he took off the hood, I found I was in a shower. This wasn’t just any shower. This shower was huge. Four people could easily wash themselves at the same time in what was more like a small tiled room. A bench jutted from one wall.
Master left for a moment and returned naked. He turned on the water, and used a wand to douse both of us head to toe. I tried to remember the last time I had a shower. It must have been a few days ago. I certainly needed it and it felt good. Master took some shampoo and washed his hair, then he stood behind me and washed mine. His fingertips massaged my scalp. He seemed to like playing with my long hair. I enjoyed it, I don’t mind admitting.
He wet a washcloth and squeezed some body wash on it, then washed his face and mine, then his arms and mine, and so on. He put body wash on his hand and gave my ass special attention. My cheeks still stung from yesterday’s spankings, but his fingers found the crack between and cleaned it thoroughly. One finger lingered on my asshole, teasing the opening, while his other hand began sudsing my dick.
And yes, my disobedient penis did its thing again. Master’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. You’re already hard as a rock.” He looked me in the eye, one finger still on my asshole, as he said, “Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because you like it, that’s why.”
It was true; I did like it, but I wasn’t going to admit it to this guy. Anyway, it was no more than a natural reaction to a nice hot shower combined with fingers touching me in my most intimate places, or so I told myself.
Master dried us both with a soft white towel, then left to dress. He returned in another casual outfit: a white polo, gray slacks, and sneaker loafers. A minute later, my wrists were locked to my sides again. I was hooded, off the chain, on the leash, and on the move. Soon I was attached to a chain again, arms over my head.
He took off the blindfold, and I could see I was back in the black room. Master had his whip in his hand. He held it up where I could get a good look and said, “I hope you remember the rule I taught you yesterday.”
I was prepared for this. I repeated the rule perfectly.
He nodded. “Good job. In the future though, that is Rule One. You will preface every rule with its number. Understand? Now…”
The lash ripped across my back. I cried out. “Ow! That’s not fair! I got it right.”
“You recited the rule, but you haven’t truly learned it. ‘Master can do as he likes with his property.’ That means I can whip you when I want, for any reason, or for no reason at all. ‘Fair’ has nothing to do with it.” Another lash across my back. “And that’s for speaking out of turn. Slaves don’t talk unless they’re spoken to first. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Better. All right, then. I know you had a rough day yesterday, so I’ll go easier on you today. Let’s get you onto the fuck bench.”
A few minutes later, I was on that bench again, wrists and knees bound, ankles dangling free, in the same ridiculous position, my ass hanging out in the air. Master lubed both his hands and started stroking my dick with one, while the fingers of the other probed my asshole. I yelped. I protested.
It didn’t matter. He stroked my dick with that same magic touch, while the fingers of his other hand found their way into my hole, all the way to the back end of my dick. The combination of pleasuring from inside and outside had me helpless and shooting in no time, my ass clenching painfully against his fingers. I yelped again as he withdrew them.
Then he thrust his own dick into me. “My turn,” he announced. His dick stretched me pretty hard, but it was better than his fingers. He lay on top of me, boning away, as I took deep breaths and tried to relax. We were both sweating.
When he got close, he stood again, grabbed hold of my belt with both hands, and began pounding for all he was worth, yanking my ass backward onto his dick, moaning as climax neared. My raw, sensitive ass was screaming for it to stop. I managed to twist around enough to bite my own upper arm, which helped a little.
Master came then, calling out, “Fuck! Oh, fuck!” as he emptied his load into me. Afterward, he lay on top of me for a time. Soon the butt plug was in me again. He patted me on the small of the back and said, “You know why I plug your ass? Because every time I jerk you off, a little bit of your essence leaves your body. Every time I fuck you, a little bit of mine enters it. I put the plug in so it won’t leak out.” He circled around to the front. I looked up at him and he caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. “Every day, your body becomes a little bit less of you and a little more of me. Soon your body will be one hundred percent mine. What do you think of that?”
I thought that was insane, but I kept my opinion to myself.
He grabbed the paddle and swatted my butt. “I asked you a question, slave. What do you think of that?”
“Uh, I don’t know, um, Master.”
“Deep thinker, eh?” He laughed. “It’s time for you to learn the second rule. This one’s easy. It shouldn’t give you much trouble. Here it is: ‘Rule Two: The slave must always obey the Master.’ Repeat it.”
I recited it perfectly. Whack! Whack! He swatted me on my already-raw butt anyway. It was more than I could take. I began to tear up.
Master noticed. “I guess I’ve made my point. You’ll remember that tomorrow, I think. Now, breakfast.”
Breakfast was another bottle of milky liquid, served up yet again inside a dildo I had to take into my mouth. I sucked ravenously. It was better than nothing, but only barely.
After I finished, Master released me from the bench. He unlocked my left wrist and bound it to the belt, then my right. Then he released my left leg, after attaching the chain to the strap on my left ankle. But as he released my right leg, we both heard the distant, insistent beeping of some kind of alarm.
Master stood and took a step toward the door, scratching the back of his head. “Now what?”
My mind raced. All I could think about was how, for this brief instant, Master was distracted and I was partly unbound. I spent a split second debating with myself over whether this was the right moment. As my mind wrestled with this decision, my foot took matters into its own hands. So to speak. As if by instinct, my right foot shot out and hit him hard in the back of the knee, causing him to fall.
I was off the bench in an instant. My wrists were bound to my sides, my left foot was trailing a chain, and I had a plug up my ass, but I could move. Master was struggling to his feet. I planted a foot in the small of his back and stomped him right back onto the floor. Then I was off, out of the black room and into the corridor.
One way led to a closed door, the other to a flight of steps. I headed for the steps. Seconds later, my bare feet were pounding their way upstairs, chain dragging behind.
I wondered whether this was such a good idea, but there was no turning back now.
I’m nearsighted. Not too badly, but sometimes I need glasses. I’m not allowed to drive without them, for instance. But I didn’t like how I looked in them, so I preferred to keep them in a case in my pocket when I was, say, posing for a picture. Or hanging out in a gay dive, hoping some guy with money would pick me up.
Bottom line: my glasses were wherever Master had put them, along with my wallet. Without them, I couldn’t make out much more than the stair in front of me and bright light above.
All to the good, I figured. Bright light meant this was the way out. Was it sunlight? If it was, that meant I was nearer to the outdoors than I dared hope.
The top of the stair opened into a cozy little room. To my right sat an overstuffed brown leather sofa against a wood-paneled wall. A chest before it served as a coffee table.
To my amazement, the other three walls of this room were glass, and beyond the glass I could see blue sky and sunshine. A glass door stood directly ahead.
I could hear Master yelling at me from below. This was not the time to hesitate, not when I was just steps away from freedom. My hand was bound to my side, but I managed to twist my hip and grab the door handle, unlatch the door, and shove it open. I ran outside.
I was running on some kind of hard white surface, dazzling in the sunlight. I called out for help.
Then I stopped to take my bearings. Sunshine and blue sky above me, white deck beneath me.
And between them, in every direction, the ocean.
I took a quick look around. No doubt about it, I was standing on the deck of a boat, and a pretty big one. Now what?
Master strolled through the same door I had used a moment ago. He was moving slowly, nonchalantly, but he was holding the hotstick in one hand. I didn’t wait to find out what he planned to do with it. I turned and ran.
You can’t run very far on a boat; only as far as the deck goes. Ahead of me, toward the front of the boat, the deck split into three points. I didn’t yet know what a trimaran was, but they have three bows. I ran toward the leftmost bow. Rails lined the edges of the deck; at the point of the bow, the rails came together, preventing me from going any further. Further would have meant jumping into the ocean.
I was trapped. I turned to face my pursuer. He was about fifteen feet away, in a casual stance, tapping the hotstick he held in one hand into the palm of the other. “So you’re on a boat. Let me add a bit of specificity. We’re a hundred miles out from San Francisco. The nearest other boat is seven miles away. No one can see you. No one can hear you. You have no place to go. In fact, you have exactly one choice right now. You can give it up and return to your master willingly—”
“What are you going to do to me?”
He grinned. “Whatever I want to, because you’re my slave and that’s how it works. Or, you can stay where you are and make me come to you, in which case I will first give you a ten-second shot of electricity straight into your balls, and then do whatever I want to you. It’s your call.”
Master counted to ten, while I stood frozen between the rails in my little corner of the boat. My head was telling me to surrender, but I was shaking so hard I couldn’t move.
The count reached ten and Master approached me. I shook worse the closer he got. He grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head back, and applied the hot stick to my balls.
I screamed and fell to the deck. He leaned over me and said, “That was no ten seconds.” He rolled me onto my back with his toe, then knelt on my chest to hold me in position. I writhed and screamed as he gave me the full ten seconds on my balls.
When he stood again, I was a sobbing mess. The pain was awful, but worse was the realization that I was trapped with this madman in a way I hadn’t previously imagined. I was at his mercy for as long as this boat could stay at sea, and it seemed big enough to stay at sea a long time.
Master helped me to my feet, then turned me around so I was looking over the ocean. He bent me over and padlocked my collar to the point where the rails came together at the tip of the bow. My wrists he locked to the rails on either side of me and my ankles to the posts that supported them. The hot stick had left me dazed, exhausted, and miserable. I offered no resistance.
When he was finished, I was stuck in a posture reminiscent of a little boy playing “airplane.” I was bent over, arms extended to either side. My head hung over the rail; I faced down, where the boat’s gleaming bow cleaved the sea. My ass stuck out behind my legs. Master clearly enjoyed putting me into humiliating positions.
“That will be twenty-four lashes, for attacking your Master and trying to escape. We’ll deal with that later. I’m glad you came up on deck, though. Now that you know where you are, you know there’s no place to run. Do you have to pee?”
“No.”
Slap! Slap! Bare hand slaps on my ass cheeks were worse than the paddle. “No, what?”
“No, Master.”
“Okay, then. You sit tight and enjoy the view. I have work to do.” He patted my ass and added, “I’ll be enjoying the view, too.”
He left. I couldn’t turn my head far enough to look behind me. I couldn’t see the boat or watch what he was doing. Mostly I looked down at the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean, or raised my head to stare across the sea to the horizon.
The sun shone warmly on my bare skin, but chill gusts kept coming in off the ocean and I shivered with every one. I could hear Master moving at some distance behind me, attending to some boat chore or another. I was from Iowa, so what did I know about boats?
The breezes didn’t seem to bother him, but then he was wearing clothes and moving about. I was naked and restrained, strapped into a single, uncomfortable position.
Some time later, a cloud passed over the sun. It felt as if the temperature dropped ten degrees in an instant. Goose flesh rose across my body. A few more minutes and I started shivering. I twisted my head around, took a look at my arm, and noticed it was turning blue. I had thought that was a figure of speech.
How much longer could I take this? I considered calling out to Master, but he punished me whenever I spoke out of turn, so I stayed silent. I fell asleep, I think, or was it some kind of trance? I called out in my dreams, and awoke to the sting of Master slapping my ass.
“Whoa,” he said. “You look like death.” I wondered if it was part of the dream, until I felt the butt plug yanked roughly from my asshole. I think I screamed. Master unlocked my restraints and helped me stand. “I didn’t realize…hey, I think we’d better get you inside.”
He put his arm around me and guided me back to the sitting room at the front of the deck house, where we sat together on the leather sofa. The glass walls shielded us from the breeze and provided a 180-degree panorama of the ocean, but I was looking at it through tears. Master drew a comforter from the chest and pulled it over both of us. Underneath, he put his arm around me and pulled me against him.
I shivered. The warmth of Master’s body felt comforting where it touched me, but the rest of my flesh was cold, cold, cold.
We sat together like this for some time, until the heat from Master’s body gradually warmed me. Soon it felt cozy under that comforter. Master rocked me gently, as if I were a child. “I need to take better care of my slave,” he said to himself.
This is nice, I thought. I looked out at the ocean, and it was beautiful, now that the glass was keeping the wind at bay. I felt secure, more so than I had in weeks. Since before I left Iowa, for sure. I snuggled closer to Master. If only it could be like this all the time, I thought. Sailing the ocean, me in Master’s arms. No chains, no whips, just the two of us.
My dick started getting hard, interrupting my reverie. I hoped Master wouldn’t notice, but of course he did. He took hold of it and said, “I know I picked the right guy to be my slave. You know how I know? Because of this thing. Your dick tells me everything I need to know.” He released it and rubbed my stomach. “You’re enjoying this. You love being my slave. You get off on having a master, though you probably never realized this about yourself. Even now, you may not be ready to admit to it. There’s no use fighting your own nature. Just give in. Yield to the inevitable. Your life will be so much better for it.”
Nothing in that was a question, so I said nothing. I took a deep breath and hoped he’d touch my dick some more, but no such luck. So I relaxed and enjoyed the warmth and the cuddling. This was a side of Master I hadn’t seen before: caring, concern, guilt even, for the way he’d treated me.
“About those twenty-four lashes? I think you’ve been punished enough. Tell you what: be a very good slave for the rest of the day, and we’ll forgo the lashes. Do you think you can be a good slave?”
A slave’s life consists of two things: pleasure and pain. I was stuck on this boat for who knew how long. He had already shown he could be cruel. Now he had shown a kinder side. If playing the role of good little slave meant more kindness and less cruelty, then I would play the role.
“Yes, Master,” I said, as earnestly as I could manage. “I can be good.”
#
We cuddled for maybe an hour longer, until my stomach rumbled. Master heard it and asked, “Are you hungry?”
Was he kidding? The last time I’d had solid food was forty-eight hours ago by the clock, and about a year ago in subjective time. The nutrient crap he was feeding me kept me alive, but it didn’t do much to ease my hunger. I would have scoffed at the question, if I wasn’t afraid of getting spanked for it. I settled for a respectful, “Yes, Master.”
“Let me show you the dining room.” Master grabbed my collar and stood, lifting me to me feet along with him. A doorway in the back of this sitting room led to a dining room, neatly appointed, with a picture window view of the ocean and a table that could comfortably seat six, but only one chair. To the left of the chair, a cushion lay on the floor. Master led me to a buffet and opened a drawer. Inside was a stack of neatly folded white cloths. “These are cloth diapers,” he explained. “They’re for my slave. Take one.”
I stuck out my hip. My fingers barely reached the top cloth, but I grabbed hold of it.
“Good. Put it on the cushion and sit.” I did as I was told. “There are stashes of diapers all over the boat. Always use one before you sit. I don’t want to be cleaning up your butt prints everywhere.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You said you could be good. Let’s see. You sit right there and don’t move until I get back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
He proceeded through a door to the next room back, evidently a kitchen. Or on a boat did you call it a galley? I could tell from the sounds he was making what was up. He had taken out a frozen meal and was microwaving it.
Moments later, he was back, carrying a plate in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. He put them on the table, sat in the chair, and began to eat, paying no attention to me. Apparently, I was supposed to sit still, cross-legged on this cushion, until Master told me otherwise.
Boy, it smelled good, whatever he was eating. He was picking at it with chopsticks, so I guessed Chinese food. My mouth watered. I swallowed about a pint of spit. My throat made a loud noise as it went down. Then my stomach grumbled again.
Master noticed the noises I was making and turned to me. “Is the slave hungry?”
He had already asked me that, hadn’t he? “Yes, Master.”
“Master eats before the slave. You understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
But he took pity on me. “Maybe a bite or two,” he said. He picked up a chunk of something brown between his chopsticks and held it in front of my face. “Open up.”
I stared dumbly for a minute before I realized he meant my mouth. I opened it.
He raised the tidbit and coached me—”Higher, higher”—until I was looking at the ceiling, mouth open, the bit of food dangling just above my lips. He dropped it into my mouth.
I swallowed it almost without tasting it, I was so hungry. It was sesame chicken, and in that moment it might have been the most delicious bit of food I’d ever eaten.
“You want another one?”
“Yes, Master. Please.”
“‘Please?’ Aren’t we the polite little slave. All right, one more, but that’s all. We can’t let our slave get fat. He wouldn’t be so nice to look at.”
The idea that I’d get fat off the meager rations he was feeding me was laughable, but I behaved myself. I wanted that second piece of sesame chicken real bad.
Master fed me again, the same as before, then returned to his meal. I savored that second piece like it was a feast in one bite, chewing it until I’d extracted every bit of flavor.
I felt a flood of confusing emotions. A little piece of me felt ashamed that I was humiliating myself like this, just to get a couple of bites of Master’s lunch. Was I ready to sell my self-respect for two bites of sesame chicken?
Master continued to eat, eyes on his meal, but his left hand wandered my way, until he was absentmindedly running his fingers through my hair. He scratched the top of my head.
Part of me wanted to bite that fucking hand, like the dog he seemed to think I was. But all I could think about was the bottle of nutrient formula he was soon going to feed me. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and if I made trouble, Master might skip my lunch altogether. So I took a deep breath and sat quietly, playing the role the way he wanted.
He got up and cleared the table. “Now it’s your turn.” He went back to the kitchen, returning in a few minutes with more nutrient formula, capped with a dildo for me to suck on. This time the dildo was blue. He sat in his chair, turned it to face me, and held the bottle so the dildo was extended between his legs, as if it were his own dick. He signaled for me to come and suck it.
I did, because I was hungry, but it was creepy. After I finished, he set the bottle aside. I could see through his pants that he had a hard-on, and my stomach began to hurt. I hoped against hope he wouldn’t—
He did. He opened his pants, pulled it out, and said, “Now suck this.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t—”
That was as far as I got before he grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head toward him, shoving his dick inside my open mouth as I spoke. I started writhing and making noises. Master slapped me on the back and said, “Behave yourself!”
I’ve always had this issue with giving head, all right? I liked it real well when another guy did it to me, but I couldn’t do it for anyone else. There was something about the thought of a dick in my mouth that always made my stomach churn. I’d have rather been fucked in the ass than suck a dick, and I could have given Master references who could confirm it.
Only I couldn’t say any of this aloud because his dick was in my mouth, and he was driving it deeper. “Open wider. I don’t want to feel your fucking teeth.”
I gagged. I couldn’t breathe. Master saw something was wrong, and pulled away.
Then I barfed nutrient formula into his crotch.
He stood and pointed at me. “You stay exactly where you are. Don’t move!” He rushed away.
I stayed put and obeyed, but I was sick with embarrassment and fear. Master was gone for a long time; I heard water running and guessed he would shower and change.
It was the thought of he would do when he came back that terrified me.
When he did return, he brought a leash with him, which he fastened to my collar and used to lift me roughly to my feet. The look on his face told me I was in trouble. “You had me feeling sorry for you, but clearly you haven’t learned how to be a good slave yet.” He half-pulled, half-dragged me back down the stairs to what I was now thinking of as the “training room.” Between sobs, I tried to explain that I just couldn’t suck a cock, but Master either wasn’t listening or didn’t care.
He padlocked my ankles to opposite ends of a telescoping steel rod, then extended the rod until I was standing with my feet uncomfortably far apart. Then he did the same with a second rod locked between my wrists. The center of that rod he attached to the winch chain, and ran the winch until I was spread-eagled in a vertical position, standing awkwardly on my toes.
Then he fetched the whip. “Twenty-four lashes,” he announced.
As he raised the whip to strike my back, I tried one last time. “Master, I’ll do whatever you say; just please don’t make me suck dick.”
He paused and shook his head. “You’re a slave, which already means you do whatever I say. You don’t bargain with your master, because you’ve got nothing to offer. I already own you!”
He shouted those final words as he lashed me on the shoulders. I cried out.
“What do you say?” he prompted me.
“One.”
“And?”
“Th-thank you, Master.”
Twenty-three more lashes followed. He never hit me in the same place twice. Each blow was a little below the previous one, down my back and my sore ass, until the final few were on the backs of my thighs. I thanked him for each and every one.
When it was over, he released the winch chains, and I collapsed in a sobbing heap. He locked my wrists to the sides of the belt, then found a diaper and put it on me. “In case you have to piss,” he explained. “I have some things to do.”
He left me there.
Hours passed. I did need the diaper. When he returned, he put me back into my bedroom, removed the diaper, blindfolded me, and left me for the night.
I never got dinner, and my stomach protested at missing even that nutrient stuff. Lying on my sore back was impossible, so I curled up on my side and tried to sleep.
* * *