Read this and previous chapters of THE RETREAT on my blog:
JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES
THE RETREAT
by John Dee Cooper
© 2019
Unsure exactly where they were heading, or if he was ever going to set eyes on his boy again, Paul followed Charles and Geoffrey through the concealed doorway at the back of the Barn. Confused noises — laughter, muffled screams and a sharp sound like the snapping of wood –- came from behind the closed door at the foot of a dimly lit staircase.
Their descent was hindered by the boy that Geoffrey had picked out to bring down with him. His hands and feet were in chains — at Geoffrey’s insistence — which made it difficult for him to negotiate the steps. He was a handsome muscular boy, well endowed with a meaty cock. There were visible scars on his body that suggested he was no stranger to the Barn vaults.
Passing through the door at the bottom of the staircase, they found themselves on a ledge overlooking a subterranean chamber, the further reaches of which were lost in darkness. The area closest to them was bathed in an eerie blue light and was bustling with activity. Guests, many of them still wearing their Arabian Night costumes, were leading slaves around on leashes watched over by three or four men in black leather brandishing whips and canes. The activity was focussed around six large booths, three on either side. Only when Paul followed the others down to floor level did he get a full sense of the intoxicating atmosphere, the excited murmur of the guests, the drone of boys groaning, pleading — screaming!
This was a torture chamber!
Paul’s first instinct was to turn round and run back upstairs. This wasn’t for him. The granite faces and fixed stares of the guests dragging frightened boys around made him feel uncomfortable. The only thing that stopped him making his escape was Charles’s hand on his shoulder.
“Take it easy,” said Charles. “It’s not as terrifying as it sounds. The slaves make a lot of noise, but it’s all part of the game.”
“Survival,” said Charles with a grin. “Come and have a closer look.”
Reluctantly Paul followed his uncle round from booth to booth but found little to settle his qualms. Everywhere healthy young bodies were being tortured, crushed and mangled, lashed with whips, burnt with hot wax, electrocuted or simply being used as punch bags.
In one booth Paul watched a boy being dangled upside down over a tank of water. His wrists were bound to his thighs so there was nothing he could do to protect himself as he was lowered headfirst into the water. Paul couldn’t see the point of it, but neither could he take his eyes off the slave’s sleek muscular body tensing up as he struggled to keep the water out of his lungs despite being beaten and prodded by the two men who were playing with him. Several times he tried to lift his head out of the water but was roughly forced back down.
“He’s a tough beauty, this one,” said the man holding him down when he noticed Paul hovering. “They don’t usually last more than four or five dips before they go limp. This one’s been under so many times I’ve lost count. If you put your hand on his stomach you can feel his muscles bunching up in panic. Do you want to see him come? He’s got a hungry cock that just gets harder and harder. We’ve worked him off twice already.”
But Paul had seen enough. The boy had gone into spasms, thrashing about trying to get his head out of the water, to the delight of the two men who were stroking his cock and rubbing his balls with glee. Paul wanted to grab hold of them, fling them out of the way and stop the boy from drowning. Instead he backed out of the booth and left them to it.
He walked straight into Geoffrey who was dragging his boy about on a chain.
“Can’t make up my mind what to do with him,” he said. “Most of the booths are taken up. I’m waiting for a gap. What do you think? I rather fancy doing something with his balls,” he said, grabbing the boy’s testicles. “They’re big and bouncy. I fancy stringing him up by them, see how far they’ll stretch — or there’s that thing they have with screws for squashing balls. I think there’s one round here somewhere. I’ve always wanted to have a go at that.”
Paul said nothing. He could see that the boy was trying desperately not to react to what the old man was saying, although he must be churning up inside, thought Paul. What a contrast between his cool control and the lecherous ramblings of the old fool who had him in his clutch.
“Have you seen my uncle?” asked Paul. He was sick of all this cold, heartless cruelty and just wanted to get away.
“He’s down the end there, playing with a crossbow of all things!”
Paul’s immediate thought was to leave his uncle to it and find his own way back to the house, but he still needed the old man’s good favour and didn’t want to upset him, so, turning a deaf ear to the mounting cacophony of shrieks and groans, and trying not to look at the trolleys piling up with limp, possibly lifeless, bodies, he went in search of Charles.
What upset Paul more than anything else was the contempt these stony-hearted guests seemed to have for the slaves that had been put at their disposal. They appeared to have no inkling how privileged they were. Of course they had every right to inflict pain on the boys if they wanted to, they were slaves after all, but surely there should be a genuine purpose behind it, and if that purpose was to gain pleasure then that pleasure had to be on a higher level of sensitivity than the blind brutality that was on display here. Apart from anything else it was a terrible waste of healthy slave stock. He wondered what the Baron would think about it. No wonder he’d stayed away. He was a man who appreciated the true value of a slave.
He found his uncle at the far end, past the last of the booths, standing in front of a curtain with two of his cronies. He was holding a crossbow, just as Geoffrey had said. He was aiming it through a gap in the curtain and his cronies were egging him on. He took the shot and they shouted “Bravo!”
“Ah, here he is,” exclaimed Charles, catching sight of Paul. “I thought I’d lost you. Come and look at this.”
Paul was about to make his excuses and leave when he paused in astonishment. Through the gap in the curtains he could see, buried in a pool of soft light at the far end of what looked like a second dark chamber, three naked bodies hanging on crosses, with hoods draped over their heads. At first Paul thought they were wooden effigies then he noticed one of them move. They were real. This was some kind of archery game with living slaves as targets. Paul was speechless.
“It’s really quite simple to get the hang of,” explained Charles holding out the crossbow, clearly expecting Paul to want to have a shot himself. “There’s a telescopic eye-piece and it sends a laser beam to help you find your target. But don’t worry. They’re not real arrows. They’re electrically charged darts that just pierce the flesh enough to administer a nasty shock. Cunning little beast.”
Paul muttered something about not feeling too good and needing to get some fresh air, but Charles was having none of it. He thrust the crossbow into Paul’s hands and took him to one side.
“Don’t be a fool. You’ve made a good impression so far. These fellows have influence. You don’t want to behave like an idiot in front of them. Enter into the spirit of the game. Have some fun. You don’t have to hit anything. Just look as if you’re enjoying yourself.”
Right now Paul hated his Uncle. He hated this place. He wished he’d never come here. But his life was a mess and his uncle was the only one who could help. He had to play along. Once he’d got back on his feet then he could take control of his life. Maybe get in touch with the Baron. Yes, the Baron…
“Alright. So how does it work?” he said at last.
“Good boy. Here let me show you.”
Peering through the tiny lense, Paul was confronted with the close-up of a living torso. He was pointing the crossbow at the boy on the far left, intending to hit the section of wooden cross just above his head, but something made his eye linger on the boy’s body. It hung so still and vulnerable Paul wondered if the boy was already unconscious. He was breathing — he could see the stomach move — but there was something of the likeness of a corpse about it, the way the head drooped and the arms were stretched taught and the knees were buckled. Like all the slaves in this weird establishment, the boy had the smooth body of an athlete. He was also sporting an erection which Paul found curious. Perhaps the darts were harmless after all.
He fingered the trigger nervously. The tiny red laser spot was hovering around the boy’s navel. Charles was leaning in and whispering, “Just squeeze gently” and before Paul could stop himself the shot was on its way hitting its mark smartly with an impact that rippled through the boy’s entire body. There was a muffled yelp. The boy hauled himself up to catch his breath and with an immense and painful effort shifted his position, then after a second’s pause was still again, moaning pitifully underneath his hood.
Paul relaxed his hold on the trigger and took a deep breath. That had been more exhilarating than he had expected.
“Bulls-eye!” exclaimed one of his uncle’s friends who had been following the shot with a tiny pair of binoculars.
“Super shot!” cried the other, giving Paul a triumphant pat on the back.
“He’s a natural. Straight off the mark! ” said Charles proudly. “Paul, meet Mike and Tom Bronson. Old friends of mine.”
The brothers said they’d heard a lot about Paul from his uncle, who had been singing his praises. They hoped they’d get to know each other a whole lot better.
“Now how about going for the middle one?” Charles whispered.
He’s up to something, thought Paul. “Why are they wearing hoods?” he asked.
Charles said it was so they couldn’t tell when the next shot was going to be fired. Paul wasn’t convinced that was the only reason, but at least it was clear now that the darts only caused superficial damage to the slaves — and it was certainly a novel sport. Using living flesh as a target was pretty exhilarating.
Following his uncle’s suggestion, he focussed on the boy in the middle. There was something familiar about him, but it was difficult to be certain because the body was constantly moving. It was more contorted than the others and seemed to be struggling with a lot more pain. Then Paul noticed there was no actual cross. The boy was suspended in mid-air with his ankles fixed in such a way as to make it impossible for him to hold himself upright for more than a few seconds. It was annoying and made him a difficult target, so Paul switched to the boy on the right, who was spread out on a normal cross, and shot him in the chest. The boy howled a lot and threw himself about but like the first one quickly settled down again.
While he reloaded, his uncle explained about the “crucifixion without a cross” and how the slave’s continual shifting made him a challenging target.
“Now let’s make it a bit more interesting,” he said, with a wink to his friends. “These gentlemen have wagered that you can’t hit the middle boy with three clear shots, one in the stomach and one on each thigh.”
“Well, I think we’re getting a little bit ahead of ourselves,” Paul protested. “I’ve only just got the hang of it. It’s hardly a fair bet.”
“Nonsense. I know you can do it. Three shots. Stomach and both thighs. They’ve generously wagered enough to cover your debts. If you succeed you’ll be made up.”
“Well — I lose and you’ll get nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll find another way to win the money back — I always do! And you’ll just have to hang on to your creditors a bit longer.”
“I’ll buy the slave for you as well, if we win, as a little extra reward.”
“Ah, now,” said one of the cronies, “if the slave is going to be part of the bet then I think we should have him if you lose.”
Charles seemed satisfied with that and they shook hands. The bet was sealed.
Paul was feeling under pressure now.
“I don’t know that this is a good idea,” he protested.
“Have another look at the target” said Charles, signalling to someone on the other side of the curtain. “I think you might change your mind.”
When Paul looked again, the hoods had been removed. The three figures were looking more human, as human as slaves can ever look, and more pathetic, with misery sketched all over their faces. They must have been suffering a long time, thought Paul.
It took him a while to register who the middle boy was, but when he did he realised with a flash of anger that his uncle had set all this up. It was another one of his tests. He’d kept the boy hidden, probably tortured him, and now he’d had him crucified and to win him back Paul was going to have to shoot him in the legs and stomach.
Was it worth it? The boy was so wrought and twisted that he hardly resembled the boy that had been such a delight to play with last night. There was even something extremely unattractive in the way his body kept lurching about on the ropes.
Paul was all ready to storm off and let the boy suffer his fate, when it occurred to him that by doing so his uncle would probably lose the bet by default and there would be no money to bail him out. He’d be right back in the same old mess as when he started.
So reluctantly, and still simmering with anger, he picked up the crossbow and took aim.
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