Chapter 9: The Training Begins
The air in Rhys’s penthouse dungeon was different. Quieter. It didn’t hum with the anticipation of an audience; it throbbed with the intent of a single mind. The scent was cleaner—leather conditioner, disinfectant, and beneath it all, the pervasive, metallic hint of so-called objects soon to be employed. The reinforced St. Andrew’s cross stood as the room’s dark heart, bolted directly into the concrete floor, its heavy black leather straps waiting.
“Strip him,” Rhys said, his voice echoing softly off the high ceilings. He didn’t touch Damon himself.
Julian and Leo moved with a new, confident purpose. Their hands were firm, impersonal, as they peeled the last remnants of Damon’s clothing from his sweat-cooled skin. He didn’t fight. He stood, a statue of defeated muscle, his blue eyes fixed on a distant point on the gray wall as they removed his boxers. The cool air prickled against his nakedness, a constant, humiliating reminder. Rule One: Naked at all times.
“Leo, the cage. The heavy stainless from the case.” Rhys pointed to a polished metal box on a shelf.
Leo fetched it, the steel gleaming dully under the spotlights. It was a formidable device, with a thick welded ring and a complex locking mechanism. Julian guided Damon’s flaccid, seemingly indifferent cock and balls through the base ring. The metal was shockingly cold. The click of the lock was a final, definitive sound. The weight of it, a solid pound of encumbering steel, hung between Damon’s thighs, an anchor to his new state.
Rhys approached, holding a simple, medium-sized silicone dildo and a bottle of lube. “You understand the rules. The first is evident. The second: every morning, every evening, you will kneel and suck each of us until we are satisfied. You will take our come as a royal oath of your service. It is not pleasure. It is liturgy.” He squeezed a cold, slick stream onto the toy. “Now, present yourself.”
With a nod from Rhys, Julian and Leo maneuvered Damon onto the cross, securing his wrists and ankles tightly to the black wood. He was spread, exposed, utterly vulnerable. Rhys pressed the blunt, lubricated tip of the dildo against him. Damon’s body remained stubbornly unaroused, his caged cock a soft, captive lump of flesh. Rhys pushed the toy in with a single, steady thrust.
It was a clinical invasion. Damon gasped, more from the shock of the temperature and the intrusion than from any building pleasure. His jaw was tight.
“See how he resists?” Rhys said to Julian and Leo, who stood close, watching their former Master’s training. “The mind is still clinging to a cliff edge. The body will follow. It always does.” He began to work the dildo in and out, a slow, rhythmic fucking that was relentless in its pacing. “Julian, your turn. Choose the next size up. Focus on the angle. You want to press here.” Rhys guided Julian’s hand, positioning the larger dildo to rub insistently against Damon’s prostate.
Julian’s eyes were alight with a fervent, almost religious intensity as he took over. He fucked Damon with the tool, his strokes more eager, less precise than Rhys’s. “Feel that, Sir?” Julian murmured, the title now a twisted courtesy. “You’re taking it so well.” Damon turned his face away, his breath hitching with each deep drive, but his cock remained soft and ignored in its steel prison.
The days blurred into a punishing cycle of exposure and enforced service.
Dawn would see Damon on his knees on the cold dungeon floor, naked and caged, performing the Royal Oath. Leo would go first, gripping Damon’s hair, fucking his mouth with rough, quick strokes until he came with a groan, dumping his load down Damon’s throat. “Swallow, slave,” Leo would command, a new authority colouring his voice. Julian would be next, slower, more cruel, making Damon lick and suck until his jaw ached, finally releasing while holding Damon’s nose, forcing him to gulp for air and semen simultaneously. Rhys was last, always. His was a quiet, deep-throated use, his fingers stroking Damon’s hair almost tenderly as he emptied himself, making Damon clean him with his tongue afterwards.
Then, the cross. The dildos grew larger, more intimidating. By the third day, they were using a model of such grotesque girth that Damon screamed when it first breached him, a raw, animal sound of protest. His body was forced to accommodate, stretched and used as a training sheath. Through it all, his own cock remained dormant, a dead thing in its cage. It was his last fortress, and he clung to its silence.
Rhys watched, endlessly patient. He instructed Julian and Leo in anatomy, in psychology, in the art of pacing. They were being groomed, their loyalty shifting from shattered awe of Damon to eager service to Rhys.
On the fifth day, something shifted during the evening oath. Damon was servicing Leo, his movements rote and tired. But as Leo’s cockhead bumped the back of his throat, a familiar, damning heat flickered low in Damon’s belly. A twitch. Metal clicked softly against metal. He froze, but Rhys, observing from an armchair, saw it. He said nothing.
The sixth day’s training involved a terrifyingly long, tapered toy. Julian worked it into Damon with a slow, twisted patience, crooning, “Look at you, opening up like a good sleeve. You were born for this, weren’t you?” The sensation was a strange, full ache that travelled deep into his core. Sweat dripped down Damon’s temples. He panted, his forehead pressed against the cool wood of the cross. And again, that traitorous heat surged. His caged cock strained, just a fraction, a faint pulse of blood pushing against unyielding steel. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed.
The seventh morning arrived. The ritual began.
Damon knelt, the cold floor a familiar discomfort. He took Leo, his mind elsewhere, fixed on the memory of the previous night’s full feeling. He swallowed Leo’s release automatically. Julian was next, and as Damon nursed at him, the taste of skin, the musky scent, the controlled power in Julian’s thighs… the heat returned, stronger. A distinct, undeniable throbbing began within the cage. It thickened, pressing against its confines with a dull, persistent ache.
Julian finished, chuckling as he tapped the straining steel. “Someone’s awake.”
Then it was Rhys’s turn. Damon looked up, his blue eyes wide, not with defiance, but with a confused, hungry desperation. Rhys placed his cock against Damon’s lips. “Your oath, slave.”
Damon didn’t just open his mouth. He leaned into it, taking Rhys deep, his tongue swirling with a frantic, needy energy he didn’t recognize in himself. He sucked with a voraciousness that made Rhys’s breath catch. The metal cage felt like it was burning him, his erection trapped and painful, a direct line of fire to his gut. He was moaning around Rhys’s shaft, his hips making small, useless jerks against empty air.
Rhys pulled out, his own control fraying. “What is it?” he asked, his voice rough.
Damon’s words were a broken, gasping plea, muffled by lust and shame. “It… the cage… it hurts. I’m… hard.” He gasped, the admission tearing itself free. “Please. The dildos… they’re not… I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Rhys pressed, his hand tightening in Damon’s hair.
Tears of sheer, frantic need welled in Damon’s eyes. The last wall crumbled. “I need real things. Please, Rhys. A real cock. Your cock. Anything. Just… please. I need to be fucked. For real.”
The silence in the dungeon was absolute. Julian and Leo stared, mesmerized. Rhys looked down at the man he had shattered and reassembled, now begging from a place of genuine, physical want. The victory was so complete it tasted like nectar.
“On the table” Rhys commanded “Now. Show me how badly you need it.”
The broken plea still hung in the air, a confession that seemed to dissolve the final lattice of Damon’s old spine. He moved on pure, shame-driven instinct, his body answering Rhys’s command before his mind could formulate a protest. The stainless steel of his cage felt impossibly heavy as he clambered onto the low, padded table, the cool leather sticking to his sweat-slicked thighs.
He positioned himself on his knees, then bent forward, his torso flat against the surface. The posture was achingly familiar, one he had demanded of others a hundred times. He reached back with trembling hands, took a sharp breath that hitched in his throat, and used his fingers to pull his own cheeks apart, exposing the puffy, well-used hole that had been the focus of a week’s brutal attention. The air in the room felt cold against his exposed flesh.
Rhys’s low laugh was a warm, humiliating current against his back. “Look at that presentation. You really are a natural born slut.” A calloused thumb rubbed over the exposed furl, making Damon jolt. “But my real cock isn’t on the menu for you yet. You need to earn that.” The thumb pressed inward, not entering, just applying degrading pressure. “Your choices are Leo or Julian. Pick which of your former subordinates gets to break in your new ass first.”
Damon’s hands faltered, his cheeks starting to close. “No.” The word was a weak exhalation. “Rhys, please, not them. Anyone but… I can’t.” The thought of being penetrated by a man who had once knelt to kiss his boots ignited a last, guttering flame of pride. He couldn’t.
“You can, and you will.” Rhys’s voice lost its playful edge, becoming flat and absolute. “You are their slave now. Your preference is irrelevant.” His hand snapped forward, delivering a stinging slap to Damon’s upturned ass that echoed in the quiet room. “Leo. Julian. You’re both up. Lube.”
The sound of a cap clicking open was obscenely loud. Damon flinched as a cold, thick stream of silicone-based lubricant poured directly onto his hole, dripping down his perineum and onto his trapped, aching balls. He heard the soft rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle.
“I’ll start,” Julian’s voice was close, husky with anticipation. He positioned himself behind Damon, the broad, hot head of his cock nudging against the lubricated entrance. “You kept this tight for me, Sir? All that training just for this?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed forward with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, brutal motion.
Damon’s cry was ripped from him, a raw sound of violation that was both pain and shocking, unwelcome fullness. Julian was thick, and the stretch was immediate, a burning claim that filled him utterly. “Fuck, yes,” Julian grunted, his hands gripping Damon’s hips hard enough to bruise. “You feel that? That’s my cock in your ass. You’re just a hole now.” He began to move, setting a deep, punishing rhythm, each withdrawal and thrust punctuated by the wet, slapping sound of flesh on flesh.
The sensation was a tsunami, overwhelming every synapse. The painful stretch bloomed into a deep, internal friction that lit up his nerves. His own caged dick, ignored and imprisoned, gave a violent, helpless throb, smearing pre-cum against the inside of its steel prison. He was being fucked, truly fucked, and his body was betraying him with waves of illicit pleasure. “Stop… oh god,” Damon sobbed, his face pressed into the leather, but his hips began to make tiny, involuntary pushes back onto the invading length.
“He’s pushing back on it, look at that,” Leo chuckled, stroking his own erection as he watched. “Begging to stop but fucking himself on it. Pathetic.”
After several minutes of relentless pounding, Julian pulled out with a wet groan, his cock glistening. “Your turn, Leo. He’s all warmed up for you.”
Leo wasted no time. He aligned himself and slammed home, his angle different, higher, immediately grinding against Damon’s prostate. A white-hot wire of pleasure snapped tight in Damon’s gut, and he screamed, a sound stripped of all humanity. “There it is!” Leo crowed, holding himself deep, grinding his pubic bone in ruthless circles. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? That’s what makes a big, important man like you leak like a faucet.”
Damon was sobbing openly, tears and saliva soaking the leather beneath his cheek. Pleasure, sharp and catastrophic, radiated from his core. Each grind made his caged erection jerk and leak, a continuous, clear drip now pattering onto the table. He was drowning in sensation, his mind fracturing. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it never to stop.
Rhys watched, his own arousal evident, but his focus was clinical. “Switch again. Every three minutes. Don’t let him adjust. Don’t let him think.”
The change became the only constant. Julian’s deeper, slower thrusts were replaced by Leo’s aggressive, pinpoint attacks on his prostate. Just as Damon’s body would tense toward a peak from Leo’s assault, Julian would reclaim him, the different stretch pulling him back from the edge. They used him in turns, a living, breathing fleshlight, their conversation casual over his prone form. “He’s getting sloppy inside,” Julian noted, breathing hard. “Like he’s already coming without coming.”
“Good,” Leo gasped, shoving back in after Julian yielded. “Make him a mess.”
The cycle continued, a torturous carousel of penetration. Damon lost all sense of time, reduced to a vessel of conflicting sensations: the burning fullness, the devastating friction on his prostate, the agonizing pressure in his balls that had no release. His entire world narrowed to the cock in his ass and the cruel, unyielding cage on his own. A thin, continuous moan spilled from his lips with every exhale.
“Look at him leak,” Rhys said, his voice close. He reached under the table, collecting some of the clear fluid dripping from Damon’s cage on two fingers. He shoved them into Damon’s mouth. “Taste it. That’s all you get. That’s all you’re ever going to get unless I allow it.”
The taste of his own pathetic fluid was a brackish, metallic shame on his tongue. He swallowed, the act itself a further degradation, as Leo’s cock pistoned into him from behind with tireless, mechanical rhythm. The pleasure was a vice now, tightening its jaws around his spine, and the pressure in the steel cage had evolved into a throbbing, desperate ache that screamed for relief. Every thrust from Leo, every deep grind from Julian when they switched, pushed him closer to an edge he was forbidden to cross, his body a live wire strung taut between torture and unbearable need.
“Flip him,” Rhys commanded, his voice cutting through Damon’s choked gasps. “I want to see his face when it happens.”
Strong hands hauled him upright, then onto his back on the padded leather. The world swam, spotlights blurring into halos above him. Julian climbed over him, his knees boxing Damon’s ribs, his cock, slick and ruddy, hovering at Damon’s entrance. Without ceremony, he sank down, sheathing himself inside Damon’s used body in one smooth, oppressive stroke. The fullness was immediate, a heavy possession that stole Damon’s breath. “There we go,” Julian groaned, bracing his hands on Damon’s chest, his thumbs brushing over Damon’s nipples with a mocking familiarity. “Look at you. My own personal fucktoy.”
The position was an intimacy Damon couldn’t bear. He was forced to look up into Julian’s face, to see the triumphant gleam in the eyes of the man who had once polished his boots with reverence. Julian began to move, riding him with a slow, rolling intensity that struck every sensitive nerve deep inside. Damon’s hips bucked, a useless, involuntary spasm, his caged cock straining so violently he thought the metal might crack. A raw, broken sound escaped his lips.
“You got something to say?” Julian panted, increasing his pace, his balls slapping against Damon’s skin. “Use your words, Sir.”
The title was a poison dart. It shattered the last fragile dam. “Please,” Damon begged, the word tearing from a raw throat. His hands, which had lain limp at his sides, flew to the hateful cage, his fingers scrambling at the cold steel. “This… take it off. I can’t… I need to cum. I need it, please, just let me cum!”
His vision blurred with tears of pure, abject desperation. He was so close, a coiled spring ready to snap, held back only by that cruel, unyielding barrier.
Everything stopped. Julian went still, buried deep inside him. The only sound was Damon’s ragged, wet sobs. Rhys stepped into his line of sight, looking down at him with an expression of cool assessment. “You want the cage removed?” Rhys asked, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather.
“Yes,” Damon wept, his entire body trembling. “God, yes, please.”
“There’s a price,” Rhys said softly. He glanced at Julian, then at Leo who stood nearby, stroking himself. “You will address them both as Master. You will ride one of them, in this position, until you achieve a hands-free orgasm. Your own cock will not be touched. It will drip and spurt like the useless, overstimulated slut-cock it is, all while you’re getting fucked. Do you understand the terms?”
The humiliation was volcanic, burning through the last of his dignity. To call them Master. To achieve release not from his own touch, but purely from the penetration of a former slave. It was the ultimate rewrite of his entire history. He hesitated for one last, choking second, feeling Julian’s cock pulse inside him, a promise and a threat.
“I understand,” Damon whispered.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I understand!” Damon cried out.
“Good. Julian, get off him. Let him work for it.”
Julian withdrew, leaving Damon feeling empty and cold. Rhys produced the small key. The click of the lock was louder than any scream. The cage was lifted away, and Damon’s freed cock sprang up, flushed dark purple and dripping incessantly, a monument to his torment. The air on his wet skin was a shock.
“Who do you want, whore?” Rhys asked.
Damon’s eyes flicked between them, the salt of his tears stinging the corners of his mouth. He looked at Leo. “Him.”
“Then ask properly.”
Damon drew a shuddering breath that hitched in his chest. He looked up at Leo, who was now standing by the table, his expression one of awestruck greed. The words were barbed wire pulled from his throat. “Master Leo. Please. Let me ride you. I need to cum on your cock.”
A wide, disbelieving grin split Leo’s face. He climbed onto the table, lying back. Damon moved, his limbs feeling like someone else’s, and straddled Leo’s hips. He reached behind himself, guiding Leo’s thick head to his hole, which was still loose and slick from use. He sank down, a low, guttural moan escaping him as he was filled once more, the penetration now under his own control.
“Fuck yeah,” Leo breathed, his hands coming to rest on Damon’s thighs, not guiding, just feeling the muscle work.
Damon began to move, a slow, rocking grind that quickly became more desperate. He threw his head back, his own untouched cock bobbing, a leaking, frantic thing. The angle was perfect, each downward drive massaging his prostate with ruthless efficiency. Pleasure, pure and scorching, radiated from his core. “Master Julian,” Damon gasped, the title forcing itself out as he looked at the other man. “Is this… is this what you wanted to see?”
“Almost,” Julian said, stepping close. He spat into his palm, then reached out, not touching Damon’s cock, but roughly fondling his balls, tugging and rolling the aching sac. “You gotta really fucking earn it. Come on. Cum from getting your ass stretched. Show us all you’re nothing but a hole.”
The dual sensation—the deep, internal stroking and the rough handling of his balls—pushed Damon into a white-hot frenzy. He rode Leo harder, faster, his ass slapping down onto Leo’s pelvis, the sound wet and obscene. His own cock jerked violently, pre-cum painting streaks across Leo’s stomach. The pressure built, a tsunami with no warning, cresting from the depths of his violated core.
“I’m… Masters, I’m gonna cum!” he shrieked, the honorifics a final surrender.