Walking across the landing Simon Whittiker had no idea where the strange noises were coming from, or indeed what could be causing the banging, the squeaking, creaking and most oddly an occasional high pitched "Eek".

It was upstairs, he was sure of that, having stood still for several minutes in the hall with the TV muted, to allow his ears to filter out the regular sounds of the suburban semi-detached house he and his family called home.

Grace was back from Uni, so had taken her mother out for a much needed break from Alice's hectic schedule, as the backbone of the NHS. They'd be gone for at least another couple of hours, perhaps longer, especially if they went to the new Gay Bar Grace wanted to try out. Simon didn't begrudge them that. He had never been one for drinking, let alone dancing, especially now his body was taking longer and longer to recover from hard days in the construction industry.

His knees creaked rather more than he'd admit, these days, doing so as the burly man approached the first door he came to, with the JODIE nameplate featuring more shades of pink than would be known to anyone other than an eight-year-old who serried from Princess to feminist at the drop of a football, or tiara.

Pushing the door open, as quietly as he could, he peered inside, hearing nothing but the soft breaths of the small body randomly splayed across the bed. The glittering nightlight on the bedside table, had been Simon's best guess as to the noise but it remained silent as it sprayed enough sparkles to give anyone who'd left primary school, the sharpest headache, but which his youngest daughter couldn't sleep without. Alas.

The bathroom and toilet, were as silent as they could be in a house nearing it's centenary, leaving just three rooms remaining on the first floor. Yet as Simon started towards the master suite he shared with his wife and the optimistically named "Guest room", where Grace had grown up, and was now once staying, he heard the sounds again from behind him.

He turned, half expecting to see an asthmatic mouse, doing push ups, which is how his brain was interpreting the sound, only there was nothing but a single closed door. Lachlan's door.

There it was again. That noise. That odd noise. One that made a shiver run up Simon's broad back, as if tickling the many hairs which grew there. Stroking them as Alice would do whenever the children weren't about to be repulsed by signs of affection between their parents.

"Eek!"

A whimper. That's what it was. A whimper. Muffled. An actual whimper. Lachlan's whimper. Perhaps the boy was having a nightmare? Face pressing into a pillow. But what! Just what! If it was a pillow being pressed into the boy's face? What if someone was in there? A robber? A burglar? A murderer? Tortutor? Sadistic monster?

It was no good. He had to go in.

The handle moved easily. The door swung inwards. Simon tensed ready for anything. Everything, but what he saw.

Lachlan was alone. That was the first thing Simon noticed. The second being the boy was totally naked, bent over, with his bare bottom pointing directly towards the door. A bottom still boyishly rounded, made of smooth white, hairless flesh, glistening with a soft sheen of sweat, as the buttocks clenched and relaxed, exposing a small black plastic object firmly implanted between, twitching and quivering, as it vibrated.

Pulled up short by the unexpected sight, the swear-laden challenge he'd had ready, died in his mouth, at the look on his son's face which wasn't that of fear, but of embarrassment, and guilt, at being caught doing something he shouldn't. But what?

Simon's professional eye, took in the rest of the scene, finally getting the explanation he'd wanted for the muffled whimpering, as his son's sweat-drenched body, shivered, and wriggled in clearly self-applied bondage.

A builder's eye noted the cheap softwood framework in the shape of a capital H, laid out on the ground. Badly hammered nails, some bent over, barely holding it together, explained both the creaking noises, and the light bangs he'd heard downstairs.

Two eye bolts, looking suspiciously like those Simon used at work, had been screwed into either end of one of the side beams, to which spring clips were attached to keep each of Lachlan's feet spread wide enough for his hairless, tightly drawn up testicles to be seen between his legs.

Inch wide dog collars, with a metal buckle that was able to take a small padlock through the fastening weren't the latest trend amongst nearly teen boys, as Lachlan had told his parents, but were, as Simon had actually joked to his wife, a well used self-bondage tool. All five of them.

An upright, crudely attached to the other side of the H, rose two feet upwards, the exact height of the fence post it had been in a previous life before having been clearly rescued from the back of Simon's van for it's new life.

Now that post held Lachlan's wrists part of the way up, again via spring clips, attached to eye bolts, while a third sat on top, no doubt connected to the much wider, collar encircling the slender boy's neck. All of them rattling slightly, as the naked boy, tried to see who had come into his room.

All this Simon took in within seconds, but there was so much more to see which is why he told Lachlan to stay exactly where he was, not that the boy would have found it easy to free himself from all his bindings.

The room was silent, as was the house while Simon's mind got to work. The television still on mute in the living room played it's adverts interspersed with programmes, to an empty room. It's previous viewer up above, listening only to an occasional soft buzzing sound, and the groaning of a restrained boy, grinding his hips in an unmistakeably sexual fashion as a dribble of pre-cum dripped from under him.

That his son was maturing in at least one way, was of no surprise to Simon, given the exchanges he'd had with Alice about various stains in the boys underwear, pyjamas, and on his bedclothes. Simon had done his fatherly duty, providing the box of tissues that now sat beside Lachlan's bed, and which could have been sparing the carpet the deep clean it was now due.

Maybe that could be avoided, by having another talk to the boy, preferably sooner rather than later. That also was Simon's duty. But just what was he going to do now.

For a second Simon contemplated, just leaving his son to what he was doing, and then raising the subject at some more opportune time, yet just what that time could be, the man had no idea.

Having spotted Lachlan's phone sitting on the bed, Simon knew where the answers would lie, and indeed, there was a countdown running on the illuminated screen. One that had been going for almost the exact same length of time as the strange noises had been going on.

It was all starting to make sense. The odd way Lachlan had been behaving all day. His reluctance to spend time with his sisters. The fidgeting at dinner, and afterwards when he'd tried to excuse himself, only to be refused permission, only then to take himself to bed, so unusually soon after his little sister.

A notebook – an actual book with paper in it – sat next to the phone. A page open to a rough drawing of the very thing Lachlan was attached to and which, in the boy's own handwriting, was apparently called a Milking Frame. The purpose of which was rather obvious, to anyone who'd been, or even known a teenage boy, even if Simon hadn't previously noticed the small spots of thin, liquid splattering the carpet directly beneath where his son was being held captive.

"Little wanker!" chuckled Simon, making his son's face almost glow.

The design was quite good, Simon admitted to himself, giving Lachlan credit for that at least, even if the actual construction was much less impressive.

There were more drawings on other pages, some more elaborate than others, with a few bordering on science-fiction, yet all featuring much the same concepts revolving around how boys would be so much better behaved, fitter, stronger, if they didn't indulge in "self-abuse."

Simon almost laughed out loud at the old fashioned language, remembering warnings from his own school days of about going blind, and hairy palms, all tinged around the edges with religious guilt, and dirty thoughts. All nonsense of course, and yet here they were, clearly believed by his own son who'd gone to some lengths to avoid doing what all boys did.

How a young boy could resist, Simon wasn't sure, until he spotted the three bits of damp looking sturdy plastic sitting inside a ripped open polythene bag, at the side of the laptop.

"Chastity Pod." the label proudly said, "Size small."

Simon almost giggled, imagining the thirteen year old having to admit to being a "Small" in anything, especially something, anything, to do with his penis but then Lachlan wasn't all that big anywhere, having yet to hit the growth spurt which had sent his best friend shooting though the five foot mark, and onwards, towards the six feet Simon himself enjoyed, or even beyond. Just without the adult bulk. Simon was sure even a brisk wind would knock Emerson Powell from his feet, directly to Oz, where perhaps the Munchkins would be in awe of the bony boy.

Together, Emerson and Lachlan, looked like little and large, despite having been the same size only a few months earlier. Still, although highly biased, Simon thought Lachlan had the better of the deal.

Fit and firm, he was certainly small for his age. Young looking to a point of cuteness he hated, with a cheeky face, and full smile that screamed "little boy" from the sides of his ears, across his sparkling brown eyes, pug nose and mouth that seemingly couldn't stop smiling, a perfect set of white teeth, inside slightly red lips, with the dimpled rosy cheeks to go with them. He was the classic athletic young lad, with Emerson coming across every inch the specky nerd, he actually was. That they'd become friends way back in primary school was as much down to the kindergarten seating plan as anything else.

Both were good boys. Nice boys. A bit moody at times, as went with their age. Cheeky from time to time. Pushing boundaries. Eager to try new things. Apparently. Such as using a prostate massage to empty his testicles of pubescent tension rather than the more usual wrist action.

Simon said nothing. Just waited, able to see something his son couldn't, the countdown on the phone.

Suddenly the buzzing got louder as the device embedded in Lachlan's bottom did what it was designed to do, which was to stimulate a prostate gland up to, but not beyond, the point of normal ejaculation.

Instantly Lachlan's entire body tensed, eyes that had been staring at his Dad, now glazed over, unable to focus on anything, other than what was going on deep inside his rear, and what that was doing to his penis.

Then it stopped. Some limit had been reached. One determined by machine, rather than boy who so desperately wanted it to continue. Needed it to continue, for he felt as if a certain part of him might explode if it did not.

It looked that way too. Simon checked, ducking down to peer underneath his son's body, not the least bit surprised by what he saw there. A stiffness about the same length of his own forefinger. Only harder. Straighter. Red. Swollen, to the limits of the skin barely containing the shaft, while a near purple crown poked from the end, with a small pea shaped blob of liquid sitting right over the twitching eye.

Behind it, small testicles, swung slightly, only just hanging down, to show the twin acorns throbbing inside the near translucent, silk like sac, that bounced as the pubescent organ above them twitched and dripped onto the carpet.

This is what the app running on Lachlan's phone was for with it's Bluetooth connection to the buzzing device lodged between his buttocks.

An icon on the phone's screen named this as "The Milker", which did indeed, seem apt only Simon didn't understand how it worked. He was the builder in the family. Alice was the medical one but one thing Simon did know about was the prostate seeing as one had killed his father. Or the cancer in it had, at least.

Having first pressed the STOP button on the timer, the man took hold of the small amount of rubberised plastic emerging from between the youthful buttocks giving it an experimental wiggle then a tug, both of which caused increased movement and moaning.

A hand resting on Lachlan's back, kept the boy in place as slowly, the Milker was removed from his bottom.

The design was clear, with a narrow part just up from the base, that could be gripped by the sphincter making it unlikely to come out on its own. From there it widened slightly, taking on the appearance of an electric tooth brush, only, instead of a flat square head, filled with bristles at the end, it was nearly twice as thick, and bulbous.

Both father and son, sighed when the Milker popped free if for very different reasons, yet only one got to watch the small puckered starfish shaped hole slowly sink back closed from having been stretched to accommodate the intrusion.

Studying the Milker for a few seconds, Simon noted how dry it was, and, in at least one place, dirty in a way, that had him reaching for the bedside tissues to clean both it and himself, turning his stomach for a moment, and leading him to do something he hadn't done since Lachlan had been a slightly mischievous toddler.

He slapped the boy's bottom.

What happened next, seemed to occur in slow motion.

A loud crack echoed around the bedroom, as the main upright snapped in two, directly below where Lachlan's wrists were attached to it.

At once Simon knew what had happened. The Screwing of two eye-bolts, one from either side, into the cheep wood, had caused it to split, meaning it couldn't take the strain being put upon it.

The force of the blow left a red handprint on a white buttock, and would have knocked Lachlan down flat on his face, had his Dad not grabbed the back of his collar at the last moment, just before the entire home-made Milking Frame tilted forwards in what could have ended up with a difficult to explain trip to Accident & Emergency.

Ironically Simon chose to respond to the situation by doing one of the things that had caused it.

Hand moving quickly from supporting the boy, to restraining him. One large hand took hold of what remained of the top part of the upright post, now hanging from Lachlan's collar, using it to turn the boy sideways on, so his other hand could deliver a full on spanking.

There was little holding back. The large coarse builder's hand went up and down, slapping into the soft, yet taut buttocks, over and over again. Simon, a novice at spanking beyond the occasional tap, still knew where to aim, and to spread those slaps around, to cause the most sting, without any long lasting damage, even if it may not have felt like that to Lachlan, who was discovering just how much a spanking could hurt.

At first the boy felt surprise, still a little in shock at how the events of the evening had turned out. The exciting feelings he'd had being restrained in the Milking Machine, had soon become overtaken by the torment of being constantly sexually excited, for nearly an hour. A sensation that proved so totally worth all the discomfort which had gone before it, not to mention having something inserted in his bottom.

The horror of being discovered, had been bad though. The embarrassment. Humiliation of his stepdad seeing him naked. Exposed in a way no boy could possibly want. Yet, it had excited him too, in that mixed up world of pubertal hormones that never make sense, he'd been turned on by having his Dad watch him being Milked. He might even have enjoyed the initial, single slap, just as he had before when he and Emmerson played their games, back in the days when Emmerson still had a bottom to speak of, not just a skinny back that split into legs.

That the Milking Frame he'd so lovingly designed and put together had collapsed had been a disappointment, lifted only by pride at the way his Dad had lifted him up before he'd face-palmed the carpet.

Then… then… he'd stood there. Looking directly at his Dad's face, as the man's eyes had checked him over, as he had done so many times before, looking for injuries, only to end up focusing directly between his legs, where, despite everything, his willy was still stiff and leaking.

This is what had set Simon off. At least in Lachlan's mind and in some ways he was right. In others not so much.

The spanking didn't last nearly as long as Lachlan would think it did. His Dad wasn't one for losing his temper and quickly reigned it in again, softening the hardness of the slaps, yet not stopping until the nicely rounded bottom, had taken on a very rosy hue, and Lachlan no longer struggled against him.

Finally running out of steam, he stopped, taking the time it took Lachlan to calm down, to unfasten the spring clips, and toss the broken timber into the same pile the rest of it had ended up in, which, he then started to tidy up, checking for sharp edges along the way, just as his Health and Safety training had taught him.

Initially Lachlan just stood there, but soon his hands were wondering freely over his body, wiping his eyes from the tears appearing there, along with the dribble from his nose, before heading down to soothe his burning buttocks. From there they would have gone elsewhere, only by then his Dad's attention had returned to him.

"Oh no, I don't think so, Son, not after all the work you've put into not doing that," laughed Simon, in strangely good humour as he caught the right hand heading in a familiar direction. Lifting it, and it's slower twin away from the still stiff rod, Simon used the spring clips still attached to the wrist bands, snapping them onto the large ring at the back of the bigger collar, in such a way that Lachlan hands ended up behind his head.

"I'll be taking all this stuff too." he informed the boy, pointing to the broken frame, the Milker, and the paperwork, but not the plastic items, which he told Lachlan he could keep.

At first, Lachlan smiled. Not a full smile as the stinging in his bottom was too much for that, but a grin, thinking he'd won some sort of victory. Only he hadn't.

A flannel dipped into a sink of the coldest water Simon could coax from the tank in the loft, did the trick nothing else had ever managed before. Turning a skinny, throbbing four inch [10cm] stiffness into a floppy willy less than half that size with an exquisite burn that didn't burn, and ache that made Lachlan squirm even more than he had previously.

Firm hand on hot bottom kept the boy in place until Simon was finally convinced things would remain in the relaxed state to allow the few sparse whispy strands of hair, the man hadn't known existed, to be seen.

An issue for another day, but for now, Simon was going to go ahead with making sure his son stayed as chaste as he apparently wanted to be, removing the lad's lack of self control, by taking over that role himself, just like a good Dad should do.

Having taken a quick read of the instructions, Simon picked up the surprisingly thin, yet strong base ring of the chastity pod in his large fingers, turning it until he was sure he had it the correct way around, at which point, he slipped it up between his son's silky smooth legs, and slotted it behind the small, yet clearly fully functioning testicles.

There was no comment from above his head. No protest as might have been expected, seeing as Lachlan knew exactly what this was, and what it would mean. It wasn't his first time, after all, having put it on himself when he'd come home from school, yet then he could have removed it any time he wanted, and indeed had, twice, to deal with the very thing it was designed to stop. Now, that wasn't going to be an option but he let his Dad carry on locking up his private parts anyway.

The penis sheath looked too small even with the boyish willy in it's current state, but, with just a little bit of pressure, it still slipped over the end of Lachlan's penis, and was eased down, compressing the organ that little bit more, until the plastic clicked into place, against the matching ring, that would keep it anchored in place.

The testicle cup was optional, yet completed the trio so was lifted up, beneath the other two parts, until it came into contact with the silky skin of the boy's scrotum. A little wiggle eased each of the two pea sized testicles into the grooves made for them, pushing them up towards the ring and tube, until the tiny lugs set around the top, latched into those on the other parts and the Chastity Pod was complete and soon locked.

It took a few minutes, and the edges of Simon's fingernails, before he could remove the pin that locked the device, which he carefully placed into the top pocket of his shirt, with Lachlan's eyes watching his every movement before they went back down to look at what was now trapped in plastic.

The boy's penis looked so small. A little pink snail, curled up above a shell made from testicles. His hands once released from his neck, went straight to it, having forgotten all about his stinging bottom. The plastic smooth and hard, much like he had been for most of the day, but lacking all the tactility that made the parts it contained so much fun to play with.

"You can touch it all you want now," his Dad told him what he knew. "You're just an innocent little boy again, just as you wanted."

That wasn't what Lachlan had wanted at all. He'd wanted a massive wank. A volcano of a wank. One that would see him shooting up to the heavens. That's what Emmerson had said would happen, if he didn't play with himself for a few hours, even if he was all sexed up. The Milker, was meant to help with that, and be fun to experience into the bargain, which it had been. This, not so much.

"Okay, now it is time for bed, young man." His Dad stood up, pulling back the duvet into which his bottom had left a large imprint. A similar imprint had been made on Lachlan's bottom, a red one, which glowed as he knelt on his bed, then spun around to lay down, leaping up again, as his rear touched the firmer than he realised mattress.

He lay there, trying to stay as still as his Dad demanded. Covers pulled up to his neck. Arms outside, by his sides, waiting as patiently as he could while Simon cleared up the mess he'd made, and removed all the items being taken.

It was so maddening for the boy, yet mildly amusing for his Dad, and this was only the beginning. What was to follow, would take things to several new levels, neither had even dreamed about. Starting the very next morning with brand new embarrassing experiences, that weren't nearly as much fun as the boy had imagined, and yet, still made him horny.

Downstairs, Simon chose not to return to his place in front of the television, instead, heading out into his garage workshop to start work on a machine much studier and more suited to the task of keeping his son's testicles as empty as possible.

The End