The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Care and Training of the North American Wildboy

by Wrestlr

1. Jerry

Wildboys are everywhere. They’re the cocky, strutting eighteen—, nineteen—, and twenty-year-old guys who hang out on street corners and in hamburger joints. They can be jocks, or hoodlums, or boy-next-door types, but they share a defining characteristic as a species, a void that needs to be filled. Their brash, growing-up manhood demands the one thing they lack in their lives: control.

I found Jerry at the local college. I don’t know his real name, but in my head I called him Jerry because he reminded me of a close pal from my teenaged years, a tanned, blond athlete who ended up in prison for life because he lacked discipline.

Anyway, I was driving past the small local college one afternoon when I saw this wildboy step from the curb and hold out his thumb for a ride. No, I didn’t give him a lift, but I recognized his classic arrogant stance and his attitude instantly. The timing was perfect, because I was not long away from needing a test subject. In the days that followed, I worked out his schedule—when he stayed late and when he left promptly. When I’d gotten it all down pat, I stopped and picked him up.

The moment he got into my car, I knew I’d made an ideal selection. His blond hair was short-clipped and neat, his brown eyes bright with intelligence, and his features were a strong blending of youth and increasing maturity. His wide shoulders and sharply trimming physique were outlined beneath his shirt, a tint of tanned flesh showing through the crisp white fabric. His jeans hung low on his slim hips, the bulging fullness of his crotch carelessly displayed. Yeah, he was the exactly cocky, undisciplined wildboy I’d been looking for.

As part of my plan, I was careful not to exchange names. Also, I didn’t take him all the way to his home, a couple of miles beyond my own. His name?—Where he lived?—Not important.

I remember how he got out of the car that first time, giving me a matter-of-fact Thanks, mister, swinging to his feet and tugging the front of his pants into place, turning and sauntering down the sidewalk, the tight arcs of his ass shifting abruptly with each taunting, show-off stride. Damn it, he was an ideal, natural wildboy!

So I went ahead with my plan. Each afternoon, I just happened to drive past the college when he was out there trying to hitch a ride home, and he became accustomed to having me pick him up. He started talking about himself, about how he stayed late because he was a freshman on the swim team and needed the extra practice to keep up with the more experienced swimmers, about his classes, about how he couldn’t wait for this or that party, about himself, himself, always himself.

Finally came the afternoon when he slid out of my car at the corner with the usual Thanks, mister, and then he turned back. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t know your name. You’ve been giving me a ride all this time and—“

“I don’t give a damn about your name,” I replied, “so why should you care about mine?”

“Uh ...”

I’d surprised him, and he frowned, taken aback. He didn’t know how to interpret what I’d said.

“Okay, sure, mister. See you tomorrow.” This was both a question and a promise. “Okay?”

“Sure thing.”

Right then is when I was sure my plan would work! I knew this wildboy was ready for training; he was ready for discipline, obedience, manhood. That night I put my house in order, triple-checking all the equipment in my basement workroom, making sure the diagnostics confirmed everything was running perfectly, getting ready for the young stud who would become Jerry when I was finished with him.

The following day, I was intentionally twenty minutes late when I drove past the college, but my wildboy was there waiting for me. He could’ve tried to hitch a ride with someone else, but he hadn’t. Unknowingly, he had passed my first test.

The afternoon was warm, and I casually suggested we stop at my house for a beer. He agreed, showing he trusted me, and thus he’d passed my second test.

I took him to my place for the first time, and he made himself at home, settling on the living room couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place, showing off as he slammed back his beer, swallowing it quickly, acting relaxed, like he was lord of the manor. Yeah, a real wildboy! He had just passed my final test.

“I need to close the curtains,” I said, which gave me an excuse to walk around back of the couch where he sat. The television was on, and he channel-surfed with the remote. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. I pulled the ether-filled mask from the plastic bag I’d stashed behind the couch. I came up behind him and clamped the mask over his face before he knew what was happening. Sure, he thrashed and fought, but he couldn’t get any leverage and he had to breathe. Once he inhaled, I had won—I just needed to hold on a few more moments, hold the mask firmly in place, as his struggling arms got clumsier and clumsier, losing strength. He weakened, then slowly faltered, went limp, unconscious, helpless.

I dragged him downstairs into the basement “dungeon” room I’d previously used for more conventional sex-games with more willing subjects. I worked quickly, laying him out on the padded table, attaching the cuffs to his wrists and hauling his arms out taut, pulling off his shoes and socks so I could attach the ankle clamps and spread-eagle him on the table. I grabbed the electric clippers and sheared away his short blond hair to stubble, wiping away his old appearance as easily as the program was about to wipe away his old self. With his head nearly shaved, the sensors would have closer contact and could better read his responses.

I’d barely finished when he started to revive. This was the moment I’d waited for! The handsome, stubble-scalped blond teenager lay before me, his head rolling groggily, and I watched the muscle pulls, the attempts to move, the sudden realization of his bondage. He jerked his head up and focused on me, his brown eyes wide with terror.

Sure, I’d brought other men into this room previously for a little bondage and domination sex-play, but that was before I’d brought home the research equipment. The other men I’d brought here for conventional erotic games?—They’d all known what to expect. Some put up a show of resistance, and others couldn’t wait to obey, but they were all ultimately playing at the roles. Jerry, though, showed the true and total fear I’d always wanted to see. No pretending, no role-playing. Reality!

“Hey, mister,” he said, trying to disguise that accelerating panic. “What the hell?”

“You’re a wildboy,” I told him quietly. I knew he wouldn’t understand, but I tried to explain the plan I’d developed. “A wildboy is a young man who grows up with the best everything—looks, electronic toys, fashionable clothes. Everything, except control.”

I told him that I was going to give him what he’d missed on his journey to manhood, that I’d taken special care in choosing him, that he needed the training in discipline I was going to provide, that he’d thank—

“You’re crazy!” he interrupted. “You’re fucking crazy!”

That’s when I hit him for the first time. I slammed him across the face with my open palm, just hard enough to make his head bounce back against the padded table and his eyes water.

“Wildboy!” I scolded. He didn’t answer, so I went ahead with my plan. I brought out the helmet, and he was still too ether-groggy and too impact-stunned to react as I worked it over his head. First I got the chin-strap in place, and he snapped out of his daze around the time I was fastening the second neck strap. By then, his head-thrashing was pointless. I locked the last strap in place. The plastic and metal helmet fit skin-tight, hooding the upper part of his face and cutting off his sight and hearing. Yeah, we’d tested that helmet thoroughly before the government shut down my project, and I knew Jerry was totally isolated, chained, unable to see or hear.

And now I was ready to begin his training.

He bellowed, “Hey, lemme go! Lemme out of this!”

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

I leaned over him and gripped the front of his T-shirt. He gasped as I pulled the fabric. “What’re you—!”

He wouldn’t have heard me through the helmet if I’d replied, so I didn’t bother.

He tensed as I used the scissors to rip his T-shirt open, neck to waist. I think he was too surprised to cry out. I shredded his shirt with efficient cuts until the fabric fell away from his torso and he was stripped to the waist. Damn, he was a handsome specimen! His sun-bronzed skin glowed in the dim light, sleek as satin, and his wide shoulders melted into the broad, taut plates of his chest, his dark nipples half-coned at each side. His abdomen was flat and tensed, muscle ridges quivering beneath his slick flesh, and his jeans dipped low on his slim hips, a glimpse of his elastic-banded briefs showing. He jerked when I touched his bared torso, trembled as I palm-stroked his heaving chest and smoothed the goose-flesh on his stomach, toyed with his firm nipples. No, I didn’t twist or squeeze them—not yet—that would come later. I outlined his rib-etched sides, examined his maturing torso, all the way to his hips, slowly and thoroughly and sensuously.

Then I gripped his belt and unfastened it.

“No!” he yelped, suddenly alarmed. Maybe he realized for the first time what was to come. “Lemme go, mister! Please!”

I climbed up on the table with him for leverage and I opened his fly. He tried to thrash away, but that worked in my favor, helping me jerk his pants down as his hips bucked off the table, and then I had his pants bunched at his mid-thighs.

“Stop!” he begged, straining against the bonds I’d set so carefully. “Lemme go! Just lemme go, okay? I won’t tell anyone! I promise! Don’t!”

He wore snug briefs, deep blue with stark white piping around the waist and leg-holes that emphasized the sharpness of his tan above and below.

With his legs spread, I couldn’t haul his pants down any farther. Time for the scissors again. I cut a slit down one jeans-leg, exposing more of his skin. A cut down the other side, waistband to ankle, and his pants fell away from his body. I ran my fingers over his recently swimmer-shaved thigh, probing upward to his crotch. I cupped the bulging pouch of his briefs in one hand, testing his hidden genitals. Yeah, he was stud-hung!

“No, don’t!” He was beginning to understand the inevitability but he still fought to pull away. “Please—please—don’t. Lemme go, you fucking queer!”

I hammered my fist into his guts, and the breath whooshed from his lungs. Now he knew he was at my mercy.

I gave him a moment to recover, and then I slowly snipped up the right hip of his briefs. A patch of trimmed pubic wire appeared as his groin was exposed. A snip up the left hip, and the front of his briefs fell away. He sucked in a breath. His thick-shafted cock dangled over his testicles. Naked and trembling and quiet, he lay helpless before me, blond and tanned and virile—and ready to be trained!

Without hesitation, I grasped his limp prick and began pumping it gently. He swore and cursed and tried to pull away, but he couldn’t go far. I knew he was surely well-acquainted with the pleasure of jerking-off. Hell, when I was his age, I was ready to blast a load any time! And maybe I wasn’t the first to beat his meat; maybe he’d traded hand-jobs with his buddies, maybe he’d let one of them suck ...

His iron stretched and stiffened in spite of his fear and his mumbled efforts to control it. I continued to massage it as it grew, amused at his uncontrollable, youthful sex-heat. His ramrod thrust forward into my stroking fingers, man-sized and thick and rigid. Not twenty strokes after his cock hit full erection, he bit back a sharp whimper as the first burst of cum exploded from the deep-welled crown. That’s when I grabbed his nuts with my free hand and squeezed hard, and his next bellow was mixed pain and ecstasy. His sperm gushed in violent explosions, and I pressured his balls repeatedly.

Pleasure. Pain. Discipline. A wildboy ready to be tamed.

Exhausted, Jerry sagged into the chains holding him. I nursed the last droplets from his still-firm prick before releasing it. He’d had the first lesson in the course I’d planned for him; he’d reached his skyrocketing climax at the same time that he’d suffered the nuts-wrenching agony.

“Now let me go, okay? Please?” he whimpered, probably thinking the show was over. I let him rest while I cleared away the remnants of his shredded clothing. I left him chained there, blind and deaf in the helmet—“Hey! Hey, mister!"—as I took his clothes upstairs and burned everything without inspecting any of it. His name, whoever he’d been, whatever he’d done, none of that mattered anymore.

Not that the preliminary lessons were out of the way. I needed to introduce Jerry to the start of his real training program. I returned to the basement where he was still chained to the table. I peeled off my shirt and shoes and pants before stepping over to him to hand-stroke his shoulders and chest. Locked in the sightless silence of that helmet, he didn’t know I was near until I touched him, and he tensed instinctively, the muscles straining beneath his bronzed skin.

His waist tapered sharply to his slim hips, and as my fingers worked downward, reaching under him to the narrow, untanned curves of his ass, he shivered with nervousness but didn’t yell or curse. I traced a line back up his torso to his neck. He was in uncharted territory—likely he was accustomed to getting his rocks off and going on his way, and he couldn’t fathom why he was still bound. His lower lip trembled, but he stayed silent.

I slapped the side of his neck, not hard but a firm swat. I wanted him to know that he was in for a discipline session. He tried to turn his head away. Then I got the thick leather belt and positioned myself beside him.

Christ, I wish he could have heard the warning whistle of that lash as it cut through the air, then the brutal snap as it bit at his bared chest. A slash of whiteness showed against the even bronze for an instant, then turned deep crimson, and he howled his surprise and pain into the air.

I whipped him with experienced slowness, crisscrossing his muscle-quivering chest and stomach with burning strokes. I brought up narrow ridges across his thighs with a stinging thong. His body jerked and tugged at the chains, but he was wasting his strength. When I finished, he lay limply on the table, sweating, moaning. That was his first taste of leather, but he would move to far higher levels of pain before he was satisfactorily trained.

As he recovered, once more he weakly begged me to let him go. I unfastened one wrist and attached a heavy chain from the cuffs on his wrists to those on his ankles. Then I hauled his spent body off the table and shackle-walked him into the latrine to take a leak and give him a shower.

That was part of my plan of training wildboys. I wanted to keep Jerry off-guard, never knowing when he was going to be tortured and used and when he was going to be cared for, cleaned, fed, and watched over. Yeah, I remember how he reacted to that first shower, my soapy hands roaming over his chained body, the sudden realization that we were both cock-hanging naked, the automatic resistance when my fingers explored his most intimate parts. By the way he tensed, I knew he’d never had someone probe the cleft in his butt before. Well, he’d soon get used to all of it!

So I washed him, dried him, held a straw to his lips. He tried to twist away before he realized what it was; then his lips clutched at it and he sucked greedily: water. I held the glass while he drank, fed him with my fingers. I laid him out on the table again, and soothed Jerry’s whip-lashed skin with a cooling lotion. And I left him chained and helmeted and helpless. That’s important. In order to break a wildboy, you’ve got to train him step by step. He’s got to learn that he isn’t worth a damn without you.

I plugged the cable into the back of the helmet. At the computer screen in the corner, I clicked on an icon and stage one began. The first part seems like nothing is happening, but that’s not correct. The sensors are active, taking their readings, starting to map out the subject’s biometrics. The timer is running, but the virtual reality screens in the helmet are off and the speakers are off. The subject—Jerry in this case—stays locked in darkness and silence. I left him there.

Trapped in the monotonous dark, most people’s instinct is to sleep. I mean, dark and silence is boring as hell, right? But for Jerry, sensors in the helmet and straps detected every time he started to doze, and the program responded—bright flashes of light!—ear-splitting percussive bangs!—to shock him awake again. Then ... nothing. More silence, more dark, and more boredom, until he started to doze again and then ... Flash! Bang!

The first time, Jerry nearly panicked, but as he began to understand what was happening, he tried to find other ways to occupy himself and keep himself awake. He tried slamming his head back against the padded table, maybe to dislodge the helmet, maybe to break it and stop the shock-effects, but that helmet was built sturdily out of some of the best materials the government could afford. Thankfully I’d been able to smuggle some of the backup equipment home before the government pulled the plug on my research over “ethical concerns” and left the rest of it rotting in a warehouse somewhere.

The military, always short-sighted, had looked at our research solely in terms of making soldiers. But I knew our equipment and programs had wider uses. The military shelved our project, so I’d decided to keep going on my own, with my plan to tame wildboys.

Jerry learned slowly, but he learned. Trapped inside that helmet where he couldn’t see or hear, he existed in a half-daze, trying hard to fight the all-encompassing boredom, trying not to fall asleep.

Over the next three days, the stage one timer ran. For the soldiers who had been my government-issued test subjects, stage one ran one day and was uninterrupted silence and darkness, using sensory deprivation to weaken their minds. With Jerry, I went slower, adding more time and adding sleep deprivation. I needed to wear him down extra-far, to push the program to even stronger levels of efficiency.

Dark. Silence. Flash! Bang! More dark. I interrupted the monotony with breaks. He had no idea of time, and I intentionally followed no set schedule. When he least expected, I was there to beat him, torture him, or to feed him, care for him. Sometimes I’d poke his mouth with a straw, and he’d grasp at it with his lips and suck whatever I’d brought for him: water, sports drinks, meal replacement shakes. Once I touched his mouth with my finger. He lip-snapped greedily at it, thinking my finger was a straw, and froze as he realized it wasn’t. I slid my finger into his mouth a little. He could have bitten, but he stayed very, very still. I slid my finger out, then back in, like it was a mini-dick. He got the idea, wrapped his tongue around my digit, and tentatively sucked. Fucking amateur! Now at least I knew the level of experience I was working with. I’d have to teach him a hell of a lot. Maybe he thought he could prick-tease me into going easy on him by seeming to cooperate, but I wasn’t buying the act he was selling.

With his body spread-eagled on his back on one of my work tables and exposed my every whim, during the first two days I sandpapered the most sensitive parts of his body until he whimpered at the lightest caress. I introduced him to tit clamps, increasing the pressure at each session until those amber cones were raw and throbbing. At first he fought, but then he started to welcome my sudden sessions, since they pushed back the numbing boredom. He came to crave my touch. I used whips and lashes to add to his understanding of the levels of pain he could endure—and the levels of pleasure. Yeah, I ended each session by making him shoot his load. Also, in the latrine, I worked on his slick little tail. At first, I merely tickled his asshole with a soapy finger when I showered with him, but as he became accustomed to that, I went further. Even though he’d learned that I could do anything I wanted with his body, he couldn’t keep from swearing and groaning the first time I finger-fucked him. Christ, that puckered opening was tight! So I bent him over the edge of the table facedown and went to work on spreading those ass-lips. First, just one finger. Then two. Then a small plug to hold him stretched. I had him tied down, greased and ready, because that was part of my plan. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened when I eased a small dildo collar-deep into him. No, I didn’t hard-ram him, but I thought for sure he’d scream and try to fight. His hole was still tight as hell, believe me, but he only hissed, ”Mister!” That’s all. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever taken so much time and worked up so much sweat getting a stud’s ass prepared!

One thing: when I fucked him with the dildo that first time, with him chained face-down on the table, I reached under him and found he’d popped his load while I was pumping the fake cock into him. His cum was puddled around his heavy-headed prick, and he hadn’t made a sound when it happened.

During all this, near the start of the third day, I unhooked the helmet from the cable that connected it to the computer. I took Jerry, shacked and still blind and deaf through the helmet, out into the backyard and threw him into the swimming pool. He’d claimed to be on the swim team, but he was chained ankles-to-wrists, and I’d never given him a chance to see the pool before I’d started his training. Hitting the water surprised the fuck out of him. He bobbed and thrashed, and I dove in and jammed him down and held his head under. Hey, the electronic parts of the helmet were waterproof—we’d built it to withstand just about everything.

I pulled him up, let him up to sputter and gasp for air, then shoved him under, again and again, until he was exhausted. At last, I hauled him out onto the concrete skirt ringing the pool, and that was when his last resistance to me melted. He knew I could have drowned him, that I had total control over his life, that I could do whatever I pleased with him. He lay there quivering and gulping for breath, finally understanding his new reality. I rested beside him, running my palms over his nakedness and calming him, and when I toyed with his cock and balls, he threw a hard-on in seconds. His body was telling me, silently, that he was ready for whatever I wanted from him.

Okay, so that was the first time I went down on Jerry. I knew he was sensitive to everything I was doing, and I tongue-lapped his sleek, athletic physique, worked my way down into his crotch, caressed his potent rod and churning balls, demonstrated everything I expected him to do. When I suctioned his powerful ram into my mouth and throat, hell, I was the one who nearly drowned! No shit—that may not have been the first blow-job he’d ever gotten, but he just plain exploded in seconds!

So, a few moments later when I poked my cock-head to his lips, he attempted to copy what I’d done. Damn, what an amateur! I guess he was trying his best, being chained and all, but he didn’t know crap about how to suck a cock. He was willing, and I didn’t force him or anything like that, but I knew he was going to need a lot more training sessions before he got the hang of it.

I didn’t bother him sexually for the rest of the day. If his hard-ons, coming and going with more frequency now, were any indication, he spent that third day thinking a lot about his cock in my mouth, and mine in his.

He was coming to accept anything from me, no matter what. I disciplined him, fed him, showered with him, shaved the part of his face showing beneath that helmet, whipped him, looked after him. That wildboy just gritted his teeth and said nothing. When he pissed, it ran down the slightly angled tabletop and then into a drain in the floor, and I cleaned him up with wet-wipes. When he shit, still spread-eagled on the table and helpless to hold the turd in his bowels any longer, I cleaned away the mess with more wet-wipes. He was at my mercy, and he knew it. He was coming to accept it.

At the end of three days, stage two began, and that started a whole new phase in the remaking of Jerry’s mind.

Stage two started out seductive. Faint images, almost too dim to be seen, would fade in on the virtual viewer, while whispers in his ear repeated little encouragements. At first he probably wasn’t even sure he was seeing or hearing something. Maybe he thought he was hallucinating; a lot of our test subjects did. The program was fishing, showing him randomly chosen images, measuring his reactions, showing more images, refining its choices, learning. The program tracked his responses, measuring little dilations or contractions in his pupils, changes in his skin conductivity, shifts in his brain waves—logging which images he reacted to positively, and which elicited negative reactions. All the while sound files of my voice, barely audible in the speakers, prepared him. Relax. Focus. Watch. Listen. Obey. Not quite subliminal, but close. Little words and whispers wrapping around his thoughts, guiding him. Don’t resist. Accept. Relax. Focus. Obey. Calm. Sinking. Down. Floating Down. Whether he realized or not, he was listening, and according to the readings the program was gathering—brainwaves, heart rate, breathing—he was being led. Feet relaxing, going limp. Calves relaxing. He was sleep-deprived and scared, and susceptible to the whispers that promised respite. The commands were sinking in before he knew what was happening. Legs so relaxed, so limp. Fingertips so relaxed. Hands and wrists so limp. Accept. Drift.

I pulled up my phone app now and then to check the progress. Now that the program had gathered a repertoire of images that elicited a positive response from him, it was focusing on them, showing them over and over, lulling him with their pleasant associations. Yeah, there were times when I’d watch him lying there naked and helmeted, chained and silent, body slack, his prick stiffening and then deflating and then repeating, I’d wonder what the hell the program was using on him. I’d call up the analytics out of curiosity to see what topped the list of things my wildboy liked: puppies, chocolate cake, ice cream, beaches and lakes, bicycles. Typical boy things. Those had frequently appeared in the lists for the previous male test subjects too, and they worked well. Very, very well.

After three days of sleep deprivation, sight depravation, and sound depravation, stage two was hitting him hard. Arms so limp. Shoulders relaxed, relaxing more. Sleep. Let yourself sleep. You can sleep now. Drifting down. Drifting into sleep. Deep, hypnotic sleep. Deeply asleep. Deeply hypnotized. The blond wildboy never stood a chance; he was deep in hypnotic slumber before he knew what hit him.

Breathe deeply. Rest. Sleep. Hypnotized. Listen. Obey. Open your eyes. Watch the images. Focus. Hypnotized. Feel so good. So relaxed. Obey. Focus.

Stage two seduced, shifting from pleasant associations to the induction of deep hypnosis. It lured and lulled, caressed and coddled. It built trust. It built obedience. It monitored his brainwaves, heartbeat, respiration. The program wormed its way into the subject’s mind—Jerry’s mind—and it learned quickly. It learned how to keep him hypnotized, how to get its hooks deep his higher brain functions and his psyche—and most importantly, it learned how to anchor itself there. During the first part, it learned more about Jerry and the way he thought than he himself knew. Sleep. Deeply hypnotized. Listen. Obey. Focus. Relax. Accept

But the program was just beginning.

I made sure I was nearby for the start of the stage three, as a precaution. Jerry’s body twitched. Not a waking up twitch but a full-blown having a nightmare spasm. Stage two, having won his trust with images of his favorite things, was over. Now stage three was showing him images of his worst fears: dizzying heights, spiders, evil clowns. This stage was meant to break him.

Stage three pulled hard at the hooks that the second stage had set in his mind, kept him trembling at the cusp of nightmare terror, with hypnosis jacking up the impact, as the program used the equivalent of blunt force trauma to smash through Jerry’s defenses and eliminate any resistance. Once stage three began, the program was relentless. It found and catalogued every crack in the target’s mind. It didn’t just exploit one of those vulnerabilities; it sledgehammered at all of them. When the mind started to get accustomed to one fear, the program switched to another, then another, always keeping the mind white-hot with terror.

Jerry jerked and sweated, not quite awake, not quite dreaming. That was probably a small mercy; had he been awake, he’d have been screaming until his throat was raw. By this point if he was aware at all, he probably wasn’t sure whether he was seeing images or just plain hallucinating. Previous test subjects had reported a little of both.

The program monitored him, and I monitored the program carefully—fear is an effective tool but sometimes tricky, and problems can happen without much warning. I didn’t want Jerry to have a heart attack. The whole point was to turn this wildboy into the living, breathing stud I wanted.

Everything the program had learned earlier, it now used to shove and bash its way into the depths of his mind, crushing any part of his psyche that tried to resist, breaking down his concept of himself, blasting away at his very self. Six hours because eight, then twelve. Most previous subjects lasted ten or twelve hours, a few just past eighteen, but terror and confronting one’s most powerful phobias takes a hard toll on the mind, exhausts it quickly, pushes it inevitably to a point of yes, a point where the mind will say yes to anything, agree to anything without reservation in order to escape the seemingly endless panic.

Jerry spasmed. The program had mostly paralyzed him by using fright to overstimulate his amygdala—that’s the part of the brain that cancels out the mind’s physical control of the body’s muscles; it creates the familiar deer in the headlights freeze effect. Aside from a jerk here or a shudder there, Jerry couldn’t move—his own brain had made sure of that.

Just past thirteen hours and fifteen minutes, the program sent a message to the mobile app on my phone: Jerry was almost at the breaking point, almost ready. I wanted to see this.

In spite of the paralysis, his body trembled in the chains, practically vibrating. Soon. In just moments he would be there, right there. Already the program was probably whispering about a way out, an escape, about safety, about deep hypnosis, deeper than ever, an end to the fear. Spiders, evil clowns, drowning, falling from great heights, endless, unable to stop. Jerry gasped and sweated. Soon his desperate mind would say yes, yes to anything, anything to escape. After more than thirteen hours, and from what I was seeing on the monitors, he couldn’t take much more, but still he held on somehow.

Thirteen hours and twenty-eight minutes, almost exactly: Jerry broke.

The key to this part of stage three was simple compulsion. Confronted with unending, ratcheting fear, the mind compelled itself to flee, but the program prevented any relief until the psyche reached the breaking point. Then something very, very simple happened: The program whispered a way to escape, a trigger phrase that the mind remembered from earlier, when it was deeply hypnotized. In its worn-down state, the defenseless and despairing mind experienced no difference between being compelled into hypnosis and being offered an escape into hypnosis. All the mind had to do was say yes and let the program take over completely. All the mind had to do was step back from the fear, let go, let itself be dissolved, let the whispers take full control.

I was there watching Jerry when his mind said yes. He gave a quiet, involuntary gasp, and then his body slowly went limp, all tension draining away, and he sighed as the program pushed him into the deepest hypnotic state yet and took command of him completely. No more resistance.

The key to the compulsion to say yes was to bring the shattering mind to the point where it fully, completely, utterly welcomed the escape. All of the conscious and subconscious barriers were down, worn down by the program’s focused attacks. No reservations. No hesitation. Now the program’s whispers filled his psyche, having bored down all the way into his core, and Jerry’s mind was being taken apart.

Now stage four began.

Oh, the military had been happy with our research, initially. We had found a way to program soldiers, whether fresh recruits or experienced warriors, and create fighters who existed for no purpose other than following orders without hesitation or fear. Boot camp broke down barriers and allowed the recruits to be remade into soldiers, but the process was slow—weeks!—and expensive, inefficient, unreliable, and incomplete. Our process reengineered the mind and cut the time to days and raised the efficiency to one hundred percent. Best of all, it was permanent. Where we had gone wrong was in overstepping our directive. Perhaps, I thought at the time, we could press the results even further by removing any knowledge of life before the military. As far as the subject was concerned, he was only a soldier, had never been anything but a soldier, and would always be a soldier. No life distractions and no problems that resulted from social or cultural norms which conflicted with his orders. Total focus on the military as his family and his way of life. I’d been working on a subroutine to introduce a kind of specialized amnesia. The bureaucrats in charge of our funding decided this was far too much. Citing “ethical concerns,” they canceled our funding and our project. I had just completed the amnesia module and was working on the integration into the main program when the funding was cut. The bureaucrats had our equipment boxed up and shipped off to gather dust in some warehouse.

But not before I’d snuck home a couple of the backup helmets and a copy of the updated program. That was what was running now and leading Jerry into stage four. Now I was going to find whether our research worked on wildboys as well as it had on the military test subjects.

Stage four didn’t look like much from the outside. The subject’s body was limp, as if he were comatose. But on the inside?—Fireworks. All of the mental defenses were down as the mind stayed submerged in a deep hypnotic state. The program worked hard and fast at redesigning the subject’s unresisting psyche. The charts and graphs and numbers on the monitor jumped and danced. In his receptive state, Jerry was being taught; he was being remade.

Every mind learned at its own pace. Stage four took three to four days, sometimes longer. I hooked up an intravenous drip to feed fluids into the wildboy’s body to prevent dehydration while he was unconscious. I cleaned him when he voided bodily wastes. The program cared for his mind, and I cared for his body.

I was upstairs asleep when the monitor by my bed brought Jerry’s voice to me and woke me: “Mister?”

I’d slept through the “end of process” pings from my phone app. I hustled down to the basement to where Jerry lay chained and helmeted. How long had he been out of stage four? I checked the screen. Stage four had ended only about five minutes before. Okay, I hadn’t lost much time.

Jerry couldn’t see or hear a thing inside the helmet, and all of a sudden, he was calling out frantically, “Mister? Mister?” His body glistened with sweat. He didn’t know I was there until I laid my hand on his shoulder, and then he pressed the side of his face against my hand, just holding there and whispering, “Mister ... Mister ...,” over and over again.

I think Jerry had learned that the worst pain a wildboy can feel is being left all alone, unable to see or hear and being chained up so he’s helpless with no one around, and needing the man he’s come to rely on.

I unfastened the straps and took off the helmet. When I saw the blank look in Jerry’s eyes, as he blinked under the dim light, I knew he was ready to start his new life. These first few minutes after sight and sound are restored were critical, as his newly retrained mind sought to imprint on a role model, like a fresh-hatched duckling imprinting on its mama. For the military subjects, we used a superior officer, someone they could respect and look up to. But Jerry?—He would have me as his role model.

He blinked and searched, found my face and locked onto my eyes. “Hello, Jerry,” I greeted him, giving him his new name.

Jerry has never talked about anything that happened to him before I brought him here, and I think he’s forgotten all of it. The amnesia module worked perfectly. Whoever he was before was wiped away, but the skills he learned before remained. As far as he is concerned, his name’s always been Jerry and he’s always lived here. He still wears the chain collar I locked around his neck that first night; he wears it proudly as a sign of belonging. Sure, he’s free to leave any time, but he’s never run away. Unless we’re going into town or out in public, he seldom wears the clothes I’ve bought him, with one exception: I don’t know why, but he insists on wearing trunks when he swims in the pool. His tan has deepened, and the contrast of that flesh-pale strip at his hips is always enough to give me a hard-on. Interestingly, he doesn’t seem aware that he’s a damned-hot blond god, and that’s quite a change from when he was a wildboy!

Of course, I still have to discipline him at times, and sometimes he needs a refresher, either of pain or pleasure. The moment I take him into my basement, his prick snaps to attention. Sometimes I’ll pick up the whip and the tit-clamps to introduce him to pain again. Or sometimes I’ll strap the helmet onto his head for a couple of hours of ecstasy and hypnotic reinforcement; now that the program has its hooks in his mind, it can lead him into deep hypnosis in minutes. I make sure there’s no pattern to the type of refresher, whether pain or pleasure, he’s going to receive when I take him into the basement. Jerry’s learned the need for control and the relationship of pleasure and pain, believe me! He’s also learned that I expect him to take me off when I’m horny, and I really think he’s happiest when he’s getting my cum down his throat or up his ass. One of my friends says that Jerry’s the “ultimate sex slave,” but I don’t pretend to know about slavery. Jerry merely does what he wants to do. So what if he doesn’t realize the program replaced everything he might have wanted before with everything he wants now.

With all of the preconceptions and expectations fed into him during his earlier eighteen years blown away, Jerry’s true personality was able to form and emerge. He was curious about everything, loving, loyal—and incredibly enthusiastic in bed. He also had a nurturing streak, and he talked a lot about wanting to share my retraining plan and the gift of control with other wildboys. I had a few ideas along that line too.

Well, one night we were watching a television movie about a hunky, black-haired teenager named Bud who was a real fuck-up and got in trouble with the law. I wasn’t paying much attention, but Jerry seemed engrossed in the show. “That Bud’s a wildboy,” Jerry declared suddenly. “He needs to learn control!” And that started me on another test of my wildboy plan.

Jerry may have suspected I was working on something after that, but I doubt that he had any idea of what it was. I set up a schedule, leaving him locked in the bedroom each afternoon while I went out to prepare the next step in my plan.

Finally, I had everything ready, and when I opened the door to the bedroom, Jerry was sitting on the floor, head down and naked, his hands and ankles together as if he were chained. He looked up at me, and I saw the sadness and uncertainty in his gaze. “Am I being punished, Mister?”

These last few days I’d been locking Jerry in the bedroom when I left, which I hadn’t done before. I hadn’t given him an explanation, and he hadn’t asked questions, until now. I wasn’t punishing him—I just needed him to be out of sight, just in case.

“I’m sorry for whatever I did. I love you, Mister. Please don’t be mad at me ...”

One of my rules about wildboys, even ex-wildboys, was I never said I love you back to them. Instead, I said, “You’re not being punished. Let’s go, Jerry.“

“Okay, Mister.”

He always called me Mister as if that were my name.

He stood up, looking repentant, obeying me automatically. Damn it, he’d never looked more handsome and virile!

I led him to the basement. I knew he was unsure of what was in store, maybe was expecting a little discipline refresher, but he followed obediently. His prick stiffened as he entered the room where he’d learned about pain and pleasure, and he blinked with surprise when he spotted the youth chained face-down on the padded table, naked and helmeted and gagged.

Yeah, I’d kidnapped another wildboy, just as I’d kidnapped Jerry. This one was short and compact-bodied—a rugged, black-haired show-off—and I knew from the moment I saw him loitering outside the college that he was a ready candidate for training. No lie, after I’d picked him up a couple of times, he was waiting with his shirt unbuttoned to show his solid, lightly haired pecs, and he also made clear that he wasn’t shy about having his dick sucked!

Jerry inspected him carefully. The new wildboy was bent over the edge of the table, his legs spread and chained to the table legs, his torso folded forward cross the padded top, arms stretched out by the chains as if he were reaching for the opposite legs, his ass stuck out as if ready to be mounted.

Jerry checked the teenager’s helmet and bindings, and then he looked at me intently. “What’s his name, Mister?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I wondered if Jerry remembered what he’d been called before I renamed him. “What do you think?”

“He’s Bud,” Jerry answered with sureness, perhaps recalling that television show. “And he’s a wildboy.” He ran his palms over the youth’s muscle-ridged back, then the bubbled butt held fuck-high at the edge of the table, and suddenly he jammed one hand between the spread legs to grip the stud’s dangling testicles. “He needs to learn discipline and control.”

Bud struggled and bellowed around the gag as Jerry’s fingers tightened about his balls, and I remembered how I began Jerry’s training. “Think you can teach him, Jerry?”

He looked at me, smiling brightly. “Oh, definitely! Yes, sir!”

“Then you better get started.”

Jerry released Bud’s nuts and went to my collection of whips and straps at the far side of the room. I wondered which one he’d start with and—damn, instead he picked up the tube of lubricant and started to grease his soaring hard-on!

I’d never thought of that. Jerry had never screwed a stud in the ass, and here was Bud stretched out, stripped, bent over the table, and butt-out, like I’d had Jerry regularly. Yeah, Jerry was nuts-hot to fuck our new wildboy and find out how exactly how great I felt when I got into Jerry’s asshole!

He moved in behind Bud, gripped the kid’s buns and spread them, guided the inflamed tip of his slicked and swollen iron to the exposed opening and held it there, nudging a little, not ramming but nursing those tender ass-lips apart, just the way I had done when I busted Jerry’s cherry that first night after I took the helmet off of him and led him up to my bedroom.

Hell, Bud was a lot wiser to male-sex than Jerry had been. He’d had his cock sucked, so maybe he’d done some sucking himself, fucked, been fucked maybe. But Jerry was sticking him with one hell of a chunk of meat, inch by inch, the way I’d—

Jerry was balls-deep into Bud, his flesh-pale ass offered to me and—damn, I was horny! I lubed my meat-bat and eased it all the way into that tight little asshole of Jerry’s. Fuck, he’d always taken it like—

“Thanks,” he whispered, laying his head back against my shoulder, his dick buried in Bud’s tail, mine in his. “Thanks, Mister!”

I locked my arms about Jerry and ran my fingers over his muscle-taut physique, and he sighed in total submission as I began pumping my meat into him, his meat into Bud.

This handsome young athlete was mine completely, and there’d be others after we finished training Bud!

Yeah, the world’s full of wildboys in need of control and discipline. But Jerry will always be Number One as far as I’m concerned!