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I walked in a circle around him, looking him over. I checked all four cuffs to be certain they weren’t too loose or too tight, and I wiggled the butt plug I’d had him insert. This one was holding him wide open. I’d actually provided two of them, with instructions to put the other in, wait a few moments, and then swap it out for this one. If he couldn’t fit the larger one in, he was to put the original back in, but he’d managed the large one.

I’d moved the garage camera my security team has access to so it doesn’t show the section of garage where Davy changes, and I’d added my own camera to the area, outside of their network, so the stream is only available through an encrypted connection to my phone. It doesn’t record anything, it only streams, but it let me watch him put the plugs in, and he certainly struggled to get the larger plug in, but he managed.

Before I could fist him, I had to clean him out. I walked to the wall to begin gathering what I’d need, and I told him, “You’ve followed instructions well during your first hour as my property. Go into the jail cell and lean over the bed.”

The bed is the right height for me to fuck someone who’s leaned over it, and that meant his feet weren’t likely to touch the ground if his hips were all the way on it. Or, that’s the case with most of the women I’ve brought home. I have a step I can put down if necessary, but it looks better to keep the jail cell unadorned. Stark.

I brought a step in for him to stand on, and told him, “Step on the scales, slave.”

He stood, looked around, saw them by the toilet, and walked to them. I’d brought my own bathroom scales down earlier because I wanted to weigh him before I cleaned him out. The contract was clear I’d be keeping track of his physical stats, and weight is certainly one of those.

The display showed 134.7, and I made a note on my phone.

“How often do you weigh yourself? Did your previous Masters keep track of your weight?”

“My first Master weighed me all the time, and if I was ever over one hundred and twenty-five, I was punished, Sir. My second Master made me work out because he said I was a weakling, but I didn’t get to weigh myself until we were out of prison, and I weighed a few pounds more than I do now. I weigh myself at work every once in a while, but I don’t have scales at home, Master.”

“I’ll require you to weigh twice a week, for now. That could increase or decrease.”

He’d be working out a whole helluva lot, and I needed to be sure he didn’t gain or lose too much.

“Do you know how tall you are, boy?”

“Five eight, Master.” He sighed. “Technically, I’m nearly five seven and a half. I round up, usually, but it feels as if I shouldn’t with you.”

“Thank you for that.” I made note of his height, made a mental note to measure him to be certain of his exact height, and told him, “Back to the bed, and use the step this time to bend over the bed.”

He immediately obeyed, and I was pleased.

Bubbles had told me they were in dorm-type rooms, not cells, at the minimum-security facility, so I didn’t think being inside my kinky jail cell was bringing back bad memories, but I supposed we should talk about that at some point. Not today, though. He seemed fine, and I was right here with him.

I closed the clamp on the hose, put some soap into the two-quart can, filled it with room temperature water, and hung it high over his head. I filled nine identical cans and hung them on the same rod, all lined up. One with the same amount of soap, four with a little less, and the rest plain water with a little salt. He’d get two quarts with soap, then atleastthree quarts with less soap, and then a whole bunch of plain-water enemas to make sure all the soap — and everything else — was rinsed out.

The toilet was close, and he’d use it for all but the last, where I’d stand him over the grate so I could be double-dog sure everything coming out of him was clear and clean.

Enemas serve a whole lot of purposes in a power exchange relationship. It’s a reminder I own all of his body now, even deep, deep into his bowels. He has nothing secret from me, not even shitting. My guess was that’d been made clear by other masters, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need the lesson again from me. It’s physical and psychological, and I have to admit the sadist in me loves the ability to give painful cramps. Sometimes, it’s more fun with a bardex-type valve, other times it’s more fun to force them to hold it in or make a mess they’ll just have to clean up. Today, I went with the balloon valves for the first two enemas, so he had no choice but to endure the cramps.

Chapter 11

Davy

No one has ever strung me up and made me release the enema water somewhere besides a toilet or the backyard. My first Master frequently sent me outside to shit in the yard ‘like a little piggy’ because he loved humiliating me and reminding me of my place. He’d say it was so I didn’t stink up the house, but every bathroom had a ventilating fan so we all knew that was bullshit.

But Master sent me to the toilet to relieve myself until we got to the last one, when he walked me out of the jail cell, to the grate, and he stood me over it. He connected my hands to the ends of the spreader bar so the bar was in front of my face, and then he made me spread my legs and squat, which put my arms over my head.

Water gushed from me as soon as I squatted, but Master seemed to expect that, because when the first of it stopped, he said, “You don’t stand up until you think you’re empty. I expect you’ll need to squat again once you do, but wait until you truly think it’s finished. I won’t free your wrists until you’ve been up and down a few times with nothing else coming out.”

He walked in a circle around me. “You’ll use the baby wipes to clean yourself, over by the trash can so you can dispose of them as you use them. Your sneakers will be over there. Put them on, go to the treadmill in the corner, and run a mile in less than ten minutes. If you make it the mile, we’ll begin the next phase. If you don’t, you’d better make sure your legs are spread wide over the grate, so your sneakers stay dry.”

And then he walked to the wall, which was behind me today so I couldn’t see what he was doing.

It took three tries on the treadmill before I made it a whole mile, which meant I had to run to the grate a few times and squat with my feet super-wide apart.

And then the mile started all over again, running on the treadmill.

When I finally made it all the way to a mile, Master had me take my shoes off, shower, thoroughly dry off, and he helped me into the leather sling.

I was exhausted after the enemas, and the sling was actually pretty comfortable, but I knew better than to think he was going to let me rest.