I don't think I'm ready to stop. Not yet.
Today's tale is about getting chased when you want to be caught. Even with all kinds of punishment that comes with being captured, sometimes it's worth it.
But you know that.
The Chase
Carl
came back to consciousness with a head full of confusion and cotton. He felt
the world around him moving, and with each bump and jolt, more of his memory
jerked into place. The smell, the dizziness; it had been ether. No, not ether.
Chlorophorm.
“You’re
sure?”
“Absolutely.”
That’s the last thing he remembered. Then the feeling of concrete at his back.
A smell that he couldn’t quite place. Then the swim back to awareness.
Carl
moved around the confined space, trying to feel his way around. He couldn’t see
a thing, but that didn’t mean much of anything. He could open and close his
mouth, which was something. Seemed somehow important.
His
hands were behind his back. Locked there, but not by something metallic.
Something that stuck to his skin, that pulled on the hair at his wrists. As he
tried to open his eyes wider, he felt that same pull at his eyebrows. He could
probably pull it loose if he kept trying. Tape. Duct tape. He rolled his head
along the floor of wherever he was, trying to find the end of the tape. But
there was no end. It seemed to go all the way around his head. And more than
once. Even if he got it loose, he’d only be able to see right in front of him.
A
heavy bump send him up into the very low ceiling, and as he landed back down he
realized where he was: the trunk of a car. Why was he in the trunk of a car?
“We’re
going to take you out into the woods.” That had been the explanation. And it
made sense. Wouldn’t work as well if he knew where he was going.
They
were going to take him out into the woods and let him go. Then they were going
to chase him down. Chase him through the woods, all of them. All of who?
His
head was still swimming, but Carl kept trying to put the pieces together.
Seemed important to remember what he was getting into before it, whatever it
was, got started.
A
contest of some sort. They’d let him out of the trunk and give him a head
start. They’d even take off the blindfold. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt
running around blind.” Someone had said that. A nice thought. But the memory
came with a snicker. With several people snickering. How many had there been?
Carl
pulled at the tape around his wrists. He felt the muscles in his shoulders
bulge and strain, and thought he felt the tape stretch a little, but he didn’t
hear any tearing. Didn’t feel any ripping. After a few seconds, he gave up and
collapsed, breathing heavily.
It
was a contest. Something about how long it took them to catch him. “We’ll give
you a ten minute head start,” he’d said. Who was he? Carl remembered a big guy.
A black guy, built like a linebacker, muscles so chiseled he could be used to
teach an anatomy class. What was his name? “After that, it’s a question of how
long it takes for us to bring you down. You manage to last a whole hour after
we start, and you’ll just have one round of rewarding us.”
More
snickers.
“Every
minute shy of that, and you owe us an hour of servitude.” Carl remembered
nodding, remembered doing the math. Sixty possible hours. That was two and a
half days. We was pretty sure he could at least take twenty minutes to get
caught. That left him with just shy of two days. He could do two days.
“We
won’t make it easy,” they’d promised.
He
might have left it to his imagination. Carl remembered looking around at them.
Half a dozen men, each of them a chocolate god. He’d imagined how much bigger
their cocks were than his, how difficult it would be to deep throat them, how
much it would hurt for them to fuck him. But they would be careful. It was,
after all, just a game. And how many times could they possibly fuck him in two
days?
Math.
It all comes down to math. Virile men. Six of them. If it took twenty minutes
to fuck him, that meant it would take two hours for all of them to bang away.
Plenty of time to recover. They could just keep going.
Wait.
Mouth was faster. Ten minutes in his mouth, twenty in his ass. So forty minutes
for all of them, if two fucked his ass and four fucked his face. They might be
able to do two rounds like that, maybe even three. But then they’d have to let
him rest, wouldn’t they?
He
could have left it to his imagination. Could have run the numbers over and over
in his head, trying to figure out how long he could hold out, how long he could
handle. Could have tried to determine how much time he needed to stay hidden
from them.
But
they hadn’t let him just imagine. He remembered that now. The promises they’d
given him.
“I’m
going to fuck your ass and then your face,” one of them said. “You’re gonna be
my shitlicker. How do you like that?”
Another
had sat down across from him and smiled. He’d put his hand on Carl’s shoulder
and thanked him for taking part in things. “I’m going to make camp,” he’d said.
“I won’t even be part of the chase. I’ll be too busy digging out a latrine pit.”
He’d ruffled Carl’s hair. “That’s where you’ll be living,” he said. “The whole
time you belong to us, if you’re not out and serving, you’ll be down in the
pit, covered in all the filth that any of us can manage to build up. Won’t be
bad at first, I bet. But man, by the end of the weekend,” he shook his head and
laughed.
That
wasn’t all. Carl listened to the car driving over gravel, letting his mind
clear, letting the memories flow back.
The
third man had showed him a dog collar, one of those choking chains. He let one
of the rings hang off his finger. “Nothing like pulling some slut back onto my
cock as I fuck him,” he said. “Cut off some of your air so you’ll be desperate
to please me. So you’ll beg me to fill your ass with cum, if only to let you
take a good breath.” He’d laughed. The snickering. That was the snicker. The
clink of chain as he lowered the collar over Carl’s head. The snick of metal on
metal as he pulled it tight. The way his air was almost, but not quite,
completely cut off. He wouldn’t die from it, but he knew it would leave
bruises. He’d be marked. As a slave, as a bitch.
Which
was okay. Bruises heal. There wouldn’t be any permanent damage. That was the
agreement. No permanent damage. Not physically, anyway. If there was
psychological damage, well… that was kind of up to Carl, wasn’t it? They were
working on faith that he would be able to handle whatever they threw at him.
They were trusting him to use that secret safe word if things got to be too
bad.
And
the fourth man promised that they would. He told Carl that the safe word would
become necessary. “If I have to spit in your mouth and slap my cock against
your face, cum in your eyes until you can’t open them, and kick the living shit
out of you, you will use your safe
word. I’m going to take it all out on you. Everything bad that ever happened, I’m
gonna use it to torture you.”
It
might have been scarier without the wink, but Carl wasn’t sure it would have
been.
The
car slid to a stop, the engine died, and Carl tried to pull himself together.
Soon. Very soon.
He
remembered what the fifth man had said. How he was going to make Carl beg for
cock, how he would condition him to love cock. He was going to turn Carl into a
dog, a dog who would drool at the sight of black cock. How he would associate
cock, and cum, with all things that were good. “When the pain stops, the cock
will come,” the man had said. “And every drop of water you drink will have cum
in it. Every scrap of filthy food we toss your way will be drenched in cum. Cum
will be your only source of warmth, your own hope, your only pleasure.”
Carl
heard the trunk open and felt the strong hands pull him out. They checked him
up and down, made sure he was okay. They asked him if anything hurt, and he
assured them he was fine.
“Close
your eyes tight,” one of them said. Carl squeezed his eyes shut, and the tape
was ripped away. Probably didn’t take his eyebrows with it, but he couldn’t be
sure. They helped him to his feet, and he felt the soft grass between his toes.
“You
might want to stretch,” someone told him. He started squatting down, trying to
stretch without falling over. Strange how much you use your hands for balance.
They were still taped tight behind his back, and no one was making any effort
to let them loose.
“You
want to back out?” the sixth man asked. The sixth man was the one who had used
the cholorophorm. He was the one who set it all up. He was the one making sure everything
was okay. “Last chance before we get started.”
Carl
swallowed with a dry mouth and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I definitely
want to do this.”
The
man looked down at Carl’s erection. “Oh, I could tell, white boy. But are you
sure you’re okay with being hunted down like a bitch and then used all weekend
without regard to your desires or your comfort?”
Carl
took a deep breath. “I’m sure.”
The
man pointed over his shoulder. Carl looked at the woods, at where the soft
grass ended and the exposed roots, the rocky ground, and the strewn pinecones waited
for his bare feet.
“Get
going then,” the man said. “Your ten minutes started when we parked the car.”
“What?”
The
man looked at his watch. “You’ve only got three minutes left, little doggy. You
might want to hurry.”
The
snickers followed him all the way to the edge of the wood, the empty wood where
he could see for what seemed like miles, where he couldn’t move even at a
walking pace without stepping on something painful.
He
might make it a full minute after they started chasing him. Maybe two or three
if he was lucky.
After
that… two and a half days.
Carl
did the math again, gasping for breath, and part of him wished there was a way
to add time to the clock, rather than take it away.
And
then he heard the horn blow, and knew his head start was over. He almost froze
where he was.
But
it had to be at least a little bit sporting. Where was the fun if he didn’t
even try to get away?
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