The GED

I had a pretty busy extracurricular activity schedule at school and on the baseball mound, but I did have Tuesday afternoons free, and Mr. Collins signed up for that time slot. He must have had quite a closet, because he was wearing a different set of lingerie each time—and a different shade of lipstick.

Tuesday's must have been one of his set days with the gardener too, as he was always there, kneeling by the roses and giving me a little nod and smile when I mounted the porch stairs to Mr. Collins's front door.

* * * *

I rather enjoyed the fucking with Mr. Collins, and it worried me that I did, but the money was too good to deny myself and put the brakes on this stuff. At $80 a week, my tin can in the storage shed was going to need company soon. I'd made it to late summer. One more year, my senior year, and I could just walk away from here—and with some serious cash in my pocket. I'd put it all behind me, or so I thought.

I was getting old enough now to accept that I was just fooling myself. I began to become obsessed with the women's lingerie—and wondering about it in connection with my nights with Tyler. I have no idea what caused me to do it, but one afternoon, when rain had wiped out a baseball practice and Tyler wouldn't be home for hours, I stole into the master bedroom and started browsing through the drawers in my mother's bureau. Tyler had done nothing about getting rid of her clothes.

I found her intimate lingerie in one of the lower drawers and I took a pair of black lace panties back to my bedroom and stripped and put them on and walked around the house for a half hour. It didn't give me quite the thrill I thought it might, but just the idea of how I wanted it to make me feel made me hard.

And then Tyler went four nights without visiting my bedroom. I didn't think he was doing this on purpose at the time, but now I think he did. Now I think he wanted me to take that last step. The first two nights I luxuriated in a full night's sleep. The third night I couldn't sleep and kept looking at my door, waiting for it to open and for Tyler to slip into the room and into my bed. On the four night I was in a stew, wondering what was wrong, why he wasn't coming.

On the fifth night I could take it no longer. I padded out of bed, stripped off my sleeping shorts, and slipped on the black lace panties I'd purloined from my mother's drawer.

Tyler was awake, on his back, no doubt waiting for me—although I didn't know it at the time. I climbed onto the bed and straddled his pelvis. He laughed and pulled my face down to his and kissed me deeply on the mouth. I could feel his cock come alive. He moved his hands over my bare torso as we kissed and then down to my hips, and I felt the jerk in his cock and heard the low gasp when he learned I was wearing lace panties. He let me know he enjoyed that a lot—but he didn't enjoy it so much that it prevented him from gripping the flimsy material covering my buttocks on both sides and rending it apart with a low ripping sound and then settling my channel on his cock through the slit he'd made.

He laid there, providing the ramrod, and smiling up into my face as I did all of the work, riding his cock in undulating waves. When he had shot his load up into me, he laughed his ultimate victory over me, the fulfillment of my conditioning.

Later, in my own room again, I couldn't sleep. I had come in the panties in Tyler's room and he'd kept them as a trophy, so I was in my sleeping shorts once more.

It had already rained once and then stopped, and I could hear the splatter of precursory rain drops once again on the window. They were promising quite a storm tonight.

I liked watching storms, and Tyler's laugh at the conclusion of our sex had awakened me to what he had conditioned me to do—that final step of me coming to him, wanting it, and willing to do all of the work to get it. This depressed me, and for the first time I wondered if staying around to complete high school was going to be the end of it—whether I could break away from Tyler even after that. And, even more depressing, I was beginning to doubt if the high school diploma was the real reason I was staying around—whether I wasn't completely under Tyler's spell now.

I couldn't sleep, so I got out of bed and took a Coke from the refrigerator and walked out onto the front porch, just in my sleeping shorts, to welcome the coming storm and to try to force my racing brain to be lost in watching the thunder and lightning show.

I had finished the Coke and gotten tired of waiting for the storm to arrive. I turned to go back into the house, but I was grabbed from behind and tossed out into the yard. I landed on the wet grass and someone was on my back, his knee in the small of my back, and my hands were pulled behind me and being tied off. A burlap sack was pulled over my head and I was roughly pulled up and frog marched across the yard, tossed into the back seat of a car, and, after doors slammed, the car was on the move.

I have no idea how long we drove; I was too stunned by the sudden assault to keep any sort of track, but the car eventually stopped after a particularly bumpy ride at the last. I could hear the pattering of rain on the metal roof. The storm was starting. I heard a door open at the front of the car—and slam shut—and then one of the doors to the rear seat opened, and I almost tumbled out of the car. Strong hands grabbed me, though, and lift and tossed me toward the other side of the car. Someone was in the back seat with me. His chest was pressing in on mine—he was bare-chested, so I knew it was a man, and heavy muscled and slick with sweat. I heard and felt the ripping of my sleeping shorts—and heavy breathing. Whoever it was was too agitated to just pull my pants off. I was wedged, facing up, in the back corner of the seat. The seat was wide and plush, I figured some older model car—something American and from the 60s, maybe.

Rough hands were forcing my thighs apart and raising my legs, and the man was between my legs, and I screamed as a cock far thicker than either Tyler's or Mr. Collins's split me and forced itself deep inside my channel and I was being furiously fucked. He bit into my nipple and I cried out in pain again. I began to sneeze from the dustiness of the sack over my head. I tried to suppress it, thinking, "No, please don't take the sack off, please don't take the sack off"—knowing that if he did I would see what he looked like. And if he didn't care if I knew what he looked like, then . . .

I couldn't suppress the sneezing, though, and also began to cough. And the sack was drawn off my head.

It was Mr. Collins's gardener.

"Why?" I cried out.

He backhanded me across the face and growled, "Shut the fuck up."

And I turned my head toward the window in the passenger door I was wedged up against and watched the storm roll over us. There was thunder and lightning aplenty, and it seemed like each clap of thunder and flash of lightning was accompanied by a ramrod splitting me asunder. Each time the thunder clapped, I lurched at the thrust of his cock inside me, each time thinking he couldn't go further down inside me, widen my channel with his monster tool any wider, but, with each thunder clap, he did.

He fucked me with intense purpose and abandon, and I moaned and groaned at how much fuller and more intense his taking of me was than Tyler's and Collins's fuckings were. He wanted me and drilled me in ways they hadn't done, moving deep inside me, relentlessly fucking, making me writhe and whimper and cry out, afraid of what came after this, and then, because he was at it so long and so deep, afraid that this was the last of me—fucked to death. I had ejaculated a long time before he exploded and fell on top of me, sweaty and panting. Holding me tight, his breathing becoming less ragged but his cock coming back to life inside me the longer he held me there.

The second fucking, in consort with the abating of the thunderstorm into a gentle rain, was slower, more methodic and longer, with his hands now searching my body more, as if assuring himself that I actually was here, that the snatch and furious fuck that went before were real, not just one of the longing wet dreams that had driven him to do this.

When he was finished, he covered my head with the sack again and went over the front seat back into the driver's position while I whimpered, exhausted and taken as neither Tyler nor Mr. Collins had ever done with me.

We drove on for a half hour or more, and I sensed when we turned off asphalt and onto gravel and then, eventually onto dirt—probably mud now. The last quarter of a mile or more was on jarringly rough road.

I was bundled out of the car, across uneven dirt, and up onto a wooden porch—which I discern because I was barefooted, and then through a door which was closed behind us. I heard two bolts being thrown on the door and the scrape of a key in a lock. The sack was jerked off my head again.

He had prepared for me. This wasn't a casual snatch. We were standing in a log cabin that was about twenty feet square. The windows were all shuttered from at least the inside. There was a double bed in one corner and chains were welded to the wall above the headboard. At the loose end of the chains were wrist clamps, and this was where the gardener herded me—over to the bed, where he pushed me down on my belly. He untied my binding and turned me over on my back on the bed and forcing my wrists into the wrist clamps. The chains attached to the walls were short, and I couldn't move my hands below my shoulders as I lay on the bed.

The gardener stripped off his wet jeans and his briefs and came down on the bed, forcing his knees between my thighs and sliding them under my buttocks. Then he thrust his cock inside my channel again, and fucked me for a third time—long and hard, with animalistic noises like he'd been building up to do this for months and hadn't had sex in the meantime.

He said nothing to me, didn't answer my whimpered questions or respond to my pleadings. If he hadn't told me to shut up in the car in half-decent English, I would have thought there was a language barrier between us. There certainly wasn't any other barrier between us.

He got out of the bed and padded around turning off lights. I had only a brief opportunity to see what was there, while he was doing so. Just one room. A small kitchenette area over on the front wall by the door we'd come through. This bed was in one back corner and a raised tin square about three foot square was in the other back corner. A shower head was on the wall above this. A toilet was set in the wall at one side of the open shower square and a white porcelain sink on the other. Thus, the room was completely exposed. There was an old couch with the stuffing coming out. A small desk against the front wall, on the other side of the door from the kitchenette—with a laptop computer on it—a round wood table with three mismatched straight chairs in the center of the room, and an overstuffed chair that didn't match the couch.

Just this one bed. When he'd turned out the lights, he came back to the bed and stretched beside me and almost instantly started to snore. It took me longer to go to sleep, and shortly after that, he was waking me again, turning me on my belly—with my chained arms crossed above me—and straddling my hips and fucking me again.

When I woke in the morning, he'd changed the chains. They were longer now, enough so that I could get out of the bed and stand and walk maybe three feet from the bed. There was a hunk of bread and a cup of cold coffee on the nightstand next to the bed and two tin bowls on the floor below that. One was about a third filled with water and there was a sponge floating in it. The other was empty and had a half of roll of toilet paper in it. I could pretty much tell what both of those bowls were for.

The gardener was pissing in the toilet on the other side of the room. He was still naked, as, of course, was I. I listened as he emptied his bladder in a long, steady stream going on for almost a minute.

I wolfed down the bread and drank the coffee as the gardener moved to the sink and brushed his teeth and shaved. He still looked like an Hispanic to me. But he had a well-worked body, muscles bulging on muscles, and his cock and balls were hanging heavy. He was taking side glances at me as I sat on the edge of the bed and chewed on the bread, and I could see that he was getting hard again.

So, I wasn't surprised when he put his razor down when he'd only half shaved and came over and grabbed for my legs while I sat on the bed. I slapped at his hands as best I could and told him no as emphatically as I was able, but he just stunned me again with a backhanded slap across my face that snapped my head to one side, and roughly grabbed my legs, tipping me back on the bed, and crouched been my thighs and fucked me to his ejaculation.

When he was finished with me, he just left me there, my heels dug into the corners of the bed and my legs spread and trembling, and me moaning softly, and went back to his shaving. He took a shower, dressed in his gardening work clothes, and was gone for the rest of the day.

The first thing he did when he returned to the cabin that night was fuck me again. He obviously had been building up to this and looking forward to it for some time. After that, he usually didn't do it more than once a day, but he never got tired of doing it.

When the first weekend came up, he brought out some red lace panties he had been keeping hidden somewhere, put a slit up the middle of them in back with a knife, and forced them over my legs. He then sat on the edge of the bed, forced me onto his lap and cock—through the slit in the panties—with me facing away from him and stroked my cock through the material of the panties until we both had come. He hung the torn panties with my cum in them on the bedpost, where they remained for a week. I now knew that he'd been peeping on me at Mr. Collins—and probably at my own house too while Tyler was fucking me.

And I now also knew what had prompted this elaborate scheme.

I stayed with Julio—for after the first few weeks I ascertained at least that much about him, that his name was Julio—for thirteen months. I knew it was thirteen months, because he had a calendar hanging above the desk and he delighted in marking off the days. He delighted even more in the first few weeks he held me captive in marking off each time he fucked me. And there were more of the latter marks than the former.

Slowly, over the initial months, he lengthened my chains in stages of trust. The longest addition, permitting me full access to the cabin so that I then could shower in the corner stall too and go to the toilet properly and have access to food and drink was the night I woke him up and straddled his cock and fucked myself on him. That was a watershed of him believing I wanted him now and that he'd won me over.

He took the shutters off the windows soon after that, and I discovered we were in the deep woods, with a clearing for a power line not far in front of the cabin and railroad tracks in back. I'd already ascertained that a train ran by somewhere near at three set times a day, as it was about the only sound of life outside the cabin I'd heard for two months at that point. It didn't escape my notice either that the train ran slow in this section of the forest.

By that time I'd figured I was here for good—or at least until something drastic happened. No one had come for me; there was no hint that anyone was looking for me. And I thought that figured. I was over eighteen. The school system couldn't touch me if I'd decided just to drop out. And Tyler wouldn't come looking for me; he would just have figured that I'd had enough and had cleared out that night I disappeared. I had screamed obscenities at him the night I'd left—mad, frustrated, and angry that he'd tricked me into coming to his room on my own for the fuck and begging for the fuck—and taking all responsibility for it. Tyler would neither wonder at me leaving that night nor want anyone to look into my disappearance too closely.

So, I was on my own. And seeing the effect of initiating the fuck on Julio—which I had tried as an experiment—had given me hope of being able to work on his vanity. I was making use now of what Tyler had taught me in his conditioning—he had taught me to move from one frame of mind to another just by gradual reconditioning. In Julio's case the method could still be sex, which Julio was obsessed with, but the goal would be developing a level of trust that would, I hoped, eventually set me free.

I made him believe I couldn't get enough of his cock now—and I admitted even to myself that it was, indeed, a very nice cock. I went after him and gave him master head, something he'd never had done before, and more often than not I was initiating the sex—and complimenting him on what a great lover he was. I asked him to bring more lacy and silky panties, and we repeated the fetish that he seemed to enjoy so much.

Increasingly, he was giving me little freedoms and favors here and there. And I was showing appreciation for them and doing my best to convince him that I was here by choice now.

Then, purposely, I went into a blue funk. He, of course, asked me why, noticing that my end of the lovemaking had become lethargic. I told him I was bored—and wanted to use the Internet. He said that wasn't possible. I cried and pouted and told him that I wanted to study—that I could complete my high school via the Internet by taking GED—general education diploma—classes on line. He told me he couldn't really trust me alone on the Internet, and I said, he could use the keyboard and I'd just sit there and do the class work.

He wanted good sex again, so he gave in to me. I started working on a GED on line to complete my last year of high school—thinking that if nothing else in life I could try to fulfill the promise I'd made to my mother. And, in turn, I gave Julio great sex again.

After a month of acting as intermediary for my studies, Julio got bored and let me do the classes myself. I was careful to stick to only that on the Internet, though, as he tested me several times to make sure that was all I was doing. And I gave Julio really great sex, thinking of inventive positions that he'd never even dreamed of before.

I had him convinced in the first eight months that I couldn't live without him, that all of the police in the state couldn't close in on the cabin and pry me from his bed.

The chains came off completely. But I was still naked. Julio had never permitted me to wear a stitch of clothes. That was one hedge on me not going anywhere. He had locks on the doors of the drawers and closet he used for his clothes and he kept them all secure.

For a couple of more months he still locked me in the cabin and shuttered the windows, using the outside shutters, when he went to work. I gave him no reason to think I'd even thought about trying to escape, and I always had my legs open for him, begging for it, when he came home.

He was the world's greatest stud. I couldn't go five hours without a cocking by him and by him only. I made him believe that.

I had complete freedom of the cabin and its environs for a full month during which he laid many a scheme to catch any sign that I'd tried to leave him.

At the end of that month, I completely finished my online GED work. I went to a virtual graduation ceremony, without inviting Julio to it or telling him that I had finished the work—and had a graduation certificate waiting for me on line for whenever I wanted to download it.

The next day, a Tuesday, while Julio presumably was pruning Mr. Collins's roses, I put on trousers and a T-shirt of Julio's that I had kept out of the wash and Julio hadn't noticed were missing when he'd locked his clothes away, dug the pair of old boots out from under the bed that Julio had thought he'd taken to the dump with other trash, and held my breath until I heard the whistle of the train somewhere down the track, where it blew its whistle three times a day at almost exactly the same time.