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Adam at Seventeen
Chapter 2 – The Punishment for Rape

by Adam Brockenhurst

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 01 Mar 2018

Chapter 2 – The Punishment for Rape

Yesterday, my seventeenth birthday, I celebrated my newly-acquired right, under the Slave Protection Laws, to punish slaves as an adult. I gave a big buck nigger slave, called Kurtley, fifty lashes with my bullwhip. Later, after a birthday dinner with my parents, I felt a mounting urge to fuck the slave’s buttocks that I had so enjoyed whipping earlier. I crossed to the slave compound, found him, and satisfied my lust.


I awake to find myself drawn tightly against the ebony flank of a hugely muscled man, held securely by his strong arm around my waist. My morning tumescence is strong, and thrusting against his thigh. For a moment, I wonder how I come to be here, hanging off the edge of a narrow pallet. The man’s arm is all that prevents me from falling off.

You slept well, massa, considering.... The deep bass voice beside me is warm and sexy.

Of course! It all comes flooding back to me now. The man is Kurtley: the slave I flogged yesterday. Fifty lashes I gave him, savouring every stroke with sadistic lust.

It was my first ever delivery of formal punishment, on the very day I acquired the legal right to do so – my seventeenth birthday. I had shot my load twice whilst whipping him, so powerfully was I aroused. It was the first time that I had been able to satisfy a dark desire that has fuelled my wanking for as long as I can remember: the urge to punish with a whip.

Later, after dinner, I came to find him, driven by the lust I had felt earlier while whipping his handsome bottom. My cock had thrust hard as his ebony buttocks bounced seductively under the lashes of my bullwhip. How I had craved to plunder the hidden treasure secreted deep between his muscular globes!

Oblivious to the painful-looking weals that scarified his back and bottom, I forced myself upon him. He knew better than to resist his young master, who at seventeen now had the right to lash him with the maximum severity permitted by law, should I so choose.

As I rode him, I re-lived in my mind the thrill of the flogging I had given him earlier. I enjoyed the longest, most vigorous fuck ever. My orgasm was so overpowering that I collapsed afterwards into a deep sleep, overcome with ecstatic exhaustion.

What a birthday it had been!

You fuck well, massa, considering how small your pecker is, Kurtley continues, as I slowly come awake.

How dare you! I bark, jolted into full consciousness. I’ve a good mind to whip you again, for insulting my masculinity like that.

But my mood soon softens, when I see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I relax, and grin back.

He’s quite right about my cock, of course. It’s still only about five inches when erect, despite my strenuous efforts to give it a regular work-out. His, on the other hand, I noticed when he was strung up ready for his flogging, was already ten inches when only semi-hard. It must have been almost a foot long when rock-hard, as it was immediately after the punishment, when I wanked him to ejaculation.

It’s very strange. Although I whipped him as hard as I could yesterday, and made it obvious how much I enjoyed doing so, he seems to bear no resentment. In fact I can sense a growing bond between us. It’s as if we are fulfilling a need in each other.

I prop myself up on one elbow, so I can trace with my fingers the weals which I raised across his back and buttocks with my bullwhip. He gives a contented sigh, apparently enjoying my touch.

But my cock stiffens again as I recall the thrill of giving that flogging. My heart beats with lust as I remember that I am now seventeen, which means I am legally authorised to whip our slaves whenever I want, just like my father and Tom. I can be an active participant every Saturday night from now on, taking my turn to lash those up for punishment.

My cock is now rock-hard from these thoughts, demanding its first release of the day. Kurtley notices, and tentatively enfolds my erection in his huge hand. He starts to squeeze and knead, producing delicious sensations.

Our eyes meet, and he grins at me, his teeth immaculate and snowy white against his dark lips. As the waves of pleasure build, I realise that he is exceptionally well-groomed for a slave, and indeed a rather handsome man.

Where do you get your good looks from, Kurtley? I enquire.

From my father, massa. He was King of Mbutaniwala.

Where’s that? I snigger, thinking he must be making this up.

In West Africa. It’s a small kingdom inland from Togo.

I’ve heard of Togo from geography, and know many slaves are brought over from that part of the African coast.

If your father’s a king, then that makes you a prince, doesn’t it?

Sure does!

Prince Kurtley?

No massa! he guffaws. I’s Prince Kurtlimalangara Idi Mbutaniwala. But the slave traders couldn’t get their tongues round that...

I’m not surprised! I chortle. they shortened it to Kurtley.

So how come you became a slave?

My father wanted to buy some guns from the traders, but they would only sell in exchange for slaves. They said they wanted good-looking boys to serve as house-boys to gentlemen of a particular persuasion. I happened to be waiting on my father that day, as was my occasional duty. They pointed at me and said: We’ll take him.

Well, my father had six wives and about sixty children, so he hardly even knew who I was. I certainly wouldn’t be missed. Take him, he said, but make sure he is sold to a good master.

Of course, your majesty! Do not worry – he will be well looked after, they lied. So I was soon chained up with the other slaves they had bought, and introduced to life under the lash.

My cock, still erect between Kurtley’s fingers, jerks with interest at the mention of lashes, reminding him of its need for morning release. Kurtley manipulates me with expert dexterity, slowly milking me with exquisite sensation.

Where did you learn to do that? I gasp, as waves of pleasure engulf me.

I was sold to a French gentleman in St Kitts, who wanted me as a sex-slave for his son. We were both only fifteen, so we discovered the sensuality of our bodies together, by mutual experimentation. I soon learned to pleasure him, because if I didn’t, he’d lash me with his martinet.

Mmmm! Tell me about the Frenchman’s martinet, I drool, as my cock lurches towards its climax.

It had a wooden handle, moulded for a comfortable grip, and eight lashes made of thin leather, like bootlaces, each a couple of feet long. Those leather thongs were vicious, especially as my hide was at that age still soft and sensitive. He’d take particular pleasure in whipping me down the length of my bottom, so the thongs cut into my crack and stung my arse-hole.

Encouraged by his father, so he told me, he’d been using the martinet to punish slaves ever since he felt the first stirrings of whip-lust in his loins. There’s no law on St Kitts to prohibit boys from whipping slaves, like there is here. So he was quite an expert by the time I met him, aged fifteen!

All this talk of the young Frenchman and his martinet, while Kurtley continues to massage my cock and balls, has me soaring towards orgasm. Kurtley senses that, and skillfully prolongs the delicious sensations coursing through my body and into my cock. I gasp in ecstasy as the pleasure builds to an impossible climax. He massages my balls as they draw up tight, preparing to release their sperm. My cock strains so hard I fear it will literally explode.

With consummate timing, Kurtley reduces his touch to the gentlest tickling on the underside of my thrusting cock, and the lightest brushing of the hairs on my ball-sac. This maintains me at the zenith of exquisite sensation, without triggering the inevitable climax. Every nerve in my body tingles with unbelievable stimulation. My cock is hard as steel. The pleasurable sensation is so powerful it is almost unbearable.

Eventually, he can hold me back no longer. My whole body tenses. I gasp in ecstasy as the final surge of delirium sweeps through me, and the convulsions of ejaculation begin. Kurtley places both hands over my cock and pumps it furiously, massaging the head, to enhance and prolong the wonderful climax as I shoot again and again into his fist.

Ah! Ahh! Ahhh! Ahhhhhhh! I roar, in escalating cadence.

When I come back down to Earth, I see that his cupped hands are overflowing with my jism.

Not a bad milking for the first load of the day from a seventeen year old, he grins, as he juggles his hands to contain the viscous spread from spilling through his fingers. He then reaches round behind him, and starts massaging my jism into his buttocks.

What are you doing? I giggle.

Do you know how we make the healing-balm that all slaves use to tend their whipped hides after punishment?

It’s some sort of herbal concoction, isn’t it?

Yes, mainly. But an important ingredient is also fresh spunk. Its inherent reproductive function stimulates the growth of new tissue in wounds, as well as providing a pleasant creamy consistency. Normally we have to use nigger juice, of course. But according to slave folklore, it works best with white man’s jism: the crème de la crème so to speak!

So, when my whip-lust makes me come whilst lashing a slave, my victim should ideally capture my jism and rub it into his stripes to help them heal, eh? I snigger.

Kurtley nods vigorously.

I think that’s what’s called a symbiotic relationship! I giggle. We’ve been learning about them in biology at school, ...

Bet they didn’t give that example! Kurtley interrupts, and we both laugh.

I wonder how slaves first discovered that effect, I ponder.

It just happened, I expect, Kurtley suggests. Some sadistic massa probably took out his cock and worked it with one hand, while whipping a slave with the other. He continued the lashing until he reached his climax, when, with a roar, he triumphantly splattered his spurting jism across the lacerated back of his victim.

Phooarrgh! I’d like to do that! I pant, pumping my cock, which is already eager to come out to play again.

Tell me more about your time on St Kitts, I urge. We have a master at school who comes from there. He’s our French assistant. In fact you may remember him, because he came out here one weekend to help on the plantation.

Yeah, I remember him all right. He and his friend gave an overtly sadistic display of flogging the two slaves who caused Tom to fall off his horse and dislocate his shoulder. (see A Lust for Punishment, Chapter 11 – Professional Disciplinarians)

That’s right! I exclaim. I nearly shot my load when they appeared in their tight leather jock-straps brandishing heavy bullwhips. The fifty lashes they each gave to the two slaves were the hottest punishments I’ve ever seen. I was rock-hard throughout, and flooded my jock with jism as the flogging reached its and my climax.

Well, Pierre certainly hasn’t lost his lust for the whip.....

Hey! I interrupt. How do you know his name?

’Cause he’s the younger brother of François, the young massa for whom I was a sex-slave on St Kitts. So of course I knew him well at that time.

What an amazing coincidence! I gasp.

He’s three years younger than François, so was only twelve when their father purchased me for François. Pierre wouldn’t remember me now – I’d just be another slave to be whipped, as far as he is concerned. But I am sure it was him. I’ll never forget the overt sadism he exuded even as a twelve-year-old boy.

He would often beg François to let him whip me, as he was too young to have a sex-slave of his own. François greatly enjoyed teaching him how to wield the martinet, which was the whip favoured by the slave-owners on St Kitts.

They’d string me up by the wrists, and then François would wank himself while watching Pierre put his lesson into practice on my naked body. Pierre would scream and shout abuse as he pranced excitedly around me, slicing those vicious leather thongs into my back and buttocks as hard as he could. He’d have his little cock out, of course, jerking ever stronger as he indulged his young whip-lust. François would time his own wanking to coincide with Pierre’s climax, so that they both came together. My body would be splattered with the copius explosions of their jism. That’s how I first became aware of the healing property of white man’s spunk!

My cock thrusts hard as Kurtley reveals this early history of Pierre’s infatuation with the whip. Pierre Bertrand, as I said, is now the sexy nineteen-year-old French assistant at my school, doing a gap year before university. With no slaves available to satisfy his whip-lust, he has exploited to the full his schoolmaster’s authority to beat the bottoms of us boys instead. Drawn by his sexual allure, and overt lust for corporal punishment, I became involved in a tempestuous, and obviously illicit, relationship with him.

So how come you left St Kitts and ended up here? I ask.

When François was eighteen, he went off to university in France, where obviously I couldn’t go with him. Pierre already had his own sex-slave by then, and there were no more brothers, so I was redundant. The Massa didn’t want to put me to work in the fields, because he knew he could get a good price for me: I was still young and handsome, albeit with a tracery of whip scars across my back... But some men find that attractive, of course.

Yeah! I snigger in agreement.

So I was sold to a dealer, who shipped me over here. Unfortunately my new owner’s son, for whom I was supposed to be a sex-slave, turned out to prefer wenches when his full sexuality developed. So instead of sharing his bed, he used me to practise his whipping skills. He wasn’t very good at it, but had an insatiable lust for the lash, so I got cut up real bad. Eventually I could stand it no longer, and decided to escape....

Gosh that was brave! I interrupt. We give one hundred lashes to any escaped slave that we recapture, as they almost always are.

I know. I’ve seen that for myself with Pedro and Frank. Those guys from Slave Control Services who caught them certainly know how to wield their bullwhips! (see Whip-Lust at Sixteen, Chapter 3 – Punishment of the Runaways.)

Don’t they ever! I agree, my cock lurching harder at my own memory of the eight hunky guys in leather giving twenty-five lashes each, as their reward for catching the two runaways.

I did get recaptured, of course, Kurtley continues. The overseer gave me an extremely brutal whipping with his favourite rawhide, watched eagerly by my master and his son. I don’t know how many lashes I got, as it was a lawless place and they didn’t bother to count, but I’m sure it was well over a hundred. The son urged the overseer to keep going, but his father eventually called a halt, saying any more would leave permanent scars and so lower my resale value. The son wanted no more to do with me after that, so they put me to work as a field slave while the skin on my back recovered. Once evidence of the flogging had healed over, I was sent to the slave market. That’s when your father bought me.

I noticed you were a handsome nigger when you first arrived here, I tell him.

Thank you, massa! he grins.

My father’s not into fucking male slaves himself, but he does recognise good looks. That’s what must have influenced him to buy you, as I bet you were expensive for a field-hand.

Perhaps he had other plans for me....

What do you mean?

Well, he’s not the only possessor of a hard white cock around here....

You cheeky monkey! I snigger, while secretly enjoying the compliment of having my meagre erection compared