2 NewMexican Bitches

Finally! I
Got Him!

This bastard will suffer for the rest of his life — and that may be fairly short. He's gonna pay — IN SPADES — for what he did to me.

I'm waiting for the final custody decree. It will come from this judge in about fifteen minutes, then he'll be mine. I have frequent nightmares about that night. I got home from work about one a.m. As soon as I opened the apartment door, he ran from the bushes, shoved me inside and hit me in the face. By the time I regained consciousness, he had me stripped and pinned to the floor. He had waited fro me to wake up before he began the rape.

I struggled but it was hopeless. I screamed and he hit me again. This time, it broke my nose. I was choking on the blood as it poured down my throat. The blood may have saved my life because it gave me an idea. I forced a laugh. That caused him to pause. He demanded that I shut up.

It was a lie but he couldn't know for sure. He looked stricken, pulled out yelling that I was a liar. He beat me in a fury, and sometime while I was unconscious, he left.

I had emergency surgery to remove a ruptured spleen and to repair a punctured lung. I spent two weeks in the hospital, with broken ribs, cheekbone, and nose. and eventually had to have an abortion. But the police caught him.

It seemed to take forever. First the arrest, then the arraignment, then preliminary hearing, then the trial, a week long jury deliberation, a sentencing hearing, a month of training in obedience and docility. But now he would be mine!

They just marched him into the courtroom. He seems smaller somehow. Maybe it's the way he carries himself. He looks totally defeated, head down, shoulders rounded, no attempt to hide his nakedness. Or maybe the difference is in my eyes and mind. I'm in charge, it's my turn to make him suffer.

The judge went directly to the point with no preliminary speeches. Five minutes later, I walked out with my 'boy' on a leash.

I took him home. Even though his training would keep him obedient, I didn't trust him. I had made arrangements for an implant. The slave medic was waiting for me at the apartment. he implanted a voice controlled punisher. The boy feels a buzz in his lower abdomen and groin whenever I speak. If I raise my voice, he gets pain — shooting pain that doubles him over in agony. The louder I speak, the more it hurts. Raising my voice in anger punishes him. If I scream, he passes out from the pain. The device is only activated by my voice, background sounds or other voices don't trigger it.

The medic gave me samples of five different drugs to try on my new slave. He left me a booklet that explained their use and their effects.

The drugs are:

I promised to try the drugs on him in the near future. When the medic left, I ordered Byron, the slave into the little torture room. The court had given me the proceeds from his personal goods auction. His estate had come to nearly twenty thousand dollars so I had enjoyed a long shopping trip.

I ordered him to a rack which would hold him immobile in any position I choose. I adjusted the frame so that he was in a vertical spread-eagle position. He was near the middle of the room facing a wall that was filled with implements that would have pleased an interrogator during the Spanish Inquisition.

There were whips, paddles, leather straps and other beating implements including a nice selection of bamboo canes. Another area had about fifteen dildos and other ass-stuffers hanging in a careful array — from smallest to largest. Still another rack held ball crushers and tit clamps.

I picked the smallest of the dildos and screwed it to the end of a thrusting handle. The dildo was about three inches in diameter and only thirteen inches long.

I pushed it full length into his ass-hole He was dry and tight and he yelped pretty loudly. After fifteen or twenty thrusts I decided to lubricate the piece. I put on some rubber surgical gloves to protect my hands, then dipped the dildo in hot chili oil and fucked his mouth a few times. He had a lot of trouble taking the stiff rod down his throat. He choked and gasped as I forced it down.

The oil made his eyes tear copiously and his nose began to stream mucus. I dipped the piece into the oil again and placed the tip just inside his ass-hole. He squirmed, crying and begging me not to put it into him. I could see that his lips, tongue and the inside of his cheeks were puffy and blistered by the oil. I knew it would do the same to the delicate membranes lining his shit shoot.

I slowly forced it into him, pausing every inch or so to let him feel the pain. I repeatedly painted the portion still outside his ass with more oil. When it was fully inserted, I demanded that he describe the pain to me.

Byron groaned his way through a brief description. He felt that he was so tightly swollen the dildo wouldn't come back out and even if it did, he wouldn't be able to shit without excruciating pain for a week or move. He even mentioned the molten fires of hell that were raging up his ass. Byron the Poet.

I laughed at him and told him that this was just the beginning. I adjusted the holding frame so his weight was on the balls of his feet, straining the muscles of his thighs and calves. Then I took a sponge soaked in the chili oil and began wiping down his penis. He was not very thick but when he was erect, his member was nearly nine inches long.

After I rubbed the oil into it, it shrank to less than three inches. It was as if it were running away from the pain. I wrapped his penis in the sponge and tied it in place. Then I took another sponge dripping with oil and forced it into his already blistered mouth. I kept it in place with a piece of duct tape. The only sound he could make was an inarticulate gurgling grunt. I left him like that for over an hour.

I spent that hour on the phone. I called three of my friends and invited them to a weekend enslavement party. It would start tonight (Friday) and finish up on Sunday evening. I guess I was still a little afraid to be alone with him, even in his present state.

After inviting everyone over and asking each one to bring a "surprise" for Byron, I went back to the torture room. Byron was hanging where I had left him, but he looked very different. The skin on his groin was deeply reddened and lightly blistered. His face was swollen and blotchy red. His butt was squirming in a most delightful way. He was squealing in a high pitched falsetto and he pled for relief with his eyes. I removed the tape and allowed him to spit out the sponge. he gasped for breath, croaked his thanks and begged for a drink of water.

He jerked against his bindings trying to avoid the pain in his crotch and screamed for me to stop. Once he settled down, I told him about the party plans. I started preparing him for the fun. I removed the dildo from his ass and replaced it with an enema nozzle which I inflated to keep it in place.

The enema tube went directly to a wall tank. The tank could be automatically filled with any mixture I wished and the contents flash heated. A scalding hot enema could be ready to administer in three minutes. I told him that he was going to get fucked repeatedly over the weekend and I didn't want my friends to be exposed to his shit. Therefore he would be given three enemas in a row to clean him out now, then one every six hours during the party to keep him clean.

He thanked me profusely. He obviously thought an enema would clean out his ass-hole and stop the horrible burning he still felt deep inside. It wasn't going to be that easy! First I mixed Lysol and soapy water in the tank. I heated it to a simmer. Then I turned on the pump and forced two quarts of the mixture into his guts. I let it soak there for fifteen minutes while he hollered and begged, groaned and cursed. During the fifteen minute wait, I removed the oil soaked sponge from his penis. I massaged his swollen and blistered cock using a glove with emery cloth attached to the palm and fingertips.

After fifteen minutes, I pressed the button that opened the floor drain below him. It led straight to the sewer and flushed waste and chemicals away without fuss or mess. I deflated the nozzle and it flew from his butt hole, followed immediately by shit and enema fluid. As soon as the flow stopped, I hosed him off with hot water, replaced the nozzle in his ass and mixed his second enema. This one had a base of mineral oil into which I had mixed about a cup of toilet bowl cleaner. I gave it to him as hot as the first one.

Lord, how he screamed. His bound body literally danced with pain as his gut filled. I let the mixture cool inside him for forty-five minutes before I removed the nozzle and gave him relief. The third enema was just scalding water, but I pumped three quarts into him. Fifteen minutes later, I let him expel it. The water came out practically clean. Next I hosed him down from head to foot with icy water and scrubbed every inch of skin from his neck to his toes using a heavy scrub brush, scouring powder Pine Sol® and bleach.

I let him down from the holding frame. His legs were cramping so badly, he couldn't stand up. I allowed him to crawl to the front door where he waited to greet my guests. A T-shaped stand was placed near the door. The single adjustable vertical bar attached to a metal plate on the floor. The slave stood on the plate, his weight keeping the entire apparatus stable. Attached to the vertical bar was a horizontal bar about three feet long. I had adjusted the height so the horizontal bar just reached his waist.

I ordered him to bend over the bar and grab his ankles. I then cuffed each wrist to an ankle. In this position his ass, balls and cock were available for torment. I placed a table near him and filled it with paddles, whips and bamboo canes. I also put a five cell cattle prod on the table. He whimpered softly and occasionally gasped as stray cramps tore through his well-cleaned guts. I warned him that I would severely punish any leakage.

He didn't have long to wait. The first guest to arrive was Tim. Tim works for a cement contractor in town. He is six foot four inches tall, built like a heavyweight boxer and in excellent physical shape. When Tim saw how Byron was tethered he laughed.

Byron had been well trained by the police. He meekly said,

Tim picked up a large paddle and swished it through the air to gauge its heft. Then Tim said,

Byron started mumbling a string of, 'Please Beat Me's' but Tim stopped him with a knee to the balls. Byron groaned and began weeping. Tim said,

I told Tim about Byron's swollen and blistered mouth. Tim said that he wouldn't accept that as an excuse.

Byron began begging again. This time he was careful to enunciate clearly.

Tim obliged him. After all, he had asked for it. Tim smacked Byron about seventy times with that paddle. Most of the time he hit the boy on the ass, but occasionally he aimed for the backs of his thighs. When the paddle hit a thigh, it almost always hit his balls a glancing blow.

While Tim was getting a good aerobic workout wielding the paddle, Judy came to the door. She applauded Tim's effort, then chose a paint stirring paddle from the selection on the table. When Tim finished, she complemented him on the bruises he had inflicted but said he had neglected the boy's genitals. Judy smashed the thin wooden paint stirrer up into Byron's crotch using an underhand motion that would make a softball pitcher proud. Her follow through was superb and Byron screamed the first three times. After that, each stroke elicited a gasp and groan. Then there was a strangled scream from Byron.

But she kept slamming it between his legs anyway. It caught small folds of skin in the split nearly every stroke and left his crotch raw and bleeding.

After about ten minutes of vigorous work, Judy stopped hitting his balls and cock. She examined first his crotch and then the paint paddle. Judy seemed satisfied with the damage she had done. She pulled his ass cheeks apart, whistled in appreciative surprise at the condition of his shit hole, then thrust the broken paddle up his ass-hole. Byron yodeled in pain and passed out.

I brought him around with a shot of epinephrine. I had a large supply of automatic injectors loaded with epinephrine. Normally they are used by allergy sufferers who have serious reactions and go into anaphylactic shock, but they are ideally suited to reviving slaves so they can suffer the hilt. Tim and Judy went into the torture room to examine the equipment and plan their next assault on the boy's body.

The last guest to arrive was Tony. Tony was my current lover and had been very impatient during the entire trial process. He wanted to get his hands on the man who had beaten and raped me. "I've been waiting a long time, and now you're going to to pay." He grabbed Byron's balls, twisted them viciously and jerked them back and then upward toward his ass. Tony asked me for some string or fine wire. I got the ball of rough sisal twine I keep for tying up the new growth on roses in the spring.

He made a slip knot and threaded Byron's balls through it, then pulled tightly. Byron yipped in pain. Tony then wrapped the twine several times around the balls, trapping them at the very bottom of the sack. Then he pulled them up, guiding the twine through Byron's ass crack and up his back. Another slip knot went around his neck and the twine was tightened until Byron had curved his spine and thrown back his head in an effort to ease the pull on his balls and the choke hold on his neck.

Byron answered with a nearly silent hiss,

Tony chuckled and picked up the cattle prod.

Then he turned on the power and touched the electrode to the very tip of Byron's penis. Byron yelped and struggled. His struggle tightened the loop of twine around his neck until his face turned a deep maroon and he was gasping for breath.

Tony next applied the prod to the base of the slave's cock. Another strangled yelp from Byron, followed by some serious begging and sobbing. Tony must have given at least fifteen good jolts to the penis before he quit. Each burst of electricity hurt Byron's cock, made him pull on the cord connecting his neck and balls, and as an added bonus, caused the muscles in his ass hole to tighten around that cracked paint paddle.

Tony gave him a couple of jolts to the balls, then released his hands and ankles. With the twine still in place, Byron crawled into the torture room, forced by the twine to keep his head arched backward and his purple swollen balls tightly pulled into his ass crack.

Judy and Tim were admiring the row of implements we would use on Byron's ass-hole discussing the order that would give the most pain. Tim said that the boy was in a perfect position to be kicked in the balls. Byron shivered with fearful anticipation and whimpered. I made him remain on hands and knees with his legs spread widely. Time planted a good hard kick into Byron's ass aiming for his tethered balls. The paint paddle was in the way and deflected the blow. it broke off inside him and blood began oozing out of his anal sphincter. Tim cursed and said that the first kick didn't count because of the interference. Then he pulled the shattered wood out of Byron's ass and tossed it into the trash bin.

And he did! His kick would have guaranteed a field goal from the thirty-five yard line.

Byron pitched forward, hitting his face against the floor. He was gasping for breath, blood streaming where he had bitten into the soft tissue of his lower lip when his chin hit the floor. Judy booted his balls a couple of times while he lay there. She liked hearing him squeal. Tony urged me to kick him while he was in such a vulnerable position, but I had something else in mind.

I decided to grind my heel into his groin. I positioned myself so that my heel crashed down at the base of his cock, where his sack connected with his pelvis. I stomped down three times with all my strength before he passed out — from lack of air as much as from pain.

We fastened him into the holding frame. This time with hands and feet tethered to the ceiling. A strap at his waist kept his back parallel to the floor at about waist height. Then another epinephrine shot brought him back to consciousness.

Judy and Tim were ready to rape his ass, but I figured that it was time to feed him and give him another enema. Tony had already planned the boy's menu. He was going to feed him a meal guaranteed to cause one hell of a belly ache. Byron was forced to eat seven pounds of Tony's special mix.

The ingredients were:

I had spent some of the money from the estate auction on a slave feeder. This machine forces the food into the slave's mouth at a rate the owner can adjust. The food or liquid is placed at the back of the throat, then the slave's nose is pinched shut until he swallows. I decided that good ole Bryan would be a fast eater. I set up the feeder so that he had to swallow three mouthfuls before he could breath for five seconds. Then the cycle repeated. It took less than twenty-five minutes to force him to swallow all seven pounds of the revolting mixture. He was retching and gagging all along but the machine prevented him from vomiting. We rubbed his swollen belly and occasionally punched him in the gut to keep him alert.

Even when the reservoir was empty, the feeder made him swallow three times before he could take a breath. That prevented him from emptying his tautly stretched belly. Before we left the room for sandwiches and fresh apple pie, I gave him an injection of peristaltic stimulator. It would speed up the movement of stomach contents into his small intestine. Once it was that far along, he could no longer vomit it up.

It was after nine P.M. when we returned to the torture room. His belly was much flatter now. Most of the enormous meal was fermenting in his small intestine. I warned him that if he vomited, I would give him another feeding, then I removed the feeding machine.

Now it was time for an enema. Judy and I mixed laundry detergent, bleach and horseradish in the wall tank and pumped two quarts of the steaming hot concoction into him. He jerked like a puppet on strings as the solution invaded his colon. Tony urged us to give him an extra quart, since he enjoyed the first two so much.

Now the SOB could barely speak because of the constant gut-wrenching cramps. We laughed and joked about his toilet training but after about thirty minutes, we opened his ass and let him expel the enema. It came out tinged with brown, whether from shit or blood, we couldn't tell. A dirty expulsion requires another enema so we made another batch of the mixture substituting drain cleaner for the horseradish. We only left this one inside him for fifteen minutes. It came out bloody but otherwise clean.

Tim had been reading the instruction manual that came with the cock milter I had bought.

The boy had been leaking piss off and on all night so I figured he was almost empty. I got out the tray of Foley catheters. They were sized from eight to thirty-six millimeters. The largest one was wide as my thumb and I knew we wouldn't be able to force it into him. I finally chose a rough surfaced twelve millimeter one.

He begged me to stuff it into him dry. It took a couple of minutes for him to make his request because he was bucking with cramps from his gut. The meal we had given him was rapidly marching through his digestive system, pushed along by a huge bubble of bean and cabbage gas.

I decided to grant his request and forced the catheter into his piss slit without any lubrication. It went half way, then wouldn't go any farther no matter how hard I pushed. He was shrieking and flopping around trying to avoid the pain. Tony took over, pulled the catheter out and then thrust it full length into the boy's piss slit. Byron was almost unconscious, hanging immobile and groaning. I inflated the Foley cuff and clamped off the tube so he wouldn't drip piss onto the floor.

Tim thought we should all contribute some piss to fill him. After we all added our share, there were about three pints of urine. Then we added a pint of strong vinegar and hung the drip bag. It fed a few drops at a time down the tubing and into his bladder. We helped speed the process by periodically squeezing the bag.

When it was nearly empty, Tony clamped off the tubing near the catheter, and disconnected it from the bag. Then he packed the tubing with baking soda. When he released the clamps, the remaining fluid reacted with the baking soda to form inflating bubbles of carbon dioxide that rushed into his already distended bladder. Then Tony quickly removed the tube from the catheter and sealed the opening with super glue. No matter how hard the slave pushed and strained, he couldn't release the pressure from his bladder.

Now Tim placed the milking tube on Byron's penis, strapping it securely into place. The milter was a modified version of the automatic milking machines used by dairy farmers. Using a vacuum

pump it alternately squeezes and releases the penis. It is as if a giant hand is masturbating the slave. I gave an injection which would prevent ejaculation for up to eight hours. This would give him a monumental case of 'blue balls.'

It was after one a.m. by then, so we all decided to go to bed. Tony and I shared my bed, while Tim slept on the couch and Judy used the guest room. I reminded Byron about the severe punishment he would get unless he held his shit, then we left him in the sound-proof torture room. Large view windows were in each bedroom and in the living room, so we could watch him struggle until we fell asleep. it was a much better show than late night T.V. ever was.

Saturday


I woke about seven a.m. and lay in bed, watching him jerk as the milter relentlessly pumped his penis. He was exhausted. Some time during the night he had lost control of his bowels, shitting out an enormous mass which lay in a sodden pile beneath him.

When Tony woke up, we went to the torture room, and fed Byron his breakfast. He was horrified when I shoveled his own shit into the feeder, added another pound of beans, a head of cabbage and fresh doses of castor oil and ipecac. He was choking down the last pound or so, when Tim and Judy came into the room. We all urinated into the food hopper just to give it some flavor. I gave him an injection of peristaltic stimulator, then we went to breakfast.

After breakfast, we cleaned out his ass with two more enemas. We enjoyed them thoroughly but he seemed rather uncomfortable. Since he had received so many recently and his gut was stretched, we decided to give him three quarts both times.

He begged us to take him out of the milter and to let him piss. I told him I was still angry with him for losing control of his bowels and, as part of his punishment, he wouldn't be allowed to piss until tonight-late. However, I was anxious to see the condition of his cock after nearly ten hours of milking.

I shut off the machine and tried to remove the milking tube. He was so swollen that I couldn't get it off. It was amusing to pull on it and hear him squeal like a stepped-on puppy. Finally Tim pulled it off for me. Byron's cock was deep purple and so swollen it was shiny. Most of the thin epidermal layer had been rubbed off so that his cock was oozing blood and serum. I blew a puff of air over it and he gasped and shuddered. It was wonderful.

We spent the rest of the morning fucking his ass-hole with various devices. My favorite was a replica of a tree branch, done in stainless steel. It was crooked and rough and it took a lot of effort to shove it's eighteen inches into his ass, but it was worth the effort to watch him squirm and moan. The castor oil took hold and he had to tense his anal ring and rectal tract to keep the shit in. That made him resist every thrust of cold hard metal or rough wood. He couldn't relax and move with the thrust to minimize the pain.

We started with objects about nine inches long and two and a half or three inches inches wide. By noon he was taking almost eighteen inches of rigid, four inch wide rod up his ass. We stopped for lunch, leaving the curved metal rod buried to the hilt up his quivering ass.

After lunch, we yanked it out of him and he lost control of his bowels. We had anticipated his lapse and caught the semi-liquid mass in a bucket. He sobbed, babbling about how sorry he was and pleading for forgiveness.

Byron's body shook and more shit cascaded out him. Tony loaded the nearly full bucket into the feeder. He added the usual castor oil and emetic, then said,

Tony poured the turkey guts into the feeder and turned it on. We sat around, enjoying Byron's misery and commenting on his table manners as he choked down the shitty mess.

I gave him the peristaltic stimulator injection, gave him a Lysol based enema and hosed him down with icy water. We repositioned him in the holding frame. This time he hung face down with his belly and chest parallel to the floor. We hoisted him up near the ceiling so that his genitals hung two feet above Tim's head.

Judy brought out her surprise, a Piñata which she hung from his balls.

A Piñata is always the high point of a southwestern party. It is fragile, made of paper mache and crepe paper. It's hollow center is filled with small gifts and candy.

This one was full of painful reminders of slavery. There were packets of hat pins to insert into tender areas, tiny tubes of caustic salve, sheets of sandpaper and emery cloth, alligator clips and spring style clothes pins, even doses of laxatives, emetics and diuretics.

The Piñata is hung where it can swing freely and ideally it can also spin. The party guests take turns trying to break open the Piñata and send a cascade of "goodies" showering to the floor. A participant is given a stick or baseball bat. He or she is then blindfolded and turned around several times to disorient them. Then the guest wields the stick and tries to break the swinging Piñata.

I tried first. I hit Byron several heavy blows, smacking into his chest, belly and head. I also hit the Piñata twice but each time it swiveled away unbroken. Judy tried next. Her technique was quite different from mine. She poked with the tip of her stick until she found just the right spot. Then she jabbed upward with all her strength. On her second thrust to his belly, Byron passed out.

Once more I brought him back to consciousness with an epinephrine injector. Tony was the one to break the Piñata. He flailed away, reminding me of a man who had disturbed a wasp's nest and was trying to defend himself against hundreds of stinging insects.

The prizes tumbled down and we all scrambled for our favorites. For the next two hours, the boy suffered in a variety of interesting ways. Meanwhile, the pressure in his gut and his bladder was also increasing. He was twisting and jerking his pelvis with urgency, begging me to let him piss before he burst.

He wheeled the feeder into position, loaded it with two gallons of water, added soap flakes, Cajun hot sauce, and six hundred milligrams of diuretic.

Byron whimpered,

Tony said that wasn't what he wanted to hear. As an added incentive to say the right thing, Tony added another quart of water the the mixture in the feeder.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Byron began telling Tony how much his bladder ached, how he deserved even more pressure and pain and how dry his mouth and throat had become.

Tim fastened the feeder in place. I adjusted the feeder rate to six swallows before a breath. Swallowing liquids is much quicker than swallowing solids. It took only eight minutes for Byron to empty the feeder. His belly was tightly swollen again.

I fixed a buffet supper for my guests. While we ate, we left Byron hanging in misery. In an effort to hold his shit he was clenching his ass muscles so tightly that his buttocks were turning white. Even at that, his body jerked with gut spasms every few minutes.

He opened a small paper bag and removed an injector. The box was clearly labeled FOR SLAVE USE ONLY. Smaller print said,

Guaranteed to swell the prostate within ten minutes. Blocks the urethra for up to three hours.

Tim said the salesman told him that the harder the slave pushes, the tighter the blockage becomes.

We reentered the torture room smiling and joking. Byron sensed that something bad was about to happen. Tim injected the prostate plumper. Byron yipped in pain and looked very worried. We released him from the holding frame.

I decided I was tired of working with his shit, so I let him empty his bowels over the floor drain. Torrents of shit exploded from his ass. he pushed and grunted and gasped as he tried to get the last ounce expelled. We hosed him down and shoved a large butt plug into his ass to prevent 'accidents'.

Tim asked me if I would allow Byron to piss, if he begged sweetly. Byron couldn't believe what he was hearing. I said he had to plead his case well. If I enjoyed his begging enough, I would give him relief.

Byron fell to his knees, kissed my feet and with tears streaming down his face, began pleading for a piss. He told me how much it hurt, how degrading it was to be totally controlled by another person. He knew he wasn't worthy of my mercy, that he deserved to suffer far longer than he had already suffered. What could he do to show his abject sorrow for what he had done?

Well, Judy and I thought it might be appropriate for him to drink another gallon of soapy water and take an additional three hundred milligrams of diuretic. He hesitated for about thirty seconds and then agreed.

Once he had swallowed the mixture I pulled the catheter from him. His face showed the agony the catheter's passage caused. Then he tightened his abdominal muscles in an effort to piss. Expressions of puzzlement, anxiety, fear and pain chased across his face in rapid succession.

He pushed harder but still nothing happened. Then, when he relaxed the muscles in preparation for another all-out effort, a few drops of urine dripped from his piss-hole.

We all laughed and sat down to enjoy his torment.

It was nearly midnight when he stopped struggling. Tony said he would prepare Byron for the night, so the rest of us went to bed. Tony cuffed the slaves ankles to the floor. They were spread over three feet apart. He socketed a four-by-four into a bracket on the floor so that eighteen inches of the splintery wood stuck up beneath Byron — directly in line with his sore and battered ass-hole. Tony popped the butt plug out of the slave's ass. Next he started loading weights into a harness he had buckled to Byron's shoulders. After he had two hundred fifty pounds in it, he ordered the exhausted Byron to squat down. As the slave's ass sank toward the rough wood, Tony carefully lined up Byron's ass-hole so it would be skewered by the fence post. When the wood touched Byron's ass-hole, Tony let him stop. He fastened a belt to Byron's waist and attached straps to front, back, left and right. The belts snapped into D rings on the floor. The slave could no longer stand up nor could he move aside. To test the fit, Tony pushed down on the boy's shoulders, forcing his butt-hole onto the wooden stake. It was a perfect alignment. When Tony let up, Byron rose as if levitating to the full limits of the straps. Tony added an extra fifty pounds of weight and went to bed.

Sunday


Byron's ass was flat on the floor and all eighteen inches of the four-by-four were buried up his ass when we entered the punishment room Sunday morning. He was slumped forward, barely conscious. Tim kicked him in the balls to wake the bastard up. It was time for Tony's surprise.

We lit a brazier of charcoal, turned on the exhaust hood above it and unpacked a new custom-made branding iron. It had a sleek handle shaped to provide a firm grip. The handle was heavily insulated so we wouldn't get burned. The 'Business end' was copper clad iron and formed a two inch semi-circle with the words Peggy's Boy in small letters. I put the iron in the coals to heat. Poor Byron watched with growing horror as the iron began to glow a dull red.

We hoisted the boy up onto his feet. His ass-hole made a satisfying sucking sound as it was pulled off the four-by-four. It was gaping wide open. The slave farted and lost control of his bowels. I made him get down on his knees and lick the floor clean.

We hung him on the holding frame, today with arms and legs spread wide and feet barely touching the floor. Judy hosed him down and I used a riding crop to mark possible places for his brand. If we had branded him everywhere I marked, he wouldn't have had any unscarred skin — front or back — between his navel and his knees.

By now the iron was glowing a bright cherry red. I decided the first brand should be on his chest. Tim and Tony each grabbed an arm to steady his body. I lifted the iron and held it near his face. He started to beg for mercy, speaking so rapidly that the words flowed together incoherently. Although I couldn't understand what he was saying, the tone showed his anticipation of dreadful pain. It was music to my ears.

I took careful aim and pushed the hot iron into his chest. His left nipple was centered beneath the arching words. I pressed down as hard as I could, enjoying the bellow of agony he produced. I left the branding iron in position for thirty seconds, then pulled it loose. Wispy tendrils of smoke rose from the charred skin on his breast. Judy rinsed the brand with brine and then applied a thin layer of "Deep Heat" ointment. Tim and Tony released his arms and he hung there moaning weakly.

I put the iron back into the fire and while it heated, we discussed the next spot to be branded. I wanted three or four good clear marks on his body so that no matter how he was positioned, at least one of the marks would be visible. We released him from the frame and tied him face down on the floor. Tony grabbed his waist and pulled upward while I slid a low bench under his hips. That positioned his butt for marking.

I waited until the iron was cherry red again. This time I burned him high on the right buttock. I savored the smell of scorching skin as he screamed. Judy rinsed and medicated this burn in the same way she had the first.

We shifted the bench so that it was under his chest and reheated the branding iron. I was tired of his screaming. It had begun to give me a headache. So I took a bath size bar of Ivory soap and forced it into his mouth. Then I fastened it in place with a strip of duct tape. It shut off the screams and I liked the idea of him involuntarily swallowing more gut cleaning soap.

I burned a nice clear label on his right shoulder just below his neck and a couple of inches from his spine. All he could do was groan this time, although the sound did rise in pitch slightly when Judy poured the brine over it.

For the final mark we positioned him on his back with straps across chest and waist. His hands were cuffed to the floor and pulled above his head. We fastened a spreader bar between his knees so that he couldn't protect his inner thighs or crotch. Tim and Tony each held an ankle, bracing the legs against their shoulders to hold the slave steady. This last brand would be the most difficult to place. I couldn't decide whether to put it above his navel or at the root of his penis or on his inner thigh near the pelvis.

Judy suggested I put one each place but I could tell from her grin that the suggestion was for Byron's ears rather than mine. I decided that the mark would look best near his penis, but there was a lot of hair growing in that spot and I dislike the smell of scorched hair. Judy and I began pulling the boy's pubic hair out by the roots. He squirmed but of course was unable to avoid the pain or even to complain about it.

By the time we had cleared away the thicket of hair, the iron was glowing merrily again. With a feeling of satisfaction, I pushed the iron into his crotch. He lurched, but was securely held by Tony and Tim. I left the branding iron in place until it was cool to the touch, then pulled it away. His burned skin was adhering to the cool iron and the removal gave him a little extra pain. Judy cleaned and medicated the mark. Then we released him from his straps and cuffs.

To prove his subservience, I required him to coat each brand with a fresh layer of Mentholatum gel. Then he was forced to chew the soggy bar of soap that was wedged into his mouth and swallow it. Only then was he allowed to remove the tape from his mouth.

We ate lunch while the slave crawled from one to another of us begging for scraps of food. He hadn't had real food for more than two days so we fed him scraps. Occasionally, on or another of us would step on his balls, work the toe of our shoe deep into his raw and bleeding ass-hole or sprinkle salt on one of his burns.

After lunch, Tony and Judy had to leave, but Tim and I gave the boy another thorough ass-fucking before we put him into a low squat-cage to recover from his initiation party.

After Tim left I sat and stared at the pathetic, shivering lump of slave. I wondered how he had ever intimidated me. I couldn't wait for him to heal enough for me to start really punishing him.