The Care and Training of the North American Wildboy
by Wrestlr
3. Mister
My plan for training wildboys in the ways of discipline was more successful than I’d expected. Jerry was my first experiment, then Bud and Red, and since then there have been a number of brash, cocky youths who have been reprogrammed and come to true manhood as a result of my methods.
Of course, each wildboy is an individual challenge and requires individualized tactics, but the basic pattern applies to all of them, and the program has broken and retrained every single one. Once stripped, chained, and helmeted, the wildboy must be taught that he is totally dependent on me. He learns that I can discipline him, feed him, wash and shave him, arouse him and take him off, ignore him, fuck him—anything I want, whenever I want it. During stage one, some pretend to give in quickly, maybe in hopes of being set free, while others will remain defiant, but the program is never fooled. Ultimately each wildboy reaches that yes point, the milestone of total submission as stage three breaks them and stage four clears away the wreckage and begins anew. That’s the point when the wildboy goes through his metamorphosis to manhood. Then when he emerges, he seems to be lost in a secret blank-eyed world, dazed and almost slave-like in his need to be with me, to serve me, until gradually, finally, his real personality emerges and the original wildboy self is gone forever.
Naturally, I don’t force an ex-wildboy to stay here once he’s trained. They are free to leave. They all stayed with me for six or eight months or even a year, but eventually all of them moved on when they were ready—all except Jerry. When Bud left with his pup-trained Red, I was sorry to see them go because we’d developed a very special relationship, but both of them had learned all I could teach them about manhood and discipline. On the other hand, I’ve learned that each graduate is likely to carry on the work I’ve started by training other wildboys—as best they can, at least, without my special equipment—and sometimes they’ve sent special candidates to me for my personal attention.
The exception is Jerry, my first wildboy. He’s never wanted to leave, and he’s matured day by day, growing muscles, swimming with his trunks on to keep his ass a pale and ready target when I want to fuck it, sucking me off happily—the ultimate sex-slave. But, well, sometimes something unexpected happens.
First, though, came Hunk. That’s the name Jerry gave our latest wildboy, and it sure fit him. He was tall, dark, and good-looking, and he had a body that just wouldn’t quit. A real hunk. He was on the college wrestling team, which was where I first spotted him, and he was nothing but solid muscle. He had a neat, sucking-size cock, but the part of him that really turned me on was his butt: Hunk’s ass was trim and round and perfect for fucking.
The details of how Jerry and I broke Hunk of his arrogant wildboy traits aren’t important. He fought the training as I suspected he would, and he fought it longer than just about any other guy I’ve ever seen. But the program is relentless; it broke him eventually, and it retrained him nicely, and then Hunk especially liked getting a hot prick up that virgin-tight asshole of his. Damn, there’s nothing quite like fucking a burly, man-strong stud like Hunk!
Anyway, the program finally forced Hunk’s mind to understand that he needed to be trained, and it led him through the stages of moving from wildboy to disciplined manhood. Unfortunately, though, I failed to recognize something he said after his ultimate moment of submission, a short while after I took the helmet off of him, the moment when he said, “You and Jerry can fuck me, Mister, but nobody else. Okay?”
Jerry and Hunk were a sensational contrast, one blond and swimmer-built, the other dark and ruggedly muscled, and both of them served me with slavish devotion. I couldn’t resist showing them off, and that exposed a flaw in my wildboy experiment.
I invited a few friends over for drinks one night, and I had Jerry and Hunk pass the booze around, naked except for the chain collars about their necks. Needless to say, the effect was pretty damn impressive!
“How far will they go?” my pal Larry asked. Larry’s a rough-and-tough stud, and I knew he was into the leather and domination scene. “I wouldn’t mind some all-out action with a good slave-boy.”
“They’ll do whatever I tell them,” I bragged. Of course, I hadn’t told any of my friends about the equipment or how I came to have two naked slave-boys. I called Hunk over. “Hunk, this is my horny friend, Larry. Take care of him.”
“Uh ...” Hunk looked uncertain.
“That’s an order.”
He nodded impassively. “Sure, Mister.”
“Get Larry out of his clothes,” I commanded, knowing he would have to obey. “Show him a good time.” I turned to Jerry, showing off like crazy. “You, too. Show these studs how well I’ve taught you!”
So my little party turned into an instant orgy. In seconds, Larry was stripped, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t go down on Hunk. At the same time, Jerry was getting a double tongue-job, one front and one rear, and it wasn’t long before all my guests were cutting loose and shedding their clothes. Yeah, Hunk and Jerry were the centers of attention, but after a few more drinks, we were all out of control, naked and fucking and sucking for all we were worth.
“How about it?” Larry asked me somewhere along the line. “Lemme screw Hunk, huh?”
“Be my guest. I’ll order him to spread those buns for you,” I told Larry, bragging again. I called Hunk over, and he wasn’t too pleased when I instructed him to let Larry fuck him. But I’d educated Hunk well in the ways of discipline, and he had been program-trained for complete obedience. I could tell he didn’t like the idea, maybe wanted to argue, but he just pressed his lips together and nodded his acquiescence. Yeah, being in command and having a stud yield to me always gave me such a rush!
So Larry fucked Hunk, and I took advantage of the situation to plug Larry. From then on, both Hunk and Jerry had their tails up for grabs, and there were plenty of grabbers, believe me! Okay, so I was drunk—drunk on booze, drunk on the power I had over my two ex-wildboys. They played the part of good sex-slaves and did whatever I ordered, and I basked in the admiration of Larry and my other friends. Damn, it was one of the greatest experiences of my life! The party ended when everyone was fucked out, and I remember deciding the clean-up could wait until tomorrow, and I hit the sack with Hunk and Jerry.
When I woke up the next morning, I was alone, and that was strange. I was in the habit of waking up with a naked stud on each side of me, morning-wooded and ready to do whatever I wanted. Anyway, I found them whispering together the living room. “Where’s the damned coffee?” I growled.
“Hunk and I have been talking, Mister,” Jerry answered solemnly. “About last night.”
“Yeah, Mister,” Hunk agreed quietly. “You were acting like a damn wildboy, and that means you need to learn discipline.”
The next thing I knew, they’d jumped me and I was on the floor, held down, and being ether-masked.
Then I was waking up in the basement, looking blurry-eyed up at the ceiling. I was spread-eagled on my back on the padded table, my arms and legs bound securely.
Hunk’s voice came from over by the equipment. “But we can’t do that. What if he forgets too much and can’t update it anymore? What if he forgets about us?“
Jerry: “Okay, we won’t use that one. But we’re gonna run everything else.”
“Okay, guys,” I growled, trying to raise my head. “You’ve had your fun. Let me loose. Now! That’s an order!”
Jerry hunched over me, naked and blond and aroused. “You were acting like a wildboy, and wildboys need to be trained. That’s what you always say, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
“No, no, no! Let me up! That’s an order!” I screamed. Suddenly something small and round looped over my head from behind, and something popped into my open yelling mouth and pulled in tight. “Mmmph-rrrruph!“
A ball gag! A fucking ball gag!
From behind me, Hunk pulled the gag straps tight and secured it. They’d been ready with a way to prevent me from commanding them to stop!
Jerry looked concerned, as though not obeying my last order was causing him physical pain. “We can’t let you up, Mister,” he said. “We gotta train you. It’s for your own good. You’ll see.”
Hunk immobilized my head with his wrestler-strong hands. I’ll never forget the look of determination in Jerry’s eyes just before he clamped the helmet over my face, cutting off sight and sound.
When one of them lashed at my chest with a belt or strap, it hurt but I knew how to handle pain. Before I started training wildboys, I’d been into domination and punishment. I was mostly the punisher, but I knew my way around being the punished as well—you can’t be a good dominant unless you know what the submissive experiences, to paraphrase the old saying. I was well-acquainted with pain and how to handle it, even find pleasure in it. When the strap bit my chest, sure I yelped around the damn ball gag, but I could handle this. When something struck across my thighs, I bit down hard on the ball and endured. Hell, I knew what to expect and I could dissect exactly what they were doing and how. Analyzing what they were doing seemed almost like a game, and one I could win easily: that swat across my legs, for example, was from the multi-tailed short whip with the frayed tips—it gave a sharper sting but didn’t bruise the skin as much. If they were trying to teach me a lesson, they’d have to show me far more than this.
Hell, I’d built most of the program, and I knew exactly how it worked and exactly how it did it. For hours, maybe days, they put me through the same training I’d given them—whipping me, caressing me—and I couldn’t help but be proud of how well they’d learned from me. They knew when to discipline, when to feed and care for a wildboy, when to taunt him by merely ignoring him. Oh, parts of the experience were raw hell—the lonely hours of nothing, and the program blasting sound and light to keep me sleep-deprived and disoriented—but I was strong-willed. I wasn’t about to give in, damn it! I could take everything they threw at me.
I figured they were just going to run me through stage one, just to teach me a lesson or something. I knew every detail of what happened in stage one, how the program monitored and learned, building a baseline for use later when the next stage started—a day—two days—maybe three—no telling how long they’d set it to run. Hell, stage one didn’t do anything except measure and assess. Even stage two didn’t make any changes to the subject’s core identity, other than setting hypnotic hooks deep into his mind. Hell, stage two might even feel good. All that hypnosis-induced ecstasy?—that almost sounded tempting. Maybe I wouldn’t be too mad if they went so far as stage two.
But for now, the waiting was the worst part of stage one. The times they left me chained down and alone in the silent dark of the helmet, unable to call out intelligible words because of the gag, seemed to last forever. I kept tensing and relaxing my muscles against the chains, rubbing my hands or feet back and forth across the tabletop, anything just to feel a little sensory stimulation and pass the time between the blasts of light and sound that kept me from sleeping.
Practically the next thing I know, they’re ripping off the helmet. Whew!—They’d stopped the program before stage two started. I felt kind of groggy and headachy and stiff-muscled, but I was still me.
My arms were still chained down. My legs were free. I was on my back. The first thing I saw in the dim basement light was Jerry greasing his ivory-taut prick!
“Welcome back, Mister. Ten days and three hours—that’s how long you took, in case you’re wondering.”
My first thought was: Ten days? No way! It was only a day or two at most. They couldn’t have kept me in stage one for ten days!
But ...
I still had red marks on my thighs and chest from whippings; they were only faint pink now, healing and faded, several days old. I rubbed my cheek against my shoulder. I had many days-worth of beard stubble around my sideburns, the part of my face that had been covered by the helmet. Enough stubble to prove a shitload of time had passed.
Ten days?—Long enough to go all the way through stage four! Hell, ten days was right in the middle of the average range. My next thought was: Nah, I would have been able to hold out longer ...
Surely they hadn’t let the program run all the way through to completion—surely not! I tried to work through this; I still remembered who I was. Then I recalled what they’d said about not using the amnesia module so I wouldn’t forget what I knew about the equipment or the program. I couldn’t figure this out. Headachy, groggy, yeah—just like most of the test subjects reported, but how far had my boys let the program go? I still felt like me. A lot of the early subjects, the ones before we introduced the amnesia module, though, they’d said the same thing—even after our follow-up tests showed their minds had been retrained, reprogramed for obedience and discipline. Without the amnesia module, the program wiped away learned and self-imposed blocks and gave the psyche free rein to rewrite its identity and personality along the path that the program implanted. Had that happened to me? Was I now a blank slate waiting to be written on? I needed to figure this out, but my head was still too woozy and my thoughts didn’t quite seem to connect to each other right.
Jerry set aside the lube bottle and aimed his erection at me. Was he going to fuck me? He was going to fuck me!
Look, I was no blushing virgin where my ass was concerned, but getting fucked wasn’t something I did much—I was almost always the fucker, not the fucked. I knew for damn sure that the old me had two policies: Never tell an ex-wildboy I loved him, and Never let an ex-wildboy hump my butt. Screwing them was one thing; letting them screw me was something else! So I protested because I thought that’s what I should do: “No,” I said quietly. “Don’t ...” But to tell the truth, those objections seemed a long time ago. And another part of me? That part was feeling receptive and accepting, like maybe I shouldn’t argue. Like maybe, if Jerry wanted my ass, I should give it to him. Obedient?—Was that what I was feeling?
Jerry got into position on the table, and I didn’t struggle much as he and Hunk wrenched my legs up to expose my asshole. Jerry took aim and drove his swollen cock-head into it. Damn! No preparation—just a sudden jab as he tried to insert. I hollered because it hurt!
“Mister!” he whispered, trying to push his rod into my hole again. His dick-head started to breach my sphincter, and I was too dazed to figure out how to keep it clamped shut—and not sure I wanted to keep it shut. Things felt like they were clicking into place in my head, finding new ways to fit together.
Another thrust and Jerry got the head into me, and the first couple of inches too. “Aww, Mister!”
And—fucking ow!—he pushed again, and several more inches drove in, and then he was dicking me balls-deep, the way I had plugged him so often. After a few strokes, the pain of entry started to change, becoming more pleasurable, and all the things in my head felt like they were reorienting. I heard my own voice saying, “Fuck me, Jerry! Give it to me!“
“You’re going to get all the meat you can handle,” Hunk promised, climbing on the table over my head to drop his rigid dick into my mouth.
An instant later, with my mouth and ass full of cock-meat, I realized what I was tumbling through was the dazed imprinting state I’d seen so many wildboys experience after the helmet came off. I was lost in a dream-world of total masculinity, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for Jerry and Hunk. For the next several hours, their dicks in my mouth and ass, my dick in theirs, felt like my whole world, all of us topping each other and bottoming for each other, with no boundaries between us anymore. All of it became a blur of sex and sweat and cum and orgasm after fucking orgasm. Yeah, I suspect the three of us did just about everything there is to do, even if I don’t really remember it.
When I came to, I was stretched out on my bed, clear sunlight pouring through the open windows, and I could hear the guys giggling in the shower. My cock throbbed, half-hardening. I pulled myself up, staggered through bathroom door to join them. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, my prick snapped up full-hard. There around my neck was a locked chain collar like the ones I’d hung on Jerry and Hunk!
I stared at that collar for a moment and ... I realized it felt exactly right. With a pleased laugh, I jumped into the shower, and we all locked together, three naked men, three heated cocks.
“I love you, Mister,” Jerry whispered after a long moment, testing something.
“Me too, Mister,” Hunk sputtered from under the spray.
“I ...,” I began, admitting an old piece that had always been there but which now fit right into a new place inside me. I said it aloud to them for the first time: “I love both of you studs too!”
They beamed at me, and I grinned right back at them.
That’s the danger in taming a wildboy. Once they’ve been reeducated and taught control and discipline, they enjoy their new lives, and that makes them want to share the experience with others. I’d trained mine so well they knew exactly how to turn the tables and train me too. I didn’t mind because—screw my policy from before!—I found I really had fallen in love with them!