The Scape Goat

From: John Dee

I grabbed the boy’s collar and yanked him inside.

“Pleeessir! Master Thomas said…”

“Shut up boy! Master Thomas can go stuff himself. I need you in here.”

As it happens, Master Thomas had just driven off. We’d had one of our typical rows. Only this was a bit more typical than usual. He’d been making decisions behind my back. We were meant to be business partners, for God’s sake. But somehow 17 years of living together, the first three as lovers, had clouded that fact. He still thought he knew better than me. And I was sick of it.

I stared at the boy. He was shaking. I’d not seem him before. He must have been new. We’ve got a bunch of these young colts working the gardens and looking after the animals. Tom takes care of that part of the estate. I don’t usually give it much thought, but a good looking boy like this would’ve caught my eye sooner or later. He must’ve come with the new stock Tom had bought the week before. He’s got a good eye at an auction, and he’s a tough Master. This boy was shitting bricks.

“Master Thomas isn’t here,” I said. “I’m borrowing you for the afternoon.
Are you new?”

“Sir, yessir! eight days, Sir.”

“How old?”

“Sir, please, eighteen, just Sir, I think Sir.”

He mumbled so much I thought he might have been foreign. His arms and
shoulders looked quite dusky against the white of his tunic. But maybe
that was just because he lived outdoors most of the time.

“You’re my property as well, you know. Not just Master Thomas’s.”

“Yes, Master Sir, this boy belongs….”

“Stop mumbling. You’re getting on my nerves. Get rid of that tunic.”

I watched him wind the cord from around his waist and pull the linen
garment up over his head. It was the standard covering we put on all our
slaves. We’ve never believed in having them run around naked all the time.
Apart from being too distracting, it would rob us of that special joy –
watching them strip.

The clean white linen slid across his back, revealing his beautifully
rounded buttocks. As smooth as two pebbles. No marks. Untouched
treasures for me to ransack.

My blood was still boiling from Tom’s last words to me before he stormed
out. He always managed to make me feel small. I knew it would all blow
over in time, but I needed to focus my frustration. Far better to beat the
shit out of this slave boy than allow the anger to fester.

He was standing there without a stitch, now, leaning forwards slightly with
a kind of nervous tension that emphasised the shapeliness of his thighs. A
light body but tight with firm, clear muscles etched into his torso — just
the type to make me horny. And a fat cock too, though his testicles were
all screwed up in a bunch. I’d see to that. His skin was clean and
glowing with not a hair anywhere to be seen, apart from the tangled mop on
top.

“Fucking shithead!” I shouted and slapped him across the top of the head.
He probably thought I was referring to him, but of course I was thinking of
Tom. He staggered then flopped down onto his knees.

“pleessir, sorry, Sir, this boy…”

“Oh, get up you cretin! I don’t want to listen to your snivelling. Follow
me — and don’t give me any lip, you understand.”

My den was a tip. I’d been skulking there all morning. The floor was
littered with magazines and CDs, the TV was flickering away with the sound
turned off, and there was a stench of stale milk where I’d flung a carton
at the wall just after Tom had slammed the front door. I cleared a space
for the boy to stand and threw myself into my easy chair.

I stared at him for about five minutes, which made him even more nervous.
He seemed to find it hard to stand absolutely still. I got him to turn
around several times. He had a nice way of moving. Beautiful physique.
Unblemished. I wondered if Tom had designs on him other than having him
sweep up the backyard and feed the animals. Well bad luck, Tom, I was
going to have first pickings.

“What you worried about boy? Don’t you trust me?”

“yessir, this boy your property Sir. he knows that…that…”

“Knows what? What are you rabbitting on about?”

“tha…tha…tha…”

“Oh for Chrissake stop stuttering. See that big leather paddle on the wall
behind you. Fetch it.”

He looked round and I could hear him wince when he saw my collection of
paddles, whips and canes. Gingerly he unhooked the paddle and brought it
to me.

“pleessir,” he mumbled, as once again he fell onto his knees in front of
me, “pleessir don’t punish me Sir, this boy’s so sorry….”

He was certainly getting me excited with all this begging and scraping. I
stroked his hair.

“I’m not going to punish you boy. You haven’t done anything wrong. At
least I don’t think you have. You haven’t been a bad boy, have you?”

“no Sir. been good, Sir.”

“Why would I want to punish you, then?”

“dunno Sir.”

“Well then, I’m not going to punish you, am I?”

“no Sir. thank you Sir.”

“But I am going to give you a good hiding, all the same.”

“S-s-sir?” he whispered faintly.

“I’m going to give you a good hiding, because — well because I need to.
You understand that, boy, don’t you?

He had to think long and hard about that one. But eventually he blurted
out, not very convincingly, “yessir.”

“Good. Now that’s understood I want you to get up. Raise your arms as
high as you can. Stretch them up, that’s it, and stand firm while I warm
myself up on this silky smooth arse of yours.”

I spent a few moments running my hands across his taught body. Some slaves
have a natural warmth that is a joy to touch. This boy was no exception.
I could feel the pent up energy flickering under my fingers as they coasted
over his chest and stomach. I was standing behind him and when I pressed
the palm of my hand flat across his belly, nestling into the hard ridges of
his abs, I pulled him close so that his buttocks were nestled against my
cock. He gave a short gasp, and started to whisper incoherently.

“What’s that boy?” I said.

It was very indistinct, but the words “frightened” and “pain” figured
strongly.

“Are you frightened of pain, boy?”

“yessir.”

He was close to tears.

I quietly stroked his backside and said, “Well now’s a good time to try and
get over that fear, isn’t it boy?”

“y-e-s-s-sir.”

Poor creature. I only had to stand back a few paces and he’d already
started cowering. I had to tell him to put his arms back up above his head
and to stand up straight…

“…else I’m not gonna hit the mark, am I?”

“no-s-s-ir.”

You get so used to having slaves around the place, that sometimes you
forget that special thrill of knowing that the naked body in front of you
is yours entirely, to play with as you wish, no holds barred — except what
might damage it or diminish its saleable value. This boy was scared out of
his wits, and I hadn’t even started on him yet. He kept tightening his
buttocks and stiffening his shoulders in anticipation of the first stroke.

I strolled up and down for a while, watching him and praising my good
fortune. A man who owns slaves is a wealthy man indeed. A man who has
such a delightful specimen as this to work on is a millionaire. I almost
forgot about the row with Tom, so absorbed was I in the colour and texture
of the boy’s backside.

Before laying the first stroke, I savoured the smoothness of those
mountainous muscles once more by lightly brushing my hand across them. The
boy was so jumpy, the moment I touched him he leapt forward with a gasp.
It was great sport! I pulled him back into position and slammed into both
mounds with the flat of the paddle.

SSSMACK!

Mild as it was, that first smart of pain shot through his nerves like a
bolt of lightning. He dropped his hands in a feeble effort to protect
himself and cried out for me not to go on.

“Pull yourself together boy,” I shouted. ” And don’t give me that lip. I
don’t wanna have to stuff a gag in your mouth. I’m going to secure you
properly once I get going, but for now I just want you to stand still. You
can do that , can’t you?”

“y-e-s-s-i-r,” he whispered faintly.

“Good.”

I gave him a couple of dozen strokes in rapid succession just to get him
sorted. He was all over the place, jumping up and down, jerking his knees,
arching his back, howling and whining. It was quite a merry dance… made
me laugh. In the end I grabbed his hair and pulled him down across my
knee.

For ten or fifteen minutes I laid into him mercilessly, applying the paddle
this way and that, working round till the whole area from the base of his
spine to the top of his thighs was flaming red. Damn, it made me feel
good. I kept thinking about Tom and what I would say to him when he got
back. It was really therapeutic.

By the time I was ready for a break, he’d stopped squirming and his
constant howling had settled into a soft continuous moan. I let him lie
there for a moment while I got my breath back, enjoying his weight pressing
down on my lap, then I pushed him onto the floor.

“Stop lazing around, now. I want this room tidied up. It’s a tip.”

“‘yessssir!” he murmured as he crawled painfully back onto his feet.

He looked around, wondering where to begin, his eyes red with tears.

“You can get a bag from the kitchen to throw all the rubbish in, collect
the dirty mugs and dishes and dump them in the sink, then stack all those
CDs and magazines up neatly by the wall.”

“yessir.”

“And when you’ve finished that — do you see those chains hanging from the
ceiling? — I’m going to string you up by the wrists and beat you with a
cane — that hefty looking one on the wall over there, see — and then
maybe I might try out one or two of those large whips hanging next to it.
So you can be thinking about that as you tidy up”

I thought he was actually going to burst into tears at this point. His
face puffed up and his eyes went all watery. He struggled to find enough
breath to whisper, “yessir.”

“But let’s get you bound up ready before you start work.”

I told him where I kept the leather cuffs, in the top drawer of the
cupboard, and he brought four over to me and stood still while I attached
one to each of his wrists and ankles.

“Now you’ve got a fine pair of balls, boy,” I whispered quietly in his ear,
“which look as if they could take a beating — don’t you think?”

All I got this time was a faint squeak, which I took to be a “yessir”.

“Well we need to stretch them a bit first, don’t we, so — in that same
drawer you’ll find a ball of string. Bring it.”

When I’d got the string, I made him spread his legs so that I could grasp
his testicles. I wound the string round nice and tight, making a snug
harness with two lengths hanging down either side. I pushed him so that he
was half crouching while I threaded these loose strands through the hooks
in his ankle-cuffs, and tied the ends firmly to his big toes. When I told
him to stand up straight, the tension on the string dragged his scrotum
down, stretching his sac and squeezing the balls till they were sore red.
It was even better when he tried to walk. With each step the string tugged
at his balls, pulling them this way and that and making him howl — just
the effect I wanted.

“Now get on with your work,” I said giving him an encouraging slap on the
backside, which was already beginning to lose some of its redness. “And
keep those legs straight or you’ll feel the strap again.”

As well as tidying up, I got him to make me some coffee and to sort out a
DVD for me to watch in between his beatings. He was great fun to watch,
hobbling about on stiff legs, trying not to snag his balls by moving too
quickly. Every now again he’d forget and I’d hear a high pitched shriek as
the string tore into his testicles, knocking the wind out of him. I even
caught him trying to loosen the knot at one stage, but I quickly put paid
to that with a swipe of the paddle.

Once everything was ship shape, I got him to stand on a stool while I
attached chains to his wrist bands and hauled him up. When his arms were
fully stretched I kicked away the stool and left him dangling. He kicked
around for a while, but his balls were still tied to his feet so that only
caused him more agony.

I waited for him to settle and then sat down to drink my coffee. I started
to watch the DVD — it was one of those slushy movies that I like so much,
with cute furry animals that talk — but my mind kept drifting back to Tom.
Why did he have to be so arrogant? He knew how much work I put into the
business — he was always trying to exclude me — he did it on purpose –
just to rile me — well it worked — he PISSED me off — I’d like to string
him up and beat the living daylights out of him sometime — the ARROGANT
FUCKIN’ BASTARD!

I leapt out of my chair, grabbed the cane and took hold of the boy. He was
whining and pleading for me not to hurt him. He kept twisting his body
away from the cane which was splicing the air inches from his arse.

“Come here you little bastard,” I shouted and gripped him by the scruff of
the neck. He howled and pleaded as I swung the cane hard across his
buttocks. He swung himself upwards in a futile attempt to escape the
impact.

“n-n-o-o! p-l-e-e-s-i-r,” he sobbed.

“Shut up!”

I caned him systematically for about ten minutes until gradually my anger
began to subside and I became more and more engrossed in the shifting
movement of his body. He quickly picked up on the rhythm, anticipating
each stroke with a tightening of his arms and stomach. He took deep
breaths to ride the pain, and in between strokes he hung loosely for a
second, allowing his body to fall into a natural curve, emphasising the
line of his spine and the fullness of has backside. He was a good looking
slave.

I took a few moments to admire his torso, glistening with sweat. The
symmetrical pattern of his stomach muscles protruded with each heavy intake
of breath. When I punched them, they tightened into a hard rubber shield,
and the smaller muscles surrounding his rib cage bunched up like yarns of
twisted rope. It was very satisfying.

As his breath eased, his stomach relaxed a little, falling into its natural
shape and fullness. The string was still tugging at his balls, but his
cock had begun to swell. I stroked it for a few moments. He was quite
still now, his head resting sideways and his eyes gazing off somewhere in
the distance. He grunted slightly as his cock thickened in my hand, but
otherwise he stayed silent.

It was then that I decided to lay a whip across his stomach.

Tom had picked up a pair of new floggers on his last trip to the States.
This was my chance to try them out.

I started with the bull hide. It sat very well in my hand, heavy but
easily manoeuvrable, its 40 thick red leather strips curling like the
tentacles of some mythical beast as I trailed them across the boy’s belly.

He moaned as I steadied his loosely swinging body, and he screwed his lips
up tight as though he was trying not to look scared. It was quite
affecting. His nipples sat on his heaving chest like two dark circles of
sunlight ready to be kissed — which is what I did. I bit into them and
felt his light frame lift, and his throat choke back the sudden pain, sharp
and piercing.

What a magnificent toy he was. I began with light, gentle strokes,
caressing the curve of his stomach, from underneath the arch of his rib
cage, across the flat cradle of his bellybutton, stopping short of the
smooth patch leading down to the root of his swollen cock. Sharp, regular
stokes that bit the surface of his skin, painting it red and extracting a
strangled moan from deep inside him, but causing him very little real
damage.

Once he was nicely warmed up, I increased the pressure, with a pleasurable
thud of leather, forcing him to shriek out intermittently as pinpricks of
blue began to mottle the outer edges of his torso.

Then I switched to the boar hide flogger, with its awesome black thongs.
This beast was hard and sharp. The first crack almost split him in half.
You should have heard him scream — I had to ease up a little to prevent
any permanent damage, but I quickly got the measure of it, the strokes
falling squarely on his flesh, leaving a smooth, regular pattern of burns
across his stomach. The whip had a grand feel in the swing of the wrist.
It was a joy to handle.

Soon he was howling and wrenching his arms wildly in a futile attempt to
ward off the strokes. But I kept up the rhythm, steadily increasing the
strength of my swing, till I was showering him from all angles, spreading
heat across the whole of his front side, slicing into his nipples
occasionally, at which times he would jerk his legs out and jag the string
tighter around his balls. It was a roller coaster ride. I was soaring.

After ten minutes or so I was pooped. I flopped back on the sofa, poured
myself some coffee and switched the DVD back on.

I must have drifted off, because one minute I was staring at the little
animals scampering about on the screen, the next minute I woke up with a
start thinking that Tom had arrived back. It took me a moment or two to
figure out that he hadn’t and that I’d just been dreaming. Then I heard
the boy groaning behind me and remembered that I was supposed to be annoyed
with Tom.

I swivelled round in my chair and stared at him. What a pathetic sight.
My handiwork was clearly visible in the patchwork of red scars that covered
his body. He was quite still, except that every now and again, with great
effort, he would grip the chains and hoist himself up — to relieve the
pressure on his shoulders, I imagined. His eyes were red with tears and he
was moaning quietly. I wonder if the sound of his own voice was some kind
of comfort to him. I’d never really stopped to think about how a slave boy
copes with this kind of punishment — although it wasn’t punishment, was
it. I’d just been putting him to good use. Venting your anger on a slave
is a healthy way of avoiding confrontations and hurting people. I’d almost
forgotten now what the row with Tom had been all about. Instead I was
beginning to feel quite gentle towards the boy.

The string around his testicles was looking untidy now. The balls were red
and swollen enough for my liking. I slid off the chair and ambled over.

“Let’s loosen these,” I said, releasing the ends of the string.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and lifted him up, just enough to ease
the strain on his arms. He was surprisingly light and I could almost feel
the weight of his pain as I pressed him close to me.

“Good boy,” I said.

In a husky whisper, that seemed to have got lost somewhere in his throat,
he muttered, “thankyoussir.”

I held him for a while, rocking him gently. He was shaking quite a bit at
first, but I could sense him easing up a little in my arms. His head
rolled over and touched my neck. There was that raw, pungent odour of
sweat and fear that is so intoxicating in a young slave.

“Are you a good fuck, boy?”

It was several seconds before he raised his head and mumbled, “sir?”

“Are you a good fuck?”

“no Sir — I mean, dunnosir.”

His voice was quivering.

“You don’t know! Hasn’t Master Tom fucked you yet?”

“no sir.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that made me suspicious.

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

“Sir?”

“A virgin. You’re a slave, for God’s sake — someone must have fucked you
by now.”

“no Sir.”

I couldn’t believe this. An eighteen year old virgin slave boy — where
did Tom find him?

“How long’ve you been a slave?”

“nearly three months, sir.”

I let go, and watched him struggle to steady himself again.

This was amazing. It had never crossed my mind. Somehow I’d always taken
slaves for granted. Ever since a child, when I used to play around with
the domestics, it had never really occurred to me that some of them could
have once been as free as you or me. I suppose I had always known it, but
I’d never really thought about it till now. And this boy had certainly
adapted well in such a short time. No wonder he’d been so scared of me.

Well, oh well!

“So Master Tom and me, we’re your first owners?”

“yessir.”

“Wow!”

This sudden revelation thrilled me beyond measure. Here was a boy, hanging
from my ceiling by the wrists, scourged by my own fair hand, who had begged
me to stop before finally coming to terms with the inevitable — here was a
boy that was scared and alone, whose life had just recently been turned
upside down, who had lost his freedom, his loved ones, all his hopes and
aspirations — now simply an object for my personal use and pleasure. I
was overjoyed to be so blessed with fortune.

I wanted to know more, so I released the chains and he dropped onto the
floor. I let him lie there for a few minutes to catch his breath then
brought him over to stand in front of my armchair.

“Present yourself with your hands behind your head,” I said as I nestled
back into my chair, “Now tell me how you came to be a slave. I want to
know everything.”

He still found it hard to speak. Whether it was fear of me, or shockwaves
from the beating, or simply the fact that he wasn’t used to standing naked
in front of the man who owned him, body and soul, telling him about his
former life — I don’t know. I had to keep getting him to repeat himself
and go back over things — but gradually his story took shape.

It seems he’d been made a slave because he’d entered the country illegally.
He’d grown up in Canada, the youngest son of a reasonably well off family,
but had run away from home when he was seventeen. He’d fallen in love with
a local girl who came from “the wrong side of the track”. His family would
have nothing to do with her, so the young pair ran off to make a new life
for themselves.

They had all kinds of adventures on their journey across the continent,
hitching rides most of the way, dodging the law and scraping a living as
they travelled the road. By the time they reached the East Coast they were
destitute and near to starving. His girlfriend was ill and he was
desperate to know what to do. They fell in with some people traffickers
who agreed to smuggle them across the border into the States.

It’s not clear what happened next, but there was some kind of ransom deal
with the boy’s father that went horribly wrong. The young pair were
bundled aboard a ship and several weeks later arrived in Southampton,
without papers or money. The girl had recovered enough for them to go on
the run again — but it didn’t last long.

The boy was getting pretty emotional at this stage of the story, and I had
to keep telling him to hold his arms up straight and present himself
properly while he spoke.

He seemed to blame their capture on himself. He’d been trying to protect
the girl, who was now heavily pregnant, but he had blundered into a trap.
They were arrested and kept in a secure unit for several months, during
which time his girl friend gave birth to a little boy. He only saw the
child a couple of times before he was dragged off to court, disenfranchised
and transferred to a slave processing unit. He now had no idea where the
child and its mother were.

“They’re probably being looked after very well,” I said. “A young fertile
slave girl and a healthy young male puppy would attract good buyers.
They’re probably no worse off than you are.”

This didn’t seem to make him any happier. He fell on to his knees and
howled. What could I do but bring him back to his senses with a dozen good
cracks across his back with the bullhide.

At last he fell silent. He stayed crouched on the floor by my feet as I
spoke to him.

“You really must overcome this weakness for self pity, boy. You’ve made
mistakes in your past life, but that is all behind you. You are a slave
now. Those mistakes have been absolved. The past belongs to a person who
no longer exists. And the future…well there is no future for you other
than what is chosen for you by your Master.

The same goes for the girl and the baby. If either of them is half as
desirable a slave as you are, and has the courage and the determination
that I’m sure you have, they’ll serve their Masters well and will live
long, healthy lives. You should be proud of them.”

“sir…please forgive me.”

I’m not sure if my words had made any sense to him. He wasn’t crying any
more and his voice was a lot steadier. He didn’t struggle or moan as I
pulled him up by the hair, and he didn’t make a fuss when I laid him across
the arm of my chair. His story had excited me, and I needed relief.

He was a virgin, so he was bound to feel a certain amount of pain as I
forced my cock inside him, yet he hardly made a sound. It was a long time
since I’d fucked an arse so tight. It was magical. Each pulling-out and
pushing- in heightened my pleasure, squeezing and caressing the tip of my
glans, till I was heady with sex. When I shot off, it was with a mighty
climax, slamming into him with my hot semen, scorching his insides and
branding him as all mine.

As I pulled out, I chuckled to myself thinking how furious Tom would be to
find that I had got to the boy first. I wasn’t really angry with him any
more, in fact I was quite looking forward to him coming home.

The slave boy didn’t make a very good job of cleaning me up. I suppose he
had never tasted semen before. Most of it ended up on his face. I told
him he’d better catch up on all his chores by the time Master Thomas came
home, or he’d probably get another beating.

Then I threw him out the back door.

THE END
Copyright John Dee 2006

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