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Camp Conscription

By: Ronald Phillips
Published By: Blushing Press
Copyright: �2014 by Blushing Books� and Ronald Phillips
38 Chapters / 61,100 Words
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In a remote cabin at Camp Conscription, 7 men searching for personal fulfillment come together for a ten day adventure.

Can they accept who they are and who they want to be?

Camp Conscription will make them think.. It will make them cry. It will make them hard. But most of all it will change their lives.

Chapter One

Contemplative warriors faced each other across the deserted middle of a sturdy chessboard, standing in silent homage to their kings as powers greater than themselves devised their schemes of deceit, guile and destruction.� A massive pine tree, guarding wilderness from civilization�or was it the other way around��shielded the small clearing’s lone picnic table from a blistering late afternoon summer sun.� When the air stirred, which it did only sparingly, it suggested the fragrance of green needles and tall grass.� Any number of country roads could have led to a similar spot, but few of them did.�

Luke waited for his Master, having placed each piece precisely in the center of its appropriate square�or as close as trembling fingers would permit.� He silenced his cell phone.� Interruptions to private time were not tolerated.� Be still, he instructed his restless legs, but they refused. His feet churned up dust where grass once thrived.

Tad slid onto the bench opposite Luke.� He took one black pawn and one white pawn and switched them from hand to hand under the table.� “Choose.”�

A calm breeze brushed their faces�one uncertain, the other composed.� How could his companion be so serene?� Is this what happens when you hit the magical quarter century?� If so, Luke was eager for three more years to pass.� But it was clearly not that simple.� They had left Tad’s tumultuous and unpredictable world behind, and here in the small confines of Camp Conscription, his unmitigated power gave rise to an unaccustomed composure.� “Left,” Luke replied.�

Tad gave Luke the black pawn from his left hand.� They replaced the pieces on the board and turned it around.� “Everything ready inside?”

“Cages locked.”� Luke glanced over Tad’s shoulder at an austere rustic cabin about the size of a small house.� “Dungeon furniture strategically placed.� Collars displayed.� I don’t know what else to do.”

Tad shoved the pawn in front of his king forward two squares.� “You’re as ready as you’re going to be.”

Luke pushed his pawn up to match his opponent’s, scraping the bottom of the piece along the board.� “I still don’t understand why I need to be in charge.”

“Because I said so.”�

“I’m not questioning your authority, Sir.� I’m just afraid I’ll mess it up.”� Luke’s fingers drummed nervously on the table.� A deep-throated blue jay emitted a strident call, breaking an awkward silence.� “I don’t have a dominant bone in my body.”

Tad’s voice was steady and unequivocal.� “Then you’ll have to pretend.”

Luke poured two glasses of icy lemonade from a large pitcher with streams of water running down the outside.� He nudged one toward Tad, barely lifting it off the table.� Hand, stop shaking!� “Must be a hundred fucking degrees.”

The game unfolded quickly at first.� Then, on the seventh move, Tad introduced an unexplored variation.� “Something new.� Won’t kill you.”

Luke wiped the sweat from his forehead with his fingers.� “I’m still nervous.”

Tad placed his right foot lightly on top of Luke’s left, moderating the constant vibration.� “It’s for your own good.� Don’t you trust me?”�

The question was rhetorical.� In the eleven months they had been together, Tad had demanded total obedience and frequent sex.� But limits had been observed.� Infatuation had grown into friendship.� Friendship had nurtured the kind of love that dwells in unseasoned hearts.� “Of course I do.”

“And we’ve reviewed the applications, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

�“Then I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Luke nodded.� It was time to drop the issue, regardless of how he felt.� He removed a large gray handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck.

�They studied the board.� Lapses between moves grew longer.�

“What’s for dinner?” Tad asked.

“I thought maybe we should prepare ourselves for ten days of famine.”� The corners of Luke’s mouth betrayed otherwise somber cheeks and introspective eyes.� Tad had developed a sense of humor about his rudimentary cooking skills.� “Rib-eye steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, tips of asparagus.� Brownies a la mode.”

“You can do all that � in there?”� Tad waved in a desultory manner toward another structure, similar in construction to the first but less than half as big.� “The kitchen reminds me of a broom closet.”

“Don’t be a size queen.� Small can be beautiful.”

They played in silence.� “Shit!”� Luke hadn’t seen the knight fork coming.� He would lose either his rook or his queen.�

“Had that planned for six moves,” Tad boasted.� Indeed, he was a skillful player, prone neither to the spectacular nor the careless, but methodical and meticulous.� He wore his opponents down, like Sherman marching to the sea�plundering their armies piece by piece, foiling their feeble assaults with unexpected counterattacks, crushing them with a singularity of purpose that left only one option: submission and surrender to a dominant force.�

�Thirteen moves after knocking Luke’s rook off the board, Tad advanced his queen triumphantly.� “Checkmate!”

Luke tossed the pieces back into the box.� “Nice game, Sir.”�

Some day, he would win.� He would study the masters if that’s what it took.� Occasionally, in quiet moments, he reflected on this near-obsession, this silent conspiracy he had chosen not to share with anyone.� He wasn’t proud of it, nor did he understand it.� But he accepted it.� “Everyone has secrets,” his psychology professor had said, “and the most profound of all are the ones we keep from ourselves.”�

Shadows had lengthened.� Luke offered Tad another glass of lemonade, which he declined.� “You always want to know what I’m feeling�right, Sir?”� Tad gave Luke the “I know what’s coming” look and offered permission to speak by the absence of any indication to the contrary.� “I’m sorry to bring it up, Sir, but � are you sure you’re okay with my having sex with the guys?”

“We talked about that.� I understand it will probably happen.”� Tad looked into the distance and directed his quiet acceptance more toward the pine tree than to his companion.� “I’ll deal with it.”

Matthew’s biographical sketch in particular had fairly screamed “virgin.”� Yes, it would need to happen.� “And you don’t mind cooking?”

“Not my favorite activity,” Tad stated, minimizing the truth considerably.� “But you’ll have your hands full.”�

They walked toward the small cabin.� Tad waited at the screen door.� Luke opened it for him, ignored the annoying high-pitched squeak, and offered a sheepish grin.� “Last chance to change your mind.”

“You’re going to be punished.”�

Luke wasn’t sure whether Tad was kidding or not.� Sometimes being a slave means you just didn’t know.

* * * *

Luke loaded the dishwasher, set it to begin in three hours, and found Tad resting but alert in a comfortable recliner in the living room area of the small cabin.� “Still fucking hot in here, slave.”

“We can turn the fan on when we go to sleep.”

“No.� Strip to your briefs.� Bring the fan in here.� And the handcuffs.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The door to the tiny, sparsely appointed bedroom was only ten feet away.� Luke returned a minute later and got an icy reception.�

“Did I say you could walk?”��

“No, Sir.”� Luke dropped to his hands and knees.� “Do you want me to do it over?”� The lines in Tad’s face had hardened.� There was no overt indication that he noticed the hint of reluctance in Luke’s voice.

“How long have you been my slave?”

“I’m sorry, Sir.� I should have known.”� Luke crawled toward the bedroom, awkwardly pushing the fan in front of him with his right hand and holding the cuffs in his left.� When he re-emerged, he found Tad naked, sitting forward in his chair, stroking a gigantic hard-on.�

Luke plugged the fan into a nearby socket and turned it to high.� He handed the cuffs to his Master, pushed himself up to his knees, turned around, and put his hands behind his back.� He felt the steel close around his wrists and heard the clicks that restricted his freedom.� His cock twitched, caught desperately in the underwear that had trapped it mid-way up.� But freeing it was now impossible.� Master Tad would determine the degree and intensity of any physical stimulation he would experience.� Luke turned again and faced the man he served, the man he revered, the man whose body he craved.

“May I lick your tats, Sir?”

Tad bent down slightly, and Luke’s tongue massaged first the deep blue three-link chain graphically embedded in the skin just below the Master’s shoulder on his right arm.� It was the chain of permanence, of stability, of ownership.� Then he licked the purple rose on the other arm�the rose of fragility, of transience, of broken bonds and heartsick years of loneliness and abandonment.�� These, he knew, were the primordial forces that controlled Tad’s existence.� But tonight there was another force to be reckoned with�the power of sex, the innate and overpowering biological urge of a young male to propel his sperm into an uncertain world, to shoot repeatedly, forcefully, abandoning for a few miraculous seconds all thoughts, feelings, and sensations except the relief of fluid pulsing through his most private organ.

�Luke knew how to please his Master.� He licked Tad’s gigantic shaft with his tongue and felt it stiffen.� He bent awkwardly, scooted forward an inch on his knees, and licked Tad’s balls.� Then he took the entire sac into his mouth and let the saliva moisten it.� Then he went back to the primary target, cupping his mouth carefully over the glans and stimulating it with his tongue.� With the pressure from Tad’s hands on his head providing guidance as to timing and intensity, he went down more, swallowing the entire cock until it tickled the back of his throat, moving up and down, carefully keeping his teeth out of the way.� Tad grabbed his hair, and Luke moved more rapidly.� The climax was near.� Up.� Down.� Up.� Down. Then Tad sent three thrusts forward, followed quickly by two more.� A happy, guttural groan escaped his lips.� His hands relaxed.� Luke swallowed.

“Good, Sir?”

Tad helped Luke stand up, removed the handcuffs, and gave him a long wet kiss.� “I’ve never seen a slave try harder than you do.”� They walked to the bedroom, hand in hand, and Luke removed his briefs.� Tad retrieved the fan and plugged it in.� Mercifully, the air in the stagnant room started moving.� They kissed again, lying next to each other on a simple white sheet spread tightly on a queen-sized four-poster bed.� Tad’s right hand found a hard penis, freed from its cotton shackles.� “Looks like somebody wants to come.”

“If it pleases you, Sir.”

Tad got out of bed and started rummaging through a small black suitcase.� He retrieved two stout cotton ropes each about ten feet long, locking black leather wrist restraints, two small padlocks, leather ankle restraints, and a blindfold.� By the time he placed them all on the bed, Luke had assumed his proper position: face up, eyes closed, legs spread-eagled, arms fully extended perpendicular to his body.� He craved confinement�more than any performer craves applause, more than any politician craves victory.� Confinement was life itself, a symbol that he wasn’t alone in the universe.�

Tad slipped the blindfold over Luke’s eyes and lowered his head gently back onto the pillow.� “Thank you, Sir.”� Luke reveled in the sensation of leather being tightened around his right wrist, then his left, followed by two clicks.� Then � silence.� It was a start, but it wasn’t enough.� He could still move.� Surely there was more!� Luke didn’t know whether Tad was moving or just watching.� The anticipation made his dick even harder�if that was possible.� Suddenly the end of a rope danced lightly on his chest, then his stomach, dangled briefly on his balls, then tantalized the hair on both legs, lingering on his upper thighs.� Luke exhaled deeply.� Did life get better than this?�

By the sound of rope being pulled through metal and a slight tug on his wrist, Luke knew that the magic moment was near.� With one more knot, he would be helpless.� He wouldn’t be immobile yet.� But the line would be crossed.� Struggle would be possible�but useless.� Luke heard the rope strike the wooden floor.� It whished under the bed.� A soft creak in a floorboard revealed that Tad was walking around the foot of the bed, and seconds later Luke felt the other end of the rope being tied to the restraint on his other wrist.� Tad pulled Luke’s arm up toward his head, just an inch.� The rope tightened.� Luke’s wrist dug into the mattress.

“Are you comfy, my helpless little slave?”

“Yes, Sir.� Thank you, Sir.”

The floorboard creaked again.� A leather strap tightened on Luke’s ankle, and this time he heard the rope go through the metal buckle immediately.� Then he heard the telltale sound of rope being thrown under the bed, followed by the feeling of leather on his other ankle.� Finally the rope was pulled taught, and Luke’s legs were drawn apart, farther than he had originally placed them.� Silence.� Awkward, tantalizing, magical silence!� Then the rope connecting his wrists tightened again.� Slack disappeared.

“Well, look who’s happy!” Tad lifted Luke’s penis gently, but gradually increased the upward pressure, finally letting it snap back, skin against skin.�

The top of the suitcase thumped on the wooden floor.� Another rope was threaded through the buckle on Luke’s left wrist.� He felt a slight tug on his arm, up toward the headboard.� The bedpost creaked.� Then the arm was tugged upwards.� He ordered his hands to move.� If the ropes had any stretch, if the knots had any give, his hands would slide incrementally, microscopically, down the slippery sheet toward his ankles.� They didn’t.�

Seconds seemed like minutes.� Luke heard himself breath.� He lifted his pelvis off the bed and shook it from side to side.� His penis tightened and lifted itself off his lower abdomen just enough to move back and forth, tantalizing the skin.� But this position was not sustainable.� He collapsed again, in harmony with helplessness.

More rope.� Posts at the foot of the ancient bed strained under pressure.� Mobility vanished.� This was trust gone berserk�but trust had brought him to this place, and he had no regrets. �He was in good hands.� His arms were only a few degrees away from perpendicular to the length of the bed�safe from the standpoint of blood circulation but clearly useless for any practical purpose.� The muscles in his inner thighs experienced the slightest tension, but nothing close to uncomfortable.� He knew he could be left in this position for hours, with no physical harm�and virtually no chance of escape.

“How is my sweet slave?”

“In heaven, Sir.”

The floor creaked again, and the prominent zip of the side pocket on the suitcase delivered welcome news.� Adrenaline rushed through Luke�that was the pocket where they kept the lube.� The mattress sighed as Tad crawled into the bed.� Luke’s chest swelled as a strong hand massaged it, lingering over the nipples, squeezing them gently at first, then more firmly.� His stomach rushed up to meet the warm hand that rubbed against it in a circular motion.� One hand rubbed Luke’s stomach while the other massaged his thighs, up from the kneecaps to slightly below his balls.� His dick, thick with blood, erect with anticipation, begged for release.

The cap on the bottle of lube popped.� A slippery hand lightly massaged Luke’s penis, on the underside, slightly below the tip.� Then the liquid was spread all over, including the tip, but the pressure was unbearably gentle.� “You are beautiful,” Tad whispered.

“Thank you, Sir.� You are an angel.”

Tad’s entire hand surrounded Luke’s engorged penis, stroking it now more rapidly, deliberately.� Luke absorbed the delicious pressure, perfectly and expertly applied, just the way he liked it.� Then it stopped.

“Who are you?” Tad whispered.

“I am your slave, Sir.”

“Who am I?”

“You are my Master and Owner, Sir.”

“And when camp is over?”

“You are going to collar me, Sir, in front of all our friends.”

“I would enjoy that.”

Would?� Luke wondered to himself. Was it not already a certainty?

The pressure increased again.� He pulled against the restraints, to no avail.� He was powerless to stop the ever-increasing intensity of the thumb rubbing against the glans of his hardened cock while the rest of Tad’s hand grasped his shaft and pulled it away from his body.� Finally the fluid moved, and Luke exploded.� Globs of liquid shot all the way to his nipples.� “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

Luke floated on the raft of love in a quiescent pool.� Semen-scented air penetrated his lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to experience this feeling forever.�

He heard water running in the bathroom, and then a warm washcloth rubbed his chest.� The cloth lightly tantalized his stomach on the way to his groin, where it gently cleansed the sticky liquid from his still-hard penis.� “Oh my God. Thank you, Sir!”

“I’m going in the other room to read a bit.”

Luke was confused byTad’s casual statement.Normally, he would be released immediately after his orgasm.� Normally, they would kiss and snuggle, wrapping their legs around each other like wrestlers, sensuously, absent the pressure or discomfort that would have resulted from competition.� This was new.� Luke heard a floorboard creak in the hall. Realizing that Tad had left the room, he tested the ropes, first wrists, then ankles.� He was secured.

�He lay there, motionless, except that his breaths became shallow and more frequent.� A different kind of sweat pushed through the pores of his skin, the sweat of concern�not for his safety, of that he had no doubt, concern for his relationship.� Clearly he was being reprimanded.� What have I done? He lay quietly and thought back to what had just occurred.Then he realized he hadn’t crawled soon enough.

He lay there, two minutes?� Five minutes? Lacking pressures beyond the bedroom, sexually satisfied beyond his dreams, freed by immovable bonds and darkness, Luke reminisced about his partner�his lover.� He had heard Tad’s story in bits and pieces during the first few months of their relationship.� Only in retrospect had it formed a coherent narrative.� With his background in psychology helping him form a framework and his growing love for his companion giving each incident emotional power, a jigsaw puzzle of isolated islands of distress became a composite glued together by misery.�

Tad had grown up in a military family and, true to tradition, had moved every other year.� He was the only child of patriotic but pedestrian parents whose noblest objective was to retire, buy a house, and catch dinner in a nearby well-stocked lake.� The “best friends” all the kids his own age talked about were mere phantoms to him.� Hollow promises to stay in touch were broken so often that the young boy soon regarded casual commitments in general as meaningless�or, as he would describe them later, “verbal garbage.”�� The teachers he liked soon became distant memories. His prized childhood possessions were jettisoned as trash by a utilitarian father every time the inevitable order came to clean up and move out, feeble female protests to no avail.�

More damaging than the regular purging of valued prepubescent artifacts was the condition imposed upon him on such occasions by parents who innocently but mistakenly substituted “suck it up” for an entire philosophy of life.� He wasn’t allowed to complain.� His complaint of “this doesn’t happen to other kids” triggered responses of “you’re not like other kids” until he abandoned the overt effort to salvage what he considered to be “normal.”�

Not permitted to adopt a dog or a cat, Tad decided at the age of ten to buy two tiny green-shelled turtles from the local pet store.� Dubbed “Chris I” and “Chris II” because he couldn’t determine their sex, they thrived a few months, bringing him less pleasure than he anticipated, then died within a week of each other.� Admonished that he was too old to cry, he “sucked it up” because he had no choice.� But his heart had been shattered one too many times.� The gradually developing and silently harbored desire for something permanent and meaningful in his life became an all-consuming passion.� He craved the idea of owning something that couldn’t be taken away.�

Tad had just celebrated his twelfth birthday�friendless, alone with his parents in a desolate apartment on a new military base�when he experienced his first orgasm.� Lying on his bed face up, idly stroking himself without any specific reason other than it felt good, he daydreamed the perfect companion, a boy about his age with an angelic face who wanted to hang out.� He even gave the boy a name�Tony.� In his fantasy, they played video games together.� Then, building on the hand-to-hand combat in one of the games, they decided to wrestle.� Tad threw him to the mat forcefully the way professional wrestlers did on TV, then he lay crosswise against his chest, pinning his shoulders.� Two things happened simultaneously�the referee’s hand slapped the mat, signaling victory and total control, and a milky liquid shot out of his penis, landing on his stomach just above his belly button.�

A few days later, having enrolled in a new school, Tad met a classmate whose resemblances to Tony included an athletic body and an interest in wrestling.� They started hanging out together, alternately doing homework, ragging on the mean teachers, and gossiping about their classmates.� But Tad’s primary focus was in getting the boy on his back, in a reverse cradle, and making him beg for mercy.� Not coincidentally, this position caused Tad’s erect penis to experience contact with whatever surface they were using to wrestle�usually the hard dirt on the school’s playground.� Even through his jeans, thrusting hips provided enough stimulation to trigger massive ejaculations.� Sex, submission, and ultimate control thus wound themselves seamlessly into Tad’s DNA.� Unaware of the reason for Tad’s obsession, the boy tired of wrestling a few months later and became best friends with someone else.

Tad never officially “came out.”� His mother pestered him about dating in high school but never figured out why he didn’t until she discovered gay-oriented magazines on a high shelf in his closet.� Officially and formally confronted by his parents�still members of the “old school” �he admitted his sexual preference.� He wasn’t kicked out of the house, but he never felt supported either.� Extra height and added thickness were mortared onto the pre-existing wall of loneliness and isolation.�

Suddenly, the bed sagged on one side.� “Have you figured it out, slave?”

Luke exhaled deeply, relieved that Tad was once again in the same room.� “It was the crawling, wasn’t it Sir?”

“Yes and no.� That was the symptom.”

“And the disease?”

“You don’t know?”

“Disobedience.� Lack of intuition.� I should know by this time what you want.”

“I think you know what I want.� A small part of you is resisting.”

Sometimes, for its own good, the human mind believes what it wishes.� The undesirable, the untenable, the ineffable�they all vanish, secluded in an obscure corner of the brain until it’s safe to come out.� “How could that be, Sir?� I would crawl to the moon for you, Sir.”

“Perhaps.� But part of you would wonder why you’re doing it.”� Luke felt Tad shift his position on the bed.� “I don’t want a 99% slave.� I don’t want a 99 and a half percent slave.� I want someone who worships the ground I walk on, someone who obeys without question and without hesitation�not for fear of punishment, but for the pleasure of seeing me happy.”� It was not a threat; it was a simple statement of fact, delivered in the subdued fashion perfected by teachers and actors who understand that soft is more powerful than strident.

“I’ll try, Sir.� I thought I was there.� If I’m not, I’ll get there.”

“You need to be there before I can collar you.”

The floor creaked again, first on one side of the bed, then the other, as the bonds were loosened�slowly, one at a time.� Luke once again gained the option of movement, though he hadn’t the energy or the desire to take advantage.� His wrists and ankles tingled as fresh air rushed to the newly uncovered skin.� His head was lifted gently, and the blindfold slipped off.� He kept his eyes closed anyway.� Luke commanded his legs to come together and his arms to move toward the foot of the bed.� He turned onto his side as he felt the mattress cave under Tad’s weight.� Lying side by side now, the lovers wrapped their arms around each other.

“You shot quite a load, my sweet slave.”

“I can’t imagine life without you, Sir.”

Despite the constant whirring of the fan, the boys’ embrace became uncomfortably warm.� Luke withdrew his arm and kissed Tad on the cheek.�

“Is everything all right, slave?”

“Yeah.� I was thinking about you while you were in the other room.”�

“What were you thinking?”

“About � the past.”

“It’s not your fault.”

They retreated again into silence.�

Who among lovers has not struggled with the propriety of declaring his feelings?� Does one invoke the magical word early, before the passion has matured into compassion, out of expectation�out of hope?� Or does one wait until love overwhelms the soul and destroys any remaining barrier to its public incantation, hoping one has not waited too long?� Many months ago, Luke had chosen the former, and Tad had reciprocated�and for them, it worked.��

“I love you, Sir.”

“I love you, slave.”

They both willingly succumbed to unconsciousness.

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