The door to my room is closed as I lay on my bed, touching my naked body.
My chest is hairless, except for a few wisps around my nipples, which are pinker and larger than they used to be.
I trail my hand down to my stomach, which has lost most of its definition. My penis lies flat and soft, a tiny version of the dick that once was my pride and joy.
And underneath the base of my penis is a small pouch, a flap of skin really. I touch the thin scar that shows where my scrotum was split, my testicles removed.
I stroke my dick with one hand, playing with my tender nipples with the other. My penis swells slightly, expanding to perhaps 3 inches in length. This is as close to an erection as I get these days.
I work my dick furiously, pinching my tits harder and harder. After 20 minutes, I feel a release building as the shaft barely expands. Then a weak spasm of pleasure signals orgasm. I look down and see a small pool of clear fluid, no larger than a quarter, under the tip of my wilting cock.
I weep into my pillow, remembering my proud, firm shaft that used to spray copious jets of white cum all over my chest. Next week I turn 20 years old, beginning my first full year as a eunuch.
It was only six months ago that I answered the personal ad that changed my life forever. I’ve always been attracted to older men, so when I saw he was 42, it caught my eye. The ad said he was fit and attractive, and interested in topping an 18+ boy. It also said he liked ball play.
As soon as I met him for coffee, I knew that Greg certainly didn’t lie in his ad. He looked like he was in his early 30s, and it was obvious he spent a lot of time at the gym. His bright blue eyes and wide smile won my heart right away. When he suggested that we head back to his apartment, I almost jumped out of my chair.
Greg had a beautiful house, very nicely furnished. It sure was a step up from the dumpy apartment I was living in. His bedroom was amazing, with a gorgeous king-sized bed with four posters. Greg came up behind me and wrapped his strong arms around me. I almost melted as he pulled my shirt up and began playing with my tits.
The sex was amazing. Greg was a dynamo, and before I knew it I was on my back with my feet in the air, and his cock buried deep inside my ass. I was so turned on feeling him pump me and hearing him groan in pleasure, that I shot my wad without even touching myself!
He followed a few seconds later. “Here Mark, swallow it all,” he said smiling, as he pulled his condom off and held it over my mouth, letting his semen drip onto my tongue. It was such a turn-on that my cock sprung back to life. Greg laughed and suggested we sit in his hot tub before beginning round two.
I enjoyed the feeling of the water surging around my naked body, but seeing this gorgeous man sitting next to me was more than I could take. After a few minutes, I bobbed my head under the water and began sucking his cock, which quickly hardened to its 7-inch length.
After we got back to his bedroom, Greg went to his dresser and retrieved a leather strap from the top drawer. “It’s time those balls of yours learned their place,” he said, smiling. He pushed me down on the bed and spread my legs, and wrapped the strap around my ballsack. It felt a little tight, but my cock got hard as I saw my purple sack tied up in a little pouch, my balls straining against its sides.
This time he fucked me from behind, with me on my hands and knees. “Fuck yeah!” he shouted, ramming his prick in and out of my hole. Just before he shot his load, he grabbed my bound sack and squeezed it real hard. I shouted in pain just as he cried out in pleasure.
“I hope you’ll get used to having your nuts mistreated,” he said, unsnapping the strap and freeing my balls. “I’ve got big plans for those little guys.” I smiled as I felt the blood rushing back into my sack. I had to admit that the combination of pain and pleasure was a big turn-on.
A few weeks later, I moved my belongings into Greg’s house. The same day, he asked me to stay naked whenever I was home. The idea appealed to me, so I agreed. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said, and I tossed my clothes onto the couch.
“I want you to always wear this around the house,” he said, holding up a leather device. “This is a ball stretcher. I think you’ll like it.” It took him a few minutes, but Greg managed to squeeze my sack into the stretcher, which separated my balls and pulled them down and away from my body. My cock responded instantly, pointing straight up. “Excellent,” he grinned, taking my swollen dick in his hand and stroking it.
As the weeks went on, Greg became more extreme about my balls. He wanted me to sleep in the ball stretcher, and then to wear it when I left the house too. The only time I could take it off was during a shower or bath.
He became rougher during our ball play, too. He loved to squeeze and slap my tied-up nuts until I begged him to stop. Then we began bondage play, where he would tie my hands and feet to the bedposts. One time, he made me lie down so my balls dangled off the end of the bed. Then he attached weights to my sack.
“Fuck, that’s really starting to hurt!” I yelled, tugging at my restraints. “Relax, Mark,” he said. “You’ll get used to it soon. It always hurts in the beginning. You have to work up to the really heavy stuff.”
I didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but there wasn’t anything I could do. My balls were killing me as the weights pulled them toward the floor. He left them on for a half hour, then released me from my torment.
That night I began thinking about leaving Greg. But deep down I knew I couldn’t. I was strongly attracted to him, and we were having the best sex of our lives. And honestly, I enjoyed having my nuts mistreated, even though Greg seemed to go a little far sometimes.
Then I started noticing something that really bothered me. I began having problems during sex. It took me longer to get erect, and my dick wasn’t getting as hard as before. It was harder to keep it up, too.
When I told Greg I was worried about it, a smile came over his face. “Don’t worry hon. Every guy goes through that at some point. It won’t last.”
But it didn’t get any better. Sometimes I didn’t get hard at all as he fucked me, which never happened before. So, Greg got me a prescription for Viagra. That seemed to work, at least for the moment.
Then came the night Greg tried something new. He restrained me as usual, face up and arms and legs tied to the posts. Then he went to the dresser and brought out something I had never seen before. It was silver, with long handles. He had a box with green bands in it too.
“What is that?” I asked nervously, as Greg attached the band to the device and opened it wide. “Relax,” he smiled, moving between my legs. “You’ll love this.”
He grabbed my nuts and pushed them through the stretched band. Then he maneuvered the device until the band was released. Suddenly my sack was banded tighter than it had ever been. And it began hurting like a bitch!
“Jesus, take that off me!” I screamed, bucking and pulled on my restraints. “Mark, take it easy!” he said, kissing me on my sweaty forehead. “I’ll only leave it on for a few minutes. I wanted you to feel what it was like.”
After awhile, my balls were aching less, but my stomach started hurting. That’s when Greg took some shears and cut my band off.
After releasing me, Greg explained that he used an elastrator on me. It was used to castrate farm animals. If you leave the band on long enough, it cuts off the blood supply and kills the balls. Then they just fall off after a few weeks.
“Don’t worry, hon. I would never let that happen to you,” he smiled.
By now, I was really starting to worry about my sex drive. Even with Viagra, I couldn’t seem to keep a good erection. I began wondering if all the ball play was damaging my sexual performance.
Then came the worst day of my life. Greg was out, and I was sitting at his computer looking at the Internet. I just happened to look at his bookmarks, and saw a strange one: The Eunuch Archive. What a shock I got! The site was all about guys getting castrated. And a lot of stories mentioned an elastrator!
“I was hoping you wouldn’t find that.”
I spun around and saw Greg behind me. I tried to get up but he pushed me back into the chair. Then he spun my chair around and threw his arms around me, pinning me down. I struggled, but Greg was much bigger and stronger than me.
It only took a few minutes before I was on the bed, with Greg tying my hands and feet to the posts. I screamed and swore, but he didn’t stop until I was tightly bound.
“Please Greg. Don’t hurt me,” I sobbed as he went to the dresser and pulled the elastrator from the drawer. “I hoped we could have done this an easier way, Mark,” he said, slipping the band over the metal device. “But you’ve forced my hand.”
I bucked and thrashed with all my might, but Greg ignored it. Soon he was sitting on the bed, forcing my sack through the band. Snap! It felt like someone kicked me in the balls. “Fuck!! Take it off! Please Greg!!”
But Greg was calmly putting another band on the elastrator. He pushed my aching sack through the hoop and attached another band to my scrotum.
“I wanted to do this differently, Mark,” he said, sitting down next to me as I squirmed and moaned from the pain. “You see, I was gradually castrating you, killing your balls. It was all carefully planned.
“You were slowly losing the ability to get hard. That was from all the ball play. Eventually, your balls would have been practically dead, and you would have gladly agreed to give them up when I suggested it.”
Greg said that since I was a complete bottom, I didn’t really need my balls. They only got in the way. “Take a look, hon. Your balls are in real trouble right now.”
I stretched my neck and was shocked at how my sack looked. It was a dark purple, almost black. The pain had spread to my abdomen. I never felt so awful.
“Now, it’s your choice,” Greg said. “I could leave the bands on, and your balls would die. But that will take another hour, and that’s a long time to be hurting so bad.”
“What’s my choice then?” I said, tears pouring from my eyes. “Well, I could remove your balls right now. It’s much faster, and in the end much cleaner. Just a few cuts and it’s over.”
It all seemed like a nightmare. But it was no dream. My sack was dying, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. So I nodded to Greg. He smiled and smoothed my sweat-soaked hair. “Good boy,” he said with a smile.
Greg put on a pair of surgical gloves, and got some towels from the bathroom. “Now, this might sting a little,” he said, showing me a small silver scalpel. I closed my eyes and awaited the first cut.
Greg sliced through the center of my scrotum, and pulled my two balls out of the sack. I saw him suturing the stalks holding my manhood in place. Then he quickly severed my left ball free. Dropping the bloody testicle onto the towel, he repeated the cut on my right ball. I was now a eunuch.
That was three months ago. Despite what he did to me, I didn’t leave Greg. I was still totally in his power. And after I healed, we resumed our sexual activities. I began to enjoy the stimulation his hard cock gave my prostate. Every once in awhile I’m able to get a semi-erection, and even cum a little. But Greg says that won’t last much longer.
The room is about 12 feet on a side and 10 feet high, the walls faced with roughly dressed light-gray stone. The floor is covered with thick black rubber and slopes gently toward a drain in one corner. On the ceiling there’s gray acoustical tile.
Light is provided by glowing tubes all around the top of the walls, just below the ceiling, that are controlled from outside the room. They dim for part of each day to allow sleep and are on full the rest of the time. There are ventilation grilles low on two walls and in the ceiling, and the temperature is kept at a constant mid-70s. At least, it never seems too cold or too warm despite my always being naked.
There are no windows. The door is a steel slab with a small spy hole set into it. It has no handle on the inside; this, too, is controlled from without. There’s a video camera in each corner, up near the ceiling, as well as several microphones. I never know if anyone is watching or listening, or which camera is live, but I have to assume that anything I do or say can be seen or heard.
Toward one side but still away from the wall is a slab of dense foam as wide as a twin-size bed. It’s covered in black canvas, with a zipper at the end to remove the cover for cleaning. The only furniture besides my exercise equipment is an antique-style wooden armchair, intricately carved, against the wall next to the door. Its seat cushion is covered in a rich, red velvet, the only spot of color in the whole chamber, and the wood is stained dark brown. It looks like it came from the Doge’s palace in 15th-century Venice.
The chair is not for me, of course. The chain padlocked to my leg irons and bolted into the opposite wall isn’t long enough for me to sit there if I wanted to, reaching only far enough for me to kneel in front of the chair and service the Master when he sits there, licking his boots or sucking his cock.
Thick, 2-inch-wide metal cuffs are fastened onto my ankles and wrists, and a collar in the same style is around my neck. The edges of the steel bands are smoothly rounded, and the welded connecting chains are long enough for me to wash myself or exercise, but they can be shortened with clips or locks whenever the Master wishes. Every move I make is accompanied by the loud jangle of chains, almost the only sound in this place. At first it was exciting, and then I thought it would drive me mad, but by now I hardly notice it.
Near the floor drain is a seatless metal toilet, and a pipe set into the wall next to it has a long hose connected. The hose is usually terminated in a nonadjustable shower head, but that can be replaced by a douche tube if required. There are no faucets inside the cell to control the water temperature or flow, nor is there a flush handle for the toilet. All that is regulated outside. But the Master is not cruel, or thoughtless, and he has the toilet flushed several times a day so that there is sufficient clean water for me to drink.
All of the hair on my head and everywhere else is clipped as short as possible once a week, and then my head, pubes, and ass crack are shaved smooth. The Master seems to enjoy doing it himself rather than having me do it. I enjoy his doing it, too. He also seems to enjoy seeing the growing fuzz on my face and body between clippings, knowing that it always makes me itch. There is no mirror in the cell, so I can’t see how I look, only feel the smoothness or fuzz.
A padlock joins the thick PA in my circumcised dick with a guiche ring further back. I can manipulate my cock to some extent, but I learned early on that it wasn’t worth it. I can’t come without being erect, and if I start to get erect the pain soon deflates me. I can’t even have a wet dream, because the pain wakes me up. The Master has hinted that he will allow me to come eventually, but I have no idea when, nor if there is anything I can do to hasten the release. The horniness tormented me at first, but after nearly two months, I don’t think about it much one way or another — not more than 20 or 30 times a day.
Of course, I also don’t know exactly how long I’ve been here. At first the Master deliberately manipulated the light and his own comings and goings to confuse me and destroy my grasp on mundane time. Even now that he has settled me into a routine, I have no way of being certain if it’s daytime outside when it’s light in the cell, or nighttime when it’s dim in here. As the Master works out of his home and thus can visit me whenever he pleases and spend as much time with me as he wants, I also have no way of telling weekdays from weekends. But I do keep track of my sleeps, and as near as I can tell it’s been between 50 and 60 days. Otherwise, the only way I can gauge the passage of time is by my own pulse, which is slow and steady except when I’m exercising.
i don’t know how long I’ll be here, either. The Master certainly has the resources to keep me here for the rest of his life, if not mine, but somehow I don’t think the experiment will last quite that long. Probably less than a year, though that’s just a feeling. The arrangement is open-ended.
The routine I currently follow is quite simple in its outlines. In the “morning,” or what I assume is morning, the light tubes brighten, and I rise from my pallet. I take a drink from the toilet, release my piss, and go through an extensive exercise routine, first stretching, then calisthenics, free weights, and finally a half hour on the treadmill. The black-finished steel and rubber treadmill is the largest object in the cell. It’s programmed by the Master to tell me when to speed up, slow down, and stop. The time readout has no hour indicator, just elapsed minutes and seconds, and it goes back to zero whenever I step off.
After exercise I kneel by the shower pipe. Eventually the water will start pouring through, and I will cleanse myself. There is no towel or washcloth, just a squeeze bottle of liquid soap. I wash quickly so as not to be soapy when the water stops. The moisture level of the air is low enough that I tend to dry quickly.
When I’m clean I kneel in front of the Master’s chair and wait for him to come in. During this time I am required to repeat aloud, again and again, a short “slave’s creed”:
I am a slave. I live to serve and obey the Master. I own nothing. I have a right to nothing. I control nothing. Everything comes from the Master and by his will. What makes me happy is to obey. What fulfills me is to be used for his and other men’s pleasure.
These are the only words I am permitted to speak when I am alone in the cell. I do not rebel against this or the other rules, nor provoke punishment to enforce them. This is the life I asked for, and I do my best to follow the program.
Generally the Master makes me wait a while, but eventually he will enter and set a dog bowl with my food down beside the chair. It is always the same, a dry formulation that he will moisten with his piss so I don’t chip my teeth on the hard pellets, which also serve in lieu of a toothbrush. He has assured me it contains all the nutrients I need.
In the “mornings” I am not allowed to eat immediately, however, even though by then I am always very hungry. First I must recite my creed once more, this time addressed directly to the Master, and when that is done I am allowed to lick his boots. If he is in the mood, he may also allow me to service his cock and balls, or to lick his ass. This is no hardship: the Master keeps himself fit, and he is still an attractive man. Besides, he’s well hung. I also have no worry about catching any disease from him — no one is more scrupulously careful, and I know that he would never put me at risk. But at 64 his libido isn’t what it was, and some days he doesn’t bother to use me.
He has another slave, Stephen, who’s been with him for five years or so, as well as several part-time slaves he trains off and on, so perhaps he saves himself for them. Stephen is certainly young and handsome enough to be worth focusing on. The intimacies the Master grants me are more a reward, or encouragement, than a service to him, I suspect.
The Master says little to me at these times, indicating by a nod or a gesture, or a single word, what he requires. And, of course, after my creed is repeated, I have no call to speak to him nor to look at him — my eyes stay fixed on the floor between his legs unless I am servicing some part of his body. His morning attire is usually casual, just slacks or jeans and a shirt, maybe a vest — plus boots, of course. He favors lace-up logger boots or cowboy boots for the daytime, motorcop or engineer’s boots at night. Even before my confinement, I’d never seen him without boots on. I suppose he takes them off for sleep, but the only times I ever slept in the same room with him, I was hooded or blindfolded.
After I worship his boots, and then render any sexual service he requires, the Master flogs me. A selection of flogging implements, a muzzle and gag, a hood, and other pieces of gear he likes to use on me are stored in a small, locked case set against the wall behind his chair. Usually he makes me stand against the wall and clips my wrist and ankle cuffs to rings set there for that purpose, my arms above my head and my feet stretched as far apart as the leg chain permits. Sometimes he has me lie down on my belly on the sleeping pallet and clips my arms and legs to the rings set in the floor at either end, or he’ll restrain me to the bench I use for weightlifting. It seems to make no difference in the severity of the flogging how I am restrained, just a whim of the Master, though I imagine the vertical position is easier for him than bending over me.
In either case, he always straps the muzzle over my face and inserts the thick leather plug gag inside my mouth. I am allowed to scream as much as I need to during the flogging, but it does not please him to have his ears assaulted by my noise, and it makes no difference anyway in how many strokes I must take. The number varies according to some formula known only to him. It’s always at least 50 and usually much more. I’m grateful to be gagged and not required to count them out. I can sink into the rhythm of the ever-changing now and stop thinking. My back is heavily calloused, of course, yet I still feel the impact of his blows. They’re about as painful as a deep-tissue massage, which can be very painful.
After my flogging, the Master will release me from the wall or floor, take off the muzzle and gag, and allow me once again to bathe his boots in my saliva and tears. I always thank him profusely for the discipline, which he has made very clear has nothing to do with punishment. It’s not even because he enjoys flogging me, though he clearly does most of the time. Even if I’ve sucked him off before the flogging, he’ll usually be erect again by the time he stops. Sometimes he even fucks my ass before releasing me from the wall or bench. No, these daily floggings are a matter of basic discipline.
“A slave needs to be flogged regularly,” he’ll say in his brusque, no-nonsense voice, “and that’s all there is to it. It’s like taking a dog out for a walk or rubbing down a horse after a run, something an owner simply has to do.” Before leaving, he wets down my breakfast, pats my head, and gives me my journal pages. I am free to eat once the door shuts behind him.
It is when the Master comes back late in the “evening” with my second and last meal of the day that he talks to me and listens to anything I wish to tell him. He usually wears either a police uniform or full leather, but once or twice a month he appears in a tailored suit or even tuxedo and black tie, with black dress boots, having come back from a formal dinner or cultural outing. He allows my eyes and tongue much freer reign at these times, seeming to enjoy my admiring glances, my nuzzling, and my compliments on his appearance. He lets me curl up between his legs and rub my face against the cloth or lick the leather covering his thighs. It’s not exactly passion between us, but comfort with each other and with our respective roles.
After I eat, we talk. The conversations we have as I sit at his feet are wide-ranging — we are both well-educated men with many interests. The Master will tell me what he wishes me to know about the state of the world outside, which is generally little, as he has gone to considerable expense and effort to allow me to focus inward, on my own body, mind, and spirit.
That is why I am here. It was my idea, actually, but it was his gift to enable me to realize my obsessive fantasy of nonstop bondage, solitary confinement, and total control. It’s designed as a test of whether such a narrowly circumscribed life, free of the usual distractions of earning a living or interacting with the non-Master/slave world, can move me further along my destined path. I know that I was born to serve and obey a Master, but all too often, out in the world, I lost sight of that clear goal and became caught up in other commitments or concerns.
We’ve been friends for a long time, the Master and I, much long–er than I’ve been a slave, let alone his slave. It often goes the other way: two men come together first as Master and slave, and over time their growing intimacy and affection make the roles too awkward to continue. The Master is too experienced for that trap. He won’t even allow a boy to call him “Sir” until they’ve known each other for a couple of months, sexually and otherwise, and he’s never taken a live-in slave after less than a year’s probation.
As for me . . . I’ve experienced enough to know what I want, what I need. After several Master/slave relationships that ended sooner than I wanted, I have few illusions left, about slavery or about myself. But I do have resistances, self-doubts, and, above all, habits of self-regard that make it hard for me to go deeper. Thus this experiment in deprivation and regimentation. For the Master to move me into his house as a servant would prove nothing — been there, done that (though not with him). Call this experience boot camp for the soul.
The truth is that I chose all of it, every detail. The Master and I discussed the arrangements exhaustively for more than a year. After all, orchestrating a long-term confinement as rigorous as mine is not a matter for negotiation over drinks in a bar or a few online chats. Everything had to be planned, all the contingencies allowed for, the appointed space constructed and equipped. I had to quit my job, vacate my apartment, dispose of or store my possessions, and notify my friends. One half of my savings went to the Master to defray the expenses of my upkeep, and the other half was safely invested. I had to be absolutely sure that once I entered this cell, I wouldn’t need to leave it again until the Master decided I was ready. And I had to be sure that he wouldn’t soften if I lost my nerve, or exceed his mandate, or allow the experiment to end prematurely because of the cost of keeping me here, submissive but idle.
The daily floggings, and any other torments I suffer, are intended to purify my submission and to wean me from my ego. For the same reason, though the Master permits me to use the first person in my journal and when I talk with him, he never uses my old name, or any name. I am just “slave” to him and anyone else I come in contact with, even his other slave. But he tempered my initial enthusiasm for a much harsher regimen, with far less space to move around in. i’d had in mind something like an oubliette, a small underground hole where he’d throw food down to me, piss on me, periodically hose me off, and otherwise leave me alone.
“And what would I get out of that?” he asked, laughing. “I wouldn’t even have your warm mouth to piss in, or your conversation to while away the evenings. What a supremely selfish idea! If you expect me to give you room, board, and bondage for an extended period, you’re going to have to be available for my use — and that of selected friends, too. You’ll spend plenty of time alone, don’t worry, but you’ll also earn your keep, sexually and otherwise.”
The logic was inescapable, of course, even more so than this cell I inhabit. The Master convinced me that the kind of confinement I’d fantasized about wouldn’t prove anything more or achieve any quicker results, just bore him and ruin my health and mental balance, reducing my value as a slave.
As time passes, it is obvious that he was right. A greater harshness would have activated my defenses, delaying my acceptance of his control, or else pushed me into that apathetic passivity many mistakenly equate with submission. The way I live now is certainly harsh enough, restrictive enough, and barren enough compared with my former professional-class lifestyle, and yet it clearly suits me. In terms of health and fitness, I’m in better shape than I’ve been in years, and my mood is farther from depression or despair than when I had the whole world to move around in.
Within these gray walls, I have no worries or fears. I am well taken care of. I fall asleep easily, sleep soundly, and wake without regret. Naturally, I miss music and art, and daylight and colors and trees and animals, but I have a well-stocked memory of these things. I miss books — oh, what I would give for a single box of those I put in storage! — but I don’t miss TV or newspapers or most people. An hour of the Master’s company is worth days of useless chatter with others.
All in all, I’m more content here than I ever was outside. Oh, that’s not to say I’m never bored or never chafe at my restrictions. Of course I do, who wouldn’t? But such feelings pass quickly, more quickly than when I had a whole city’s worth of amusements to choose from. If all else fails, I kneel in front of the Master’s chair, at the limit of my chain, and repeat my slave’s creed. The peace that descends as I repeat the familiar words assures me of their truth, and I gratefully embrace the strict conditions of my confinement once again.
The fact is, I would miss my daily flogging if I didn’t receive it, and I’d probably gag on a conventional meal if offered one. I never liked wearing clothes, and my collar and chains are as much a comfort to me as a constraint. They make me feel wanted, valued, secure. If I were suddenly placed in a crowd of people, I would run to the nearest small room and lock myself in.
Servicing the Master day after day, with no release for myself, I’ve come to displace my sexual response onto him, so that when he cries out in orgasmic joy, my own body spasms and relaxes. I still remember my name, I’m pretty sure I do, but would I even respond if someone called me by it? If he held open the door to this cell, and I weren’t chained, would I make a move toward it?
For most of each day I am usually left alone, to pass the time however I can. At first it seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me, and I wondered how I could make it to the Master’s next visit without screaming and smashing my head against the wall. But I soon learned that my sense of duration is very flexible, and I can control it by my attitude. Once I stopped always looking forward to “what’s next,” anticipating, and learned to live in each moment, five hours came to seem much the same as five minutes. I have all the time I need, all the time there is, no more nor less. I suspect all long-term solitary prisoners learn this — at least those who survive.
Much of the day, of course, I spend in meditation — classic Zen sitting or walking (once I became able to tune out the rattle of chain), and I also think things through in more conventional fashion, patiently testing and rehearsing my ideas in my head before writing anything down. I receive five blank sheets of paper a day, no more, and each evening the Master takes with him whatever pages I’ve filled as well as any left blank. The next morning, along with my breakfast, he returns to me Xeroxes, on bright yellow paper, of the finished pages, keeping the originals. So I have my completed work for reference, if I need it, but there is no way I can alter my words retroactively.
The Master gave me a wooden lap desk to write on and a good ballpoint pen, a far cry from the elaborate computer setup I used to write with but sufficient to my needs. Because I cannot erase anything, and I am reluctant to disfigure my manuscripts with cross outs, I think much more than I write, and I write very slowly, pausing before almost every word to be sure it is the right one to express my meaning. While my physical world has been pared down close to a minimum, my mental world is unlimited. I find that my memory is much better than it used to be, strengthened by hard use and the absence of electronic crutches, and my powers of concentration are greater.
What do I write? Musings, recollections, how I am feeling, debates with myself or the Master, little essays about slavery and its discontents — or its joys. The writing has no goal, no overall structure. It’s a snapshot of my mind at a given time. And yet I always come back to one point: the persistence of choice in even the most inescapable captivity. No matter how much is taken away from me, I always have choices to make, if only where to direct my eyes or focus my hearing. Even naked and chained in a solitary cell, I am learning just how much I still have left to surrender.
The Master jokes that in its disconnected way my journal amounts to a “critique of pure submission,” like Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. He says that when it is done — when I am done with this confinement, when he decides that I have no more to learn from it — I should edit it down and publish it. “Tell them all the truth for once,” he says. “There’s too much nonsense about slavery going around, with folks trying to re-enact the Old South or Ancient Rome or some such silliness. They miss the point and waste everyone’s time.”
For the first month or so of my captivity, I never saw anyone but the Master, and then usually just twice a day. From time to time, though, he’d look in on me unexpectedly, and he might demand my service, if only as a urinal, or amuse himself by putting me into some more stringent bondage, installing a butt plug or catheter, or placing clamps and clips on my body. Anything to reinforce that I am not in control of my bodily functions or sensations, only how I react to them. Now that my routine is well established, he sometimes sends his house slave instead to check on me and carry out whatever he’s planned but doesn’t care to do himself — I assume he watches on the video to be sure all is done to his standards.
Sometimes he sends in visiting friends of his, other Masters or Topmen, to amuse themselves with my body or to make use of my holes. He insists they use condoms with me, even for oral sex, and a latex barrier for rimming. There’s a container of rubbers and oral shields next to the cell door, kept full by the house slave. There are probably also some other limits he’s set to keep me safe, but it’s out of my hands — I have no safeword, no way to draw a line. The Master’s good will and good sense are my only protection.
It is absolutely forbidden me to speak to these visiting Tops, or to the house slave, not one word, and this is enforced if necessary by gagging me. The only choice I have is to cooperate and endure whatever they wish to do with me, or to resist and have to endure it anyway in the end. Because of my love and respect for the Master, I would never resist his use of me, however painful, but I’ll still balk at times if someone else interrupts my meditation or writing for a fuck or a piss stop. It never does any good, of course. The chains put me at their mercy.
The rule of silence was very hard on me at first. Some are men I would have been drawn to in any case (others, alas, not), and I yearned to communicate with them, to convey my respect and my appreciation for their blows, their piss, their hard cocks filling my holes. But at the first word, even “Sir, thank you, Sir,” they stick in the big plug gag, filling my mouth, and tightly strap it around my head, or else the ring gag that stretches my jaws wide to receive their offerings. Only my eyes remain able to express my feelings, except when these, too, are covered.
Some men — a surprising number — find it unnerving to look into the eyes of a bound slave they are using and need the depersonalization afforded by a mask or hood, or at least a blindfold, while others look back at me with a fierce joy and a clear conscience, sure of their right to dominate. For me, the feelings are ambivalent. While it is good to be hooded and used as a nameless slave, just a body with convenient holes and parts available for torture, it is also thrilling to be in the hands of a man who really seems to want me — me in particular — and to take pleasure in my helplessness to resist him.
Although I had become used to occasional visits from Stephen, the Master’s trusted house slave, either to check on me while I was in stringent bondage or to release me from it, I almost balked the first time he came in to initiate a session of immobility. Oh, shit, not now, I said silently to myself as he entered the cell carrying several large hanks of rope. I was in the middle of writing a very closely argued paragraph and didn’t want to stop.
But as he came toward me — the thick, man-size cock bouncing between his lean, muscled legs, an eager grin on his boyish face — I lost all desire to resist. It would be, I think, like smacking a puppy for being friendly. So I smiled back at him, put my writing materials aside, and got onto my knees, resting my manacled hands on my thighs.
Although I had been introduced to Stephen before my confinement, and he knew my name, once I was locked up here his demeanor changed. Instead of a fellow slave’s sympathy, what I sense from him now is a Topman’s relish for my vulnerability. Despite his nudity and the padlocked chain around his neck, he carries himself less like a slave than like a young Master. Maybe it seems that way because the Master leaves his chest, pubes, arms, and legs unshaved.
In his late 20s, more years younger than me than I like to admit, and a few inches taller, Stephen has a dark complexion, short black hair, a small goatee, and bright black eyes. At the front his hair is longer and trained in a stylish upward flare. Like me, he has thick silver rings in both his nipples and the head of his cock, which is uncut, but on him they seem decorative, not marks of possession. Since his earliest visits he hasn’t been completely nude but now wears heavy black lineman’s boots laced to his knees. And on this occasion he’d added studded leather armbands and tight black leather gloves.
While my chains prevent some rope-bondage positions, such as a classic hogtie, Stephen worked with them and methodically immobilized me. He roped my upper arms and elbows tightly behind my back, pulling my manacled wrists to my sides and pushing out my chest, which he crisscrossed with more rope until my whole torso was rigid. My cock tried in vain to become erect as his gloved hands moved over me with rough efficiency. I said nothing, of course, just looked at him as he bound my legs at the thighs, knees, and ankles, and then roped my feet back up to my arms. His usual eager expression had changed into a fierce concentration. I felt like a wild hare transfixed by a snake or bird of prey.
When he set me back upright on my knees, tightly bound from shoulders to feet, I could barely hold my balance without his hands on my shoulders. I stared into his sparkling eyes.
“Fuckface” he whispered to me, as soft as a lover’s sigh. “Such a good fuckface.” And then he clamped my head between his hands and did just that, fuck my face with his dick.
I was shocked — what would the Master think? — but Stephen seemed to have no compunctions about using me for his pleasure. “Trust me” was all he said when my eyes widened in alarm at his failure to put on a condom, and, confident that the Master would not own an untrustworthy slave, I did.
He came quickly, gushing out his cum after only a few strokes once his fat, uncut cock was lodged in my throat. Then he pulled back a little and smiled as he filled my mouth with his piss. After I’d swallowed his whole bladder load, he astonished me again by kneeling and kissing me deeply, passionately, and for a long time. He could probably still taste his urine on my tongue — I certainly could! Finally, he stroked my eyes closed and wound more rope around my head to form a blindfold and gag. He laid me down on my side, rubbed my shaved head between the ropes, and left the cell.
At least, I think he left — for all I knew, he could have stayed and watched me for the hour or two I lay in bondage. But there wasn’t the slightest indication I wasn’t alone. The only sound was my own breathing, an occasional slight clink from my chains as I shifted position, or tried to, and a periodic whoosh from the ventilation ducts. I think I’d have lain there for a long time even if I hadn’t been bound so tightly, overcome by what had just happened to me. More than merely being used by this young man, I’d been possessed by him.
The bondage eventually became painful, of course, and then I went mostly numb and stopped feeling it. All I could think about was Stephen’s taste in my mouth. His cum, piss, and spit, I’d had them all in one go. The only things left to taste were his sweat, tears, blood, and shit. I felt that I’d as soon pass on the last two, but I fantasized giving him a tonguebath after he’d worked up a good sweat flogging me. As for tears, I couldn’t imagine what might cause him to cry in my presence, and I didn’t want to find out, either.
When he returned (assuming he’d left) and released me from the ropes, rubbing my arms and legs with his gloved hands to restore full circulation, I just kept looking at him, marveling at his youth, his confidence, his deftness in handling me. The deference I accorded the Master did not seem to apply to him, a fellow slave, and yet his use of me had placed him far above me. Even without my rule of silence, what could I say to him? My feelings were still too new, too confused to articulate.
Stephen was in no such confusion. He held my head and kissed me again, then smiled and pressed my face down onto his boots.
“All right, slave. Show me how you lick boot leather.”
It was as if he’d thrown a switch, releasing me to show the feelings I couldn’t speak. I slobbered all over his tall boots, covering them with my spit and happy tears, rattling my chains until he finally put a stop to it, saying, “That’s enough, bootdog, enough for now. You’ll have plenty more chances to worship my boots. I’m nowhere near through with you.”
That was a turning point between us, especially after I reported the incident to the Master in my journal and he made no comment. Stephen was clearly acting within his limits, so in serving Stephen I was also serving the Master. That’s all I needed to quiet any misgivings about being a slave’s slave.
Stephen visits me now almost every day, and he always uses me before he leaves. It isn’t always oral service, either. A few weeks ago, after gleefully tormenting my nipples for an hour or more, he turned me over and fucked my ass for even longer, again with no condom, just like the Master.
He’s also training me to take larger and larger toys up my chute, and now when he leaves he usually installs a butt plug, which I wear until after my evening session with the Master. I am allowed to remove it when the light dims for me to sleep. After I take a last drink from the toilet, I wash the plug there, along with my hands. Stephen (at least I assume it is him) always flushes the toilet again before my morning drink.
He isn’t always affectionate, though; sometimes he seems cold and almost brutal. I hate those times, and when he leaves I vow to stop responding so eagerly to him, to make him work harder for my submission. But then the next day he’ll saunter in, smiling devilishly, and kiss or stroke me before he starts, and I’ll melt all over again.
I think Stephen is following his own inspirations in binding or torturing me, not just carrying out the Master’s orders. He brings whatever he needs with him, sometimes more than he needs. He’ll lay out a whole repertoire of implements on the floor before choosing what to use. But there is none of the tentativeness in his handling of me that novice Tops often show, because they can’t quite believe they can actually do such things to another person.
Stephen knows he can do whatever he wants with me, though of course he’d be answerable to the Master if he injured his charge. Perhaps the Master is training him as a Top — he already has an amazing degree of skill for someone his age, as well as the inner fire. I like to think that Stephen is inspired by my increasingly deep submission, my total vulnerability. Unlike that first time, I go to my knees immediately when he enters now, bowing my head in respect as I do for the Master. He seems to expect no less.
More and more often Stephen comes in with the Master in the morning, and it is his piss that moistens my breakfast and his hand that gives me my regular flogging while the Master watches — or even leaves to go about his business. Also, it’s usually Stephen who clips and shaves me once a week now, rather than the Master. He never sits in the Master’s chair, however, always remaining standing or crouching, unless he lies down with me. He is obedient and deferential to the Master but does not kneel to him in my presence.
Stephen does make mistakes at times and has to back up a move or two, particularly when he’s trying out a new technique, but he usually works on me with a sureness almost equal to the Master’s, as if everything he does had been practiced to perfection in advance. But on whom? Himself?
The only hesitation I’ve noted, on occasions when he’s left my eyes uncovered, is that when he has me stretched out, tied into a bundle, or strung up to the wall, he’ll step back and just look at me for a while. His eyes sparkle and a half grin plays on his lips, as if he’s wondering which torment would be the most fun to inflict. Will it be needles this time? Or electricity? Things that pinch, or things that sting?
Why do I stand for this? Why don’t I complain to the Master? I’m no pain pig, and our experiment never envisioned regular torture, just a simple daily flogging. Is it his eyes? His smile? Surely it’s not simply lust for his cock! I’m not really a dick pig either, just a man who needs to obey and serve.
That must be the key: I am serving Stephen in his coming out as a Top. Thanks to me, and to the situation created by my need that makes me so available to him, he’ll gain as much experience in a few weeks or months as most new Tops acquire in years of cruising and tricking. Are his kisses and gentle strokes anything more than gestures of appreciation for my service to him? Why is that important to me? Does it still matter so much whom I serve, as long as I serve well?
Except for screams and involuntary cries, I honor the Master’s rule not to speak to Stephen, but he talks freely, vocalizing a running commentary on his use of me. Early on, I almost laughed, because his name-calling was so reminiscent of bad porn. Since then I’ve grown accustomed to his growling, muttering, boyish sex talk.
He calls me “dickhead,” “fuckwad,” and “pissdump,” or worse, but there’s no edge of malice in it, no contempt, more a kind of roughhewn affection. It’s as if I’m his pet and he’s encouraging me with words I can’t really understand. Perhaps he just needs to underscore the difference in our status, since he, too, wears a slave collar. For how much longer, though?
Much of the tenderness he shows me could be chalked up to a Top’s empathy, not the deeper affection of a lover or owner. He may gently stroke my face before he starts slapping me, or lightly kiss my ass cheeks before laying into them with a belt or paddle. But there are hints of something more.
Recently, for instance, after he kissed me on the mouth — hungrily, demandingly — he allowed me to lick his face before pushing my mouth into his armpits, and thence to his crotch. And though my tongue has been inside his ass crack and hole more often than in the Master’s (he especially likes to have me lick along the taint between his balls and asshole), his has been in mine almost as often, gently opening me up to be fucked. I often daydream about his taste and smell, so sweet and rank at the same time, and wonder if he thinks about mine.
I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else but his visits. One day my journal pages contained nothing but the words “Stephen’s slave” repeated over and over again. Five pages of it. The Master couldn’t help noticing what I’d done when I wordlessly handed the papers to him as he was leaving that night, though he usually leaves reading my journal for morning. He scanned the pages, his eyebrows dancing, and then sat down again.
“Is there something you need to tell me, slave? Or ask me?”
“Master,” I said, on my knees before him, “are you planning to give me to Stephen?”
“Maybe. How would you feel about it if I did?”
“Master, I’m not sure. He can wrap me around his finger, Sir . . . ,” I said and stopped, confused.
“And? What’s troubling you, slave?”
“Master, is it any more than sex? Would I trust him, Sir, if he weren’t your slave, Sir?”
“I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to trust him.”
“Yes, Sir, of course, but I don’t really know him, Sir, not the way a slave should know the Master he gives himself to — not the way I know you, for instance, Sir. But if you think it would be good for me, Sir, to serve him, I will follow your lead, Sir.”
“That’s a hopeful sign, slave, your trusting me in that. Maybe this experiment you cooked up is working!”
“Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Nevertheless, I won’t make that decision for you. When the time comes, it must be your own free choice.” He sighed heavily before continuing.
“I never planned what’s been happening between you and Stephen, slave, and it’s damned inconvenient for me! It’s an accident that our experiment coincided with his blossoming as a Top. Or maybe not — maybe you’re bringing it out in him.”
“Sir, it’s nothing I’ve done intentionally, Sir.”
“I know that, slave. I’ve known for more than two years that Stephen would turn Top eventually — before he knew it himself. It’s just that I thought the process would be slower, giving me plenty of time to replace him as my house slave and business assistant.”
He stopped and sighed again, shifting in his seat.
“Stephen certainly didn’t show any eagerness to switch before. I let him watch me train other slaves, or do scenes with experienced bottoms, and I explained a lot of the techniques I used. He would assist me in the dungeon whenever I needed him, but he hung back from doing anything solo, even when I offered him opportunities.
“Then you came, and he begged me to let him help take care of you. Now he’s spending most of his free time in here with you, or planning what he’ll do to you next. He’s driving me crazy with his questions!”
He paused in thought, then continued.
“By now he’s gone through every piece of gear I own, asking how to use it, what dangers he should be aware of, how heavy it’s safe to get with it. I’ve looked at the tapes from his sessions with you, and it’s remarkable how good he is already. But you should be able to tell if he has real feelings for you or is just using you like a practice dummy.”
“Master, most of the time he acts like he cares for me, but then occasionally he’ll be cold and distant. So I don’t know what he really feels, Sir.”
“Well, you’re a captive slave, not really anyone’s property, and he’s a Top in training feeling his oats. I’m not surprised if he enjoys keeping you guessing. But I think he does care for you. He’s never seemed happier than since he started having regular sessions with you. He glows with the energy you feed him.”
“Master, thank you for telling me that. Sir, Stephen makes me happy, too, even when he gives me terrible pain. Sir, I endure it for his sake, because he wants it so much.”
“That’s good, because he was a heavy masochist as a bottom, and he’s turning into an extremely sadistic Top. But also a good one, a careful one — one you can trust, slave.
“And more than just a Top: he’s aiming at Mastery. I can tell by the questions he’s asked about you. He wanted to be sure your food was really adequate and healthy, for instance, and he’s the one who makes sure your toilet gets flushed without fail half a dozen times a day. He’s made suggestions to me about your exercise regimen, and he wanted to know all about the terms of our agreement.
“No, he’s not just a Top interested in unconnected scenes. He’s learned that owning is better than renting — if you can handle the upkeep.”
“Master, do you think he can? Sir, how much could he know of life from being your slave?”
“Don’t sell him short, slave!” he said almost angrily. “Somehow you talked me into setting up this experiment in long-term confinement, but my other slaves do real work — they’re not just toys to play with. Stephen has had as much experience dealing with the real world as most men his age, if not more.”
“Yes, Master. Begging your pardon, Sir.”
“That’s okay,” he said, looking kindly at me again. “Why do you think I can afford to stay home so much of the time? It’s because I send him out to represent me, sparing me the trouble. And his experience being a slave can only be an asset for a Master. It’s more than I had, more than most Masters have. He’ll make mistakes, sure, but he won’t have to guess what it feels like on the other end of the leash, or the whip. He’ll know, and you won’t be able to put anything over on him. He’s bright and he’s sensible, and with the right slave he’ll learn from his mistakes rather than becoming spoiled or giving up in despair. Can you handle being his slave?”
“Master, I don’t know. But if he wants me, and if we have your blessing and counsel, I’ll do my best, Sir.”
“We’ll see, slave.”
If I expected anything dramatic to come of my talk with the Master, I was disappointed. Weeks have turned into months, and things are still much the same as before. Little changes happen, though, such as when Stephen — it’s always him in the morning now, not the Master — shows me a new exercise or resets the treadmill program to push me harder. One day he brought a tape measure and took a complete set of measurements of my body, with no explanation. He’s also taken urine and blood samples and sent them off for analysis.
“You’re healthy as a horse,” he told me after the results came back. “A strong draft horse. It’ll be a lot of years before you’re ready for a rest home.”
Within the framework of my relatively fixed, but slowly evolving, routine at the beginning and end of each day, the middle varies at Stephen’s whim, or perhaps according to changes in what the Master needs from him. Some days he might come in for no more than a quick blow job or piss break, followed by a kiss or a pat on the head. Other days he’ll spend hours with me, orchestrating elaborate bondage or torture scenes, culminating with a long fuck and then cuddling until I come down from whatever cloud he’s put me on.
More often now he’ll simply lie on my pallet and talk while I massage him or tonguebathe him, or sit on the bench while I lick his boots or nurse at his cock. He pours out his dreams and hopes — the kind of house he wants, the kind of work he wants to do, the additional education he needs for it, what he wants to accomplish in five years or ten. He says little about becoming a Master, just occasional references to “my slave and I” and the life he expects they’ll build together. His self-confidence is breathtaking, and very seductive.
Under my vow of silence, I make a good listener, and he usually keeps my mouth busy anyway. Even lying down, his hands are always in motion as he talks, and they’re never out of contact with me for long, always stroking or teasing or pinching some piece of my flesh. He doesn’t say, “I love you” or “I want you,” but he makes me feel it many times a day.
It’s been a long time since I gave up the idea of coming, and my body has found a way to give me wet dreams without erections. The dreams are always about Stephen. In real life, he has the oddest look on his face when he fondles my locked-down genitals, and I shiver, wondering what he plans for them. He has no guiche piercing, so apparently the Master never harnessed his sex the way he did mine.
Today Stephen arrives full of even more energy than usual.
“Hello, slaveshit,” he says. “I call you that because today I’m going to beat the shit out of you, and since you’re a slave, you’re going to take it and thank me afterwards. Isn’t that right?”
Staring at him, open-mouthed, I automatically nod assent. I’m way past being able to deny him anything.
He uses no additional bondage for this session, just the chains I already wear and his gloved hands moving me into position and holding me there. He begins, in fact, by sitting on my pallet and laying me across his knees. Using his hands, a paddle, and a folded belt, he turns my flesh flaming red from my neck to the soles of my feet. When my backside is “done,” he turns me over and does the front the same way. I am whimpering long before he finishes, but he is unmoved.
Finally he dumps me onto the floor and stands up. I have a brief hope that he’s finished, but no: now that I’m “tenderized,” as he puts it, he starts in on me all over again using his boots. He kicks me, stomps on me, rolls me this way and that. The excruciating pain is eased only slightly by the knowledge that I am being pulverized by the same boots I’ve worshipped so often.
When he’s done all he can with his boots short of causing me internal injuries, he lowers the rarely used hoist from the ceiling, hooks my manacles onto it, and pulls me up to my feet. Then he starts using me as a punching bag!
Ungagged, I scream bloody murder, but Stephen never wavers, not even after I break my discipline and start sobbing out clear pleas to stop.
“Please, Sir, no more! Please stop, Sir! Please, Sir!”
Instead, he grabs my skull and starts slapping my face, hard.
“You don’t really mean that, fuckface! You don’t want me to stop before I’m damned well good and ready, do you, shithead slave? Do you? Answer me, asshole!”
“Sir, it hurts so much! Please, Sir!”
He slaps me some more before answering.
“It’s supposed to hurt, slaveboy. I enjoy hurting you. Haven’t you got that through your thick skull yet?”
“Sir, yes, Sir. As you please, Sir,” I force past my bruised lips.
“Damned right, dickhead. As I please, not you.”
At least he moves away from my face after that, and in my agony I realize that his heavier blows are all aimed at well-padded spots on my body. Although I hurt everywhere on the surface, and down into the large muscles, inside I’m okay, just shaken up and pumping out adrenaline and, finally, enough endorphins to turn the pain into ecstasy. I cross over into a masochist’s nirvana on a wave of natural opiates, my brain’s response to the stress of the beating.
Finally, when I’m too blissed out to care, he lets me down and half drags, half carries me over to my pallet, where he lays me out and fucks me royally. There is no more pain — I’m flying.
Before he comes inside my bruised ass, he bends over and says right into my ear, “I want you, slave. I never knew it could be this good. I want to own you and keep you for myself. I don’t want to share you anymore. And I want you to want me, too. I’d let you come now if I could, but the Master hasn’t allowed me the key to that lock. He will, though. He will.”
After he comes with a triumphant shout, he lies on top of me, his dick still inside my ass. We both doze for a while, but when I swim back to consciousness, he’s talking again.
“You want me, too, I know you do. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me. You know who you belong with. You know it’s time you started serving for real instead of in this zoo. I’ll take care of you all right, but you’ll cook for me, and clean my home, and wash my clothes and oil my leathers. You think I don’t have any of those things, and it’s true, I don’t have much — not yet, just the things I’m wearing now, the boots and armbands and gloves. I bought these for you, so you’d respect me even though I still wear a collar. “
He caresses me gently and kisses the back of my neck before continuing.
“It’s been years since I’ve had any clothes of my own, anything besides what the Master gives me so I can run errands and do business for him. And the only home I know is this one, the only space of my own the one room he lets me use. But I have plenty of money — he’s been saving it for me since I’ve been in his service, and he showed me the total — and I have marketable skills.
“All I need to make it worthwhile is a slave to come home to. I’ll be able to support you, dickhead, don’t worry about that, and maybe you can even earn a little on the side. The Master said he would free me if I mastered you, and when he sees you tonight, covered with bruises I gave you, and you kneel at my feet and kiss my boots in front of him, he’ll know that I have.”
He licks my ears and the back of my fuzzy head. I’m sure I look like road kill, yet in my heart I feel at ease. What needed to be said has finally been said. I don’t have to speculate anymore about Stephen’s intentions — or my future.
Relaxed and obviously feeling good about his conquest, Stephen lies half on me, half on the floor, and lightly strokes my shoulders and arms. It tickles and I shiver. He thinks something’s wrong and immediately reassures me.
“It’s okay, boy, you’ll be all right. It’s over now, and you did fine.”
Turning my head, I flash him a grin. He laughs.
“Guess you are okay, asshole!”
He lays his head on my shoulder again and rests for a while, but he can’t keep quiet for long — there’s so much he wants to say to me.
“I’ll bet you think he made it too easy for me, pissface, because here you are, all chained up and available, with no way to resist me. But I know you, slave. I’ve read your journals, too. You could have resisted me in your head if you’d wanted to. I could have been no more to you than some jerk who interrupted your precious meditation. But no, you bent your neck to me the first time I reached out my hand. You knew I would take you, and you wanted me to.”
He’s right, of course. He reads me perfectly.
“And you egged me on by the way you responded,” he continues. “I don’t think you even realized what you were doing. You could have laughed at my inexperience, or my presumption. But you loved it, dickwipe, you loved my using you, fucking you, beating you. You love it now, don’t you? You’re aching in every limb, and you wish I’d never take my cock out of your ass, don’t you?”
If he never took it out of my ass, he couldn’t put it in my mouth. I grunt ambiguously, and he laughs again.
“Yeah, I know you can’t talk to me, can’t tell me you agree — or that you don’t! That’s okay, cocksucker: you’ve talked too much in your life anyway. Now I’ll talk for both of us, and you can listen. Your body language is telling me all I need to know.
“I own you already, asswipe. I just have to make sure that the Master accepts it and lets us both go. I know you’re older than me, and better educated. That’s good; you can help me avoid mistakes. But I don’t think you’re smarter than me, not about anything real, and I’ll always have the balls to keep you in line when I have to. I don’t think I’ll have to punish you much, though. You’re well trained, give the Master credit for that, and you’ll obey me because you know it’s what makes you happy.
“Get your head around it, slave. I’m going to leave here soon, and you’re coming with me.”
The pain in my cock as it tries, and fails, to become erect is all the testimony I need from that quarter. Despite all the pain Stephen gives me, he wants me, he wants me badly, and that’s always been my chief aphrodisiac. The Master clearly doesn’t want me the way Stephen does, or need me. Confining me was a gift from him, because the experiment intrigued him and he enjoys our talks. But it was my obsession, not his, and he’ll probably be relieved to end it. This cell will get plenty of use from his tricks and other trainees.
Stephen pulls out finally, his cock still half hard, and goes to his gear bag for the ointment he applies to my welts. Lying there as he gently rubs the cooling salve into every inch of my bruised skin, I find my mind drifting. It feels so good just to let him take care of me. His spate of talk seems to have run out, and he is as silent as me. We communicate only by looks and touch, the eternal languages of love.
Nonetheless, sometimes I shiver when Stephen strokes me gently, almost preferring his slaps and kicks to the confused emotions his tenderness arouses. His rough but confident handling feels so right. Why should I have any doubts? I do want to please him. I can easily see myself cooking and cleaning for him, helping him off with his boots, polishing them, running his bath, turning down his bed, sleeping on the floor at his feet. I’m a slave, after all — more of a slave now than ever before — and serving a dominant man is what I need to do.
And he’s right that I need to serve him in real life, not in this arti-ficial environment the Master created for me. This isn’t the essence of slavery at all, but a parody of it! I can see it clearly now: my fantasy of open-ended confinement, of being nothing but a sextoy and urinal, is actually extremely selfish. Here I am, serving both my Masters sexually, taking their piss, absorbing their blows, but unable to work for them. I’m not carrying any of their burdens. Time to be real again!
Stephen fucks me once more, very gently, before he leaves, and then lets me clean him with my mouth until he empties his bladder down my throat. He says not another word, just kisses me deeply and rubs my scalp fuzz. After the door closes behind him, I lie back on my pallet and — exhausted, happy, hurting, confused, hopeful — soon fall asleep.
When the Master comes to me that evening, I’m not surprised to see Stephen with him. It’s Stephen who carries my food bowl and crouches over it to moisten the gritty meal with his piss so I can eat it. The Master sighs and watches, saying nothing until I finish. When I thank him, still on my knees, he tells me to stand up and slowly turn around. I do so, barely suppressing a groan — I ache everywhere! The Master checks the bruises left by Stephen’s beating.
“Down, slave,” he says at last. “You may speak freely. Stephen did this to you?”
“Did you want him to?”
“No, Master. It was all his idea, Sir.”
“But you enjoyed it?”
“No, Master, not exactly. But he enjoyed it, and that made it okay.”
“I see. Do you feel that he went too far, exceeded your limits?”
“No, Master . . . .”
“Go on, slave.”
“Thank you, Master. It was the worst beating anyone’s ever given me, Sir. But as you can see, Sir, I survived in one piece.”
“I see. What did Stephen say to you, exactly, about why he did this?”
“Master, he said that you told him that he’d be freed if he mastered me.”
“And do you feel that he has? A beating alone is not Mastery.”
Now my eyes move over to Stephen standing beside the Master’s chair. His bare arms are crossed behind his back, his booted legs spread, his cock half erect, to all appearances a perfect slave. He raises his bowed head just enough to hold my eyes and pull them down to his boots. I know exactly what he wants from me, needs from me. His fate is now in my hands. I could say one word, “No,” and he’d remain a slave, and probably be barred from my cell so I would have nothing to fear from him. He’d be just another slaveboy who got above himself and was slapped down again.
No way can I do that to him. I might not be totally sure yet that he’s the right Master for me, but what do I have to lose by trying? A few more months of solitude in my cell? I’m suddenly eager to move on and try real slavery again.
A second or two was enough for these thoughts. The Master sees only the barest hesitation as I shuffle on my knees toward his slaveboy and bend my head to kiss his boots. As soon as I do so, Stephen reaches down and hooks a finger through one of the rings on my collar, pulling me upright between his legs. I kiss his cock, too, now proudly erect.
“Let it be so,” the Master says, and I swear he sounds pleased. “Stephen, come here.”
Quickly, my new Master releases my collar and steps around me to stand in front of his Master.
“Kneel, boy, for the last time.” The Master pulls out his key ring and unlocks Stephen’s collar chain, then rises from his chair and they embrace, hugging each other with every evidence of considerable affection. I see all this over my shoulder, as I don’t dare move without permission.
The Master kisses Stephen and holds him at arm’s length, looking him up and down as if for the first time before speaking again.
“You’ve grown so much in the past year. I never intended this outcome when I agreed to this slave’s proposal. I’m going to miss your smooth running of this house and all your help in my business. But it feels right. I think it’s what you both need.
“This slave’s greater age and experience will help you mature and develop into a fine Master, as long as you never lose his respect. You may not stay together long, or you might be a match for the ages — there’s no telling yet. But right now I think you’ll do very well together.”
“Sir,” Stephen replies, still giving the Master the respect he deserves, “unless you wish us to leave immediately, I’d be happy to continue here for another month or so, while I make other arrangements. My slave can do my chores, under my direction, and I can help you find and train a new assistant for the business.”
“Stay as long as you like,” the Master says. “But won’t you find your room too cramped now?”
“It’ll be good for the slave to get used to it, Sir,” my new Master says, grinning as he steps over to me and turns me around with a touch on my shoulder. “You’ve been too easy on him, Sir, letting him have all this space to himself. At least he won’t need any of my closet — I’m going to be filling it with my new clothes.”
“Very good. Take this key and unlock his leg chain from the wall. Do you want to take off his collar and cuffs, too?”
“Thank you, Sir, but I’d like to keep them on, with your leave, for as long as we stay in your house. I’ll give him a new collar when we move to my own home. Meanwhile, your chains suit him well, I think. Don’t they, fuckface?”
So ingrained was the rule against speaking to anyone but the Master that I hesitate to reply.
“You can answer me, slave,” Stephen says. “I am your Master now.”
“Sir, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!” I say in a rush, and bend to kiss his boots again.
“Silly slaveboy!” he says, grinning down at me. “It’s going to be fun training you all over again.”
He squats down to disconnect me from the wall chain, then pulls me to my feet and into his arms. I wince as he hugs me, because of my bruises, but there’s nowhere else I want to be.
“Looks like our experiment is finished,” the Master says, “but given such a wild card as Stephen here proved to be, I’d have to call the results inconclusive. What do you think, slave?”
Glancing at my new Master for permission, I answer firmly,
“Sir, it was a wonderful experience, and I am deeply grateful to you for it, but it’s time I faced my responsibilities. Sir, I’m ready to be a slave in the real world again, Sir.”
“Good boy!” the Master says.
“Woof!” Stephen says, and kisses me hard. “C’mon, dickface,” he says at last, grinning widely, “and I’ll show you where the real slaves around here live.”
It was my fantasy come true. My Master, (we’ll call him Darren for the sake of the story), was moving back to my town and coming to live with me.
I had been ordered to clean the house from top to bottom ahead of his arrival and ensure the cupboards were well stocked with food and drink.
I had done all of this and rushed home after work on Friday evening, as he had told me that the first weekend would be dedicated to training me in ‘how it was gonna be from now on.’
I was very excited (and a little nervous) as I entered my house. He was already there, having arrived about lunchtime.
I took off my clothes at the foot of the stairs as I had been instructed and waited, facing the wall, for him to come down to me.
After a few minutes, I heard him come descend the stairs and halt behind me. Without speaking, he fitted the leather mask over my head and did it up tightly. The zips were fastened and I was suddenly in a world of darkness.
“When you come in,” he spoke at last “You will put on whatever you find at the bottom of the stairs. If there is nothing, you will be naked. Do you understand?”
“Yes Master” I replied.
He led me into the bedroom. “This is now the dungeon and my sleeping place,” He said. “Where you sleep depends on my mood.”
I was made to stand in the centre of the room while he began to tie restraints around my wrists and ankles. These were tied off to hooks above and below so that I was forced into an ‘X’ position.
Then I felt him stand close up behind me. His warm hands caressed my cold skin, gently at first. His hand moved between my legs to grasp my balls from behind and he gripped then tightly.
“This is where it begins,” he whispered. “You will never touch your cock & balls again,” he said more sharply, “Do you understand?”
“When you are out of the house, you will always be in chastity and I will have the only key. You will only be released in my presence. These are mine now.” And he flicked my balls, painfully. “They will be emptied, only when I think you deserve it. That could be daily, weekly or monthly. It depends how much you please me.”
He moved round to stand before me and grasped my nipples. I winced slightly. “These, I will have pierced. And I think it is high time you were tattooed. Not a mans tattoo like mine, but a sign of your slavery. A barcode, perhaps?”
I nodded again.
“All this hair must go.” He said, tugging at the hair under my arms and around my groin. Hair is for men. You will be smooth all over. Your head will be shaved to grade 1 each week.”
I felt him untie my wrists but he quickly re-tied them to my ankles so I was bent over. Shocked, I felt him poke a finger between my ass cheeks. “All this hair needs to go, too. Smooth ALL over.” He said, chuckling. “It gets in the way” and I felt him push something firm between my cheeks. He continued to apply pressure until it slipped inside me. It was a butt plug.
“You will wear this when around the house unless I remove it” he said. Then he stood me back up again and fitted a collar round my neck, over the hood, and a strap around my cock and balls. Working quickly, he fitted a chain which ran down my back and between my legs, connecting the two, tightly.
It had the added purpose of ensuring I could not remove the butt plug.
“You wanted to be my slave,” he said “Well this is what it means.”
It was true, I had wanted this. My stiff cock showed that, despite my humiliation at the hands of this man, I still did.
I felt a sudden sting as he brought a whip down across my bare ass cheeks.
“Now for some duties” he said.
He proceeded to outline what my tasks would be each day – and between each one, he struck me with the whip and asked me if I understood.
· To get up at 7.00am each weekday and get ready for work quietly.
· To bring him a cup of tea and a cigarette before leaving for work.
· To call him at lunchtime to seek any orders or shopping requirements for the day
· To return straight home after work (unless given permission otherwise)
· To strip off on return and wear whatever was put out for me
· To immediately seek out my Master and attend to his needs
· To cook and clean to my Master’s satisfaction before being allowed to eat
· To submit to my Master’s plans for the evening’s entertainment.
· To obey all orders without question
· To help prepare my Master for bed before I was put to bed for the night.
This last task made him laugh and he released me from my bondage and dragged me over to the bed where he said he would give me a demonstration of how to fulfil that duty.
Still hooded, I heard him unzip his jeans and felt the zip on the hood open. Immediately, he forced his solid cock into my mouth and told me to suck.
“Your last job of the day will always be to clean my cock,” he instructed. “You will worship it with your tongue and ensure it is clean. You will swallow whatever comes out of it” and as he said that, I felt his warm urine begin to flow. I began to pull away but he shouted “Drink it, bitch” and thrust deeper into my throat. I had no choice but to swallow. He kept pissing and I kept gulping, thinking I might choke or vomit at any moment. But I didn’t and eventually he finished. But my ordeal wasn’t over.
“Now show me some queer slave boy sucking” he ordered and his cock remained in my mouth. I began to work it as best I could and before long got a rhythm going.
I felt him tense and moan softly then suddenly, he exploded in my mouth, filling me with his salty cum.
“You better swallow every last drop” he said. I dared not disobey, licking his dick clean of the stuff.
“Good boy” he said. “Now for your reward.”
I was pleased at this and waited to be released. The chain was removed and my wrists and ankles freed but the butt plug remained.
He stood me up and I felt him begin to wrap me in soft bandages. First my legs then my arms then my body until only my cock and balls were left sticking out.
I must have looked quite odd but I was still hooded so couldn’t see myself.
He lay me on the bed and I felt him rub my bollocks gently. I groaned with pleasure but he stopped. I wondered why but in a few moments, I knew. He had rubbed toothpaste on them and I could feel them burning already.
I groaned again, this time in pain.
“See you later” he called and left the room. I was alone with my balls burning from toothpaste and mummified from head to toe. I couldn’t move an inch.
I waited. And I waited. Although the burning sensation eventually died away, it left my balls aching and my cock, rock-solid. The plug was still buried deep inside me and was a constant reminder of my status.
I was alone in a dark world of my own. My thoughts wandered and my imagination played tricks on me. It felt like I was being watched but I heard him moving upstairs and I knew I wasn’t. After what seemed ages, I called out “Master! Master!” But there was no reply. I desperately wanted to cum. SO desperately that I began to sob. “Please Master!” I called. But there was no-one to hear me and eventually I drifted off into a sleep of sorts.
I awoke with a warm sensation on my cock, which had softened. It was pleasant, like someone breathing on it perhaps? My balls felt like they were being tickled by something but I couldn’t tell what.
My dick instantly stiffened again. “Master?” I wasn’t sure but I guessed he must be with me and called out. He didn’t reply.
Over what seemed like the next hour my cock & balls were subjected to various sensations. Some of them were pleasant, others bordered on painful. Sometimes there was a pause of several minutes between and sometimes it went on uninterrupted. It was completely outside of my control. I could not stop it or resist – even if I wanted to. But my cock was now throbbing, so intense were the sensations.
Still he had not spoken and I began to wonder if it was him. Could I really feel anything? Could I be dreaming or imagining all of this?
“Master?” I called again but again there was no response.
I began to struggle but it was useless as I was tightly secured. I screamed out my safe word. But then I remembered – I had said there was to be no safe word from mental torture. I was utterly powerless. I felt like I would go insane from the things going on in my head at that moment. Intense pleasure mixed with intense suffering; confusion, helplessness, humiliation and desire all blended together in an intoxicating mix.
Then it stopped. Completely. Nothing happened. Minutes ticked by. My dick, still throbbing, was untouched. I hadn’t wanted it to continue – but stopping was worse.
“Please, Master,” I begged, realizing that I was almost crying. “Please finish me”.
Then I got a reply. It was a laugh, not spoken words, but it was a reply and I was overjoyed. My Master had laughed at me. Deep down, I knew he had already broken any resistance or dignity I might have had. I had become little more than a dog, craving its master’s attention.
I heard him strip off and felt him climb into bed beside me. He reached out for me but I could not respond, mummified as I was. I felt his warmth through the bandages as he held me. Felt his hand brush lightly over my cock. I couldn’t bare it any longer. “Please stop now” I said in the most manly voice I could muster.
But he laughed again. “Oh no” he said. “This is only a taste of what is to come. Or not to come,” he added laughing at his own joke and stroking my meat. “I am naked beside you” he said. I struggled and strained once more but I knew it was in vain. I could not escape.
“One more thing,” he added. “Something for you to think about before you go to sleep. You are 100% mine which means no running off to your best mate’s when he calls.” I tried to protest but his hand stroked my balls lightly. “I though about theat problem and I came up with a brilliant solution,” he went on. “I told him what I was doing with you. He knows. He understands. He is glad cos it means you wont be pestering him every two minutes. I have agreed to let you undertake jobs at his request and release you when he asks. He will help me control you. In fact, he is coming round tomorrow to see you. To see you like this.”
The words took a while to sink in.
“I told him everything and he thinks it’s what you deserve. So now you have no reason not to be here at my beck and call. Think about that, slave,” he said, “Goodnight” and with one last sharp tug of my cock, he turned over and settled down to sleep.
I awoke the next morning after a night of broken sleep and intensely sexual dreams. The first thing I realized as my mind began to focus on reality was that I had a hard-on and my balls ached from the need to be emptied. The plug was still inside me and uncomfortable when I moved.
As far as I could tell, Darren was still in the bed beside me. I felt a soft movement over my cock and groaned from the exquisite pleasure and yet suffering.
“Oh, my slave is awake is he?” he said. Before I could answer, he rolled over on top of me and undid the mouth zip on the hood I was still wearing.
I thought it was so I could speak but instantly, his semi-hard cock was in my mouth. “Suck it clean, bitch, ” he commanded. I did as I was told, savouring the smell and taste. He had been very clever really. Had I been allowed to cum by now, I would probably have not been in the mood for games first thing in the morning but so desperate was my need for relief that I would do anything at this moment.
I hoped by pleasuring him, he would reward me.
I was disappointed. A few minutes in, he withdrew his dick and redid the zip before getting up and without speaking, leaving the room. I heard him in the bathroom then I heard him upstairs.
I was left alone for some time and began to drift back to sleep, despite my discomfort, when he suddenly returned.
I was de-mummified and the hood was removed from my head. I blinked in the morning sun.
“You may remove the but plug and you have 15 mins for shit, shave, shower. Then I want you upstairs wearing this” he said, flinging the slave pouch at me. “But before I let you go, I need to put this on to make sure you don’t play with yourself.”
He produced the CB3000 chastity device which he quickly fitted and padlocked in place. My cock was now encased in a tough plastic prison and out of bounds.
“15 mins – Go!” he snapped and I dashed past him to the bathroom. He slapped my ass as I ran by.
Once alone, I was able to take care of my toiletries and freshen myself up but I couldn’t so the one thing I really wanted to do – wank!
15 mins later, I stood before him once more, wearing the slave pouch as instructed. He was sat on the sofa wearing my dressing gown and smoking. He had the Cat o’ nine tails with him.
“Very good,” he commented, looking at the clock, “Now in the kitchen and make my breakfast. I will have coffee and egg on toast. You will have bread and water.”
I nodded. “Yes Master” and set about my task.
I could hear him on his mobile phone as I worked but could not hear what was said. I wondered if his threats about Jim from last night were true but didn’t think my best mate would go along with something as cruel as that.
When I returned with a tray bearing our breakfast, he was off the phone and seemed pleased. I put the food down and he made me eat mine on the floor. After breakfast, I was made to wash the dishes as he whipped me for every fault he could find. Then I was sent down to the bathroom with orders to prepare a bath.
I did so and shortly, he joined me. He put the hood back on me and then dis-robed and climbed into the foamy waters.
“Now, slave, clean me!” he ordered. Carefully, as I could not see anything, I began to soap up his muscled body and wash him all over. If I had not been hooded, it would have been a horny experience. The fact I was hooded, made it 10 times more horny. I could feel every bulge of his muscles in my hand but could not see! Real torture beyond anything I had experienced before. My cock strained against its plastic prison.
When he was done, he ordered me to towel him down then he left me alone, temporarily, whilst he dressed.
When he returned, the hood was again removed. He had assembled various tools and it was clear I was to be shaved and trimmed as he had explained the previous night. The CB3000 was removed and my pubic and body hair was shaved along with my head whilst Immac was spread between my ass cheeks and left to do its work. Five minutes later, I was made to get into the bath – the same water he had used which was now cooler and bubbleless – and I cleaned myself off. He watched me carefully to ensure I didn’t touch my cock.
When I was done, he ordered me to stand in the bath whilst he applied baby oil all over my hairless body. The touch of his hands on my smooth skin sent my cock into overdrive and I felt I would cum from the feelings alone. But I didn’t and before we left the bathroom, he reapplied the CB3000 and hood. I was taken back into the dungeon and forced into the cage.
He locked it shut and I was left once again in the dark and unable to ease the pressure in my aching bollocks.
I again drifted off to sleep, despite being cramped and having only a single blanket to wrap myself in. My uneasy dreams were full of dark happenings and I awoke several times. At one point, I imagined Jim and Darren were stood laughing at me in my humiliation.
Then I awoke. It was not a dream. Although I couldn’t see, I could clearly hear Jim’s voice. He was here, in the room, alongside my Master.
“Get him out” I heard him say and then heard the padlock being opened.
“Out” Darren commanded. Reluctantly, I obeyed. I didn’t want to play – not in front of Jim. It was too humiliating. Too embarrassing.
I was stood before them, naked but for the chastity device on my cock and the hood over my head. I guessed this made it easier for them to look at me for they didn’t have to look into my eyes but, knowing they were seeing me like this, didn’t make the humiliation any less for me.
“What can we do with him?” Jim asked
“Anything you like” Darren replied. Then he snapped “On the bed, face up”
I was half pushed into position and quickly my wrists and ankles were secured so I was spread-eagle. The CB3000 was removed and replaced with the studded parachute. Darren explained to Jim about the tiny spikes inside then I felt pulling on it. It hurt and I winced. Jim laughed and I felt more force on it. Then I heard rattling of chains and they somehow managed to secure a constant upward pressure on it meaning my balls were continually subjected to dozens of pin-like pricks. I moaned in pain.
“What do these do?” I heard Jim ask, wondering what he was referring to. I soon found out as I felt clamps applied to each nipple, biting hard and deep. This time I yelped with the pain but that seemed to encourage them.
“Try this” I heard Darren say. I braced myself for whatever was to come.
Suddenly I felt a searing sensation on my chest, making its way down towards my navel. I cried out in the mask, guessing Darren was introducing Jim to the delights of hot candle wax on my body.
“Try it on his balls” Darren suggested.
I yelled “No!” but it was too late. The hot wax covered my balls and I screamed.
My mind was clouded with the pain but my cock, also now being coated in hot wax was harder than steel. Here I was, a worthless piece of meat, providing entertainment for two men. And why shouldn’t I? That was all I was fit for. They were men, it was their right to use me in whatever way they desired.
The pain was now intense in my balls, my nipples and from my cock.
“Want to make him really suffer? Watch this” Darren said.
I was ready to scream. I was ready to shout out my safe word, though I didn’t think it would do any good. The nipple clamps were removed and the relief was overwhelming. The studded parachute was removed. It felt amazing to have my balls free. Something cold soothed the burning sensations of the hot wax.
Why had he stopped hurting me – or was he just building up for the big one?
I tensed up and prepared for massive pain. And felt nothing, Nothing except his hand on my balls. And then on my cock. His hand, covered in baby oil. Working me. Slowly. Gently. I writhed on the bed. Fuck this was beautiful. He teased my balls, gently squeezing them in his hand. He knew I liked that.
“Ohhhh Fuckkkkk! I exclaimed, my mind on another level with so much pleasure after so much pain.
“You like that?” he asked, softly.
“Yes Master” I replied, squirming and pushing myself up off the bed toward him.
“Pleeeeaaaaasssssseeeeeee” I begged, wanting him to go harder, faster. Wanting him to let me cum. But he continued at the same slow, steady pace.
“What are you?” he asked.
I paused for a moment then replied. “I am yours, Master. Whatever you want me to be. I am your slave, your toy, your piece of meat. I will do anything for you Master, please…”
He laughed and stopped all contact with me.
“No…Master!” I begged, “PLEASE!”
“See how easy it is to control a fag” he said to Jim, who also laughed.
“Do you want our cocks?” Darren asked me and I replied instantly
I didn’t even realize I had said it until Darren pointed it out. “It seems you are now also his Master, Jim”
Jim laughed again “fuckin’ queer!” he exclaimed.
I heard Darren unzip his jeans and then heard Jim do the same on the other side of me.
“Our cocks are out” Darren said, “Here they are” and I felt something brush passed my hand on Darren’s side. Of course, my hands were tied to the bed and I couldn’t move them but it didn’t stop me straining against the bonds.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Jim, that’s massive” Darren said, laughing.
I had no way of knowing whether they really did have their dicks out or not as I was still hooded but my imagination had taken over.
“PLEASE!” I begged again.”PLEASE MASTERS! PLEASE HAVE MERCY”
”What do you want?” Darren asked. “Tell Jim and me what you want”
With no thought of my dignity, I pleaded to be allowed to suck them both off. For them to fill me with their spunk. To be fucked. To be spit-roasted. To be ridden like a bitch. To be made to satisfy their every fetish and desire.”
I was now so desperate to cum and to be used by these two men, I really would have done anything they demanded of me.
Instead, they left me to one side and both climbed onto the bed next to me. I heard various muttering and laughing and I felt a faint thud thud thud. I strained to hear, from inside my hood, what was going on.
I heard gasps and moans of pleasure and whispers of “Yeah, that’s good”
Like a bolt of lightning it hit me! They were wanking each other off! Of all the tortures I had endured today, this was surely the worst. Not just two young, fit, straight guys wanking each other off but THE two fittest guys in my life, doing it here, right next to me. And I was too well restrained to move a muscle, let alone join in and too well blindfolded to see a thing. But I could feel the bed shaking with their movements and hear their gasps of pleasure and delight. And I cried! I cried in frustration and desperation. I cried real tears and lots of them. I sobbed and yelled and struggled but they ignored me, too far gone in their own pleasure no doubt. Pleasure that should have been mine. Despite my agony, I calmed myself as I could hear from their sounds that one or both of them was getting close to cumming.
And I SO wanted to join them.
Then I heard a shout and felt warm liquid splatter across my cock and balls. I yelled out in disbelief. “PLEASE” I shouted, “PLEASE – LET ME HAVE IT!”
The first wave was quickly followed by more until my cock and balls were dripping with thick creamy straight-boy spunk. I writhed and shivered in unbelievable ecstasy but at the same time sobbed and cried in frustration.
I felt some of it being scooped up from across my balls and then the zip was opened on the mouth slit. Fingers were pushed into my mouth and greedily I sucked – on yoghurt!
I heard the two of them laughing loudly at me, no doubt finding humor in the way I had completely humiliated myself before them. Thinking it was all real, imagining them with their cocks out and wanking, I had promised them anything and everything in return for a share in their fun. I had debased myself and it had all been a big joke.
I felt utterly defeated. Worthless. Useless. Inferior. My dick now lay limp and lifeless though my balls were still swollen and aching. I didn’t deserve to cum. I had been used and abused by two straight guys and I felt broken and sub-human.
I began to cry again as they left the room, still laughing at me.
I must have cried myself to sleep because when I awoke, I was being manhandled. The restraints round my ankles and wrists were removed and I was told to stand by Darren. The hood was not removed but the eye slit was opened and I was half dragged to the toilet where I was told to do whatever I needed.
I could not see or hear Jim. I had no idea of the time or how long I had been asleep though it seemed to still be daylight.
It was difficult to use the toilet whilst being watched but I managed somehow, taking every opportunity to stretch and flex my stiff limbs and muscles.
I was then led upstairs into the lounge. Jim was there, sipping from a can of beer.
He stood up and came towards me, zipping the eyeslit shut before taking me completely by surprise by grabbing my balls sharply and squeezing them. I winced.
My cock instantly leapt to attention. I was shocked. This was the first time, to the best of my knowledge, that Jim had ever touched me in that way. He seemed to enjoy the reaction and flicked my knob, causing me to wince again and wobble slightly. I had no time to enjoy this latest development before Darren said “Cuff him, then” Almost at once, Jim yanked my arms behind my back and I felt solid steel handcuffs around my wrists. My feet were bound together, also by Jim, I guessed.
Then, what I guessed was a duvet, was wrapped around me tightly and secured with rope. This in turn was lifted – complete with me inside – into some kind of large bag or sack. I felt the top of the sack being tied and I was then hoisted into the air with some effort.
All sounds were muffled inside this new prison and I was still wearing the hood so it was extremely dark. It quickly became very warm too.
I dangled for a few moments as I heard Jim talking to Darren, he seemed to be explaining something.
Then I felt a blow to my side, cushioned by the padding surrounding me. Then another. And another. Some laughing, some talking; then another blow followed by a series on various parts of my body. I was being used as a human punch bag.
Although I was protected, some of the blows were quite hard and I felt them, even through the duvet.
I was getting hotter and sweating. Breathing was difficult and several blows had partially winded me. I didn’t know when or where the next one was going to land so I couldn’t prepare for it.
This went on for ages and despite my protests, they continued, turning the music up to drown out my cries.
Eventually, I felt myself lowered and I dropped to the floor. I was released from the duvet. They examined me for bruises, laughing at the marks on my battered body.
I was then released from the cuffs and fitted with a collar and lead around my neck. I was given the leather chastity belt to wear but Darren made an adjustment so that a long piece of string was tied around my balls first. I was then locked into the belt but he gave a sharp tug on the string, telling me that was their signal if they wanted me for anything.
I was made to crawl to the kitchen, led on the lead by Darren, and told to make them both dinner whilst they were in the study, surfing the net.
I set about the task, grateful for some time on my own where I could move my arms and legs and was not being beaten or abused.
However, my cooking was interrupted by frequent tugs on the rope as they demanded more beer, biscuits, updates on the food and various other questions I suspected they devised simply to inflict pain on my poor aching balls.
Eventually, I finished my task and brought them two large plates of tuna & pasta bake with garlic bread. They made me sit at their feet and Darren hand-fed me scraps from his plate. Jim put his on the floor when he had finished and ordered me to lick it clean.
I was quite hungry so was glad to eat, though licking from a plate on the floor like a dog was a humiliating experience. Darren gave me a couple of slices of dried bread and a glass of water and told me I had been a good boy.
I began to hope that my ordeal was almost over. After dinner, I was made to wash all the dishes and clean the kitchen – which I was left mostly in peace to do.
Then I was hauled back into the lounge, again crawling on my hands and knees, and told I was to be a footstool and coffee table for them whilst they chilled out.
Hardly daring to move, they rested their feet, and an ashtray, on my back and chatted together. It seemed they were planning to go out to the pub and were debating which one.
Eventually, they decided and I was taken back downstairs and padlocked into the cage – the end of my ordeal, I hoped. I heard them moving about up and down stairs, getting ready but they didn’t bother with me anymore.
Locked in the cage, with my cock and balls inside a leather prison and a hood over my
head, I was far from comfortable. The pressure in my balls was immense and I couldn’t help but think about all that had happened to me over the last 24 hours which gave me an instant erection.
However, they hadn’t finished with me yet! I was dragged out of the cage. My hands and feet were tightly bound and I was placed into a sack or bag – without the duvet.
I was breathing heavily, not knowing what to expect. They carried me out of the house and put me in the boot of Jim’s car. Then the boot slammed shut.
Moments later, I heard the car doors slam and the engine start. A sudden jolt and we were moving.
Jim must have decided to take the bumpiest roads he could find and drive as erratically as possible because I bumped and banged around in the boot until I began to feel quite sick. My plea’s for mercy were drowned out by his stereo system.
Clearly, they did intend to go the pub because eventually the car stopped and I heard the doors slam again. The boot was briefly opened and a finger prodded me. When I responded, Jim laughed and said “He’s still alive”. Then the boot slammed shut and I was left alone.
I was cold and scared. I couldn’t sleep but I couldn’t move, either. I waited for what seemed like an eternity before they returned to the car.
They checked on me once more before setting off. The journey back was even worse than the journey there. Maybe Jim had been drinking or maybe I was just more bruised and sensitive but I seemed to feel every lump and bump in the road.
When I was eventually lifted from the boot and returned to the house, I was very relieved. I was removed from the sack and thrown into the bed, still bound. The light was switched off and I was left alone.
Despite my bonds, I drifted off to sleep very quickly, being both emotionally and physically exhausted.
Once again, I was awoken from my sleep by movement. Once again, I had lost all track of time.
It felt like my bonds were being removed. I stretched my tired muscles as soon as I was freed. Then, the hood was removed, too. It was dark in the room but for a single candle burning.
I was aware that it was Darren who had removed my bonds. He was lay on one side of me. To my astonishment, Jim was lay the other. Both were topless. I couldn’t see what else they wore as, like me, they were beneath the duvet.
I lay still, hardly daring to breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
My heart sank as I was once again tied, spread-eagled to the bed. I wondered what torture awaited this time and I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes – when would it end?
Softly, I heard Darren whisper “Poor slaveboy. He has suffered so much today. His puny body is battered and bruised.” And he began to gently caress my outstretched arm. I tensed myself, waiting for the pain – but there was none. He continued gently massaging my arm and I felt Jim do the same on my thigh.
Yet again, my cock stiffened, still in its confinement. So this was their torture. To tease me as they had done earlier. I tried not to respond but their firm manly hands working my sore and aching muscles felt divine. Darren’s hand moved to my chest and began to gently squeeze my nipple. I waited for him to pinch but he didn’t.
Jim’s hand moved to the top of my thigh and he stroked around the leather belt.
I groaned in pleasure – despite my attempts to hold it in – and threw my head back.
“PLEASE” I begged again despite knowing they had ignored all of my begging and pleading throughout the day “Please don’t tease me, Masters. Just do what you are going to do and get it over” My voice sounded weak and pathetic.
Jim replied, “We’re not teasing. You have done really well and you deserve this reward.” And I felt him fumble with the padlock on the belt for a moment and then it clicked open. He removed the belt and my stiff cock sprang up, my two heavy balls hanging large in their sac.
Darren continued to tweak my nipples as Jim’s hand grew ever closer to my balls. As he touched them, I arched my body in ecstasy. Darren had chosen that same moment to bite my neck – not to inflict pain but maximum pleasure. I felt my cock shoot out great strings of hot gushing semen. I didn’t want to cum so soon but my body was under their control. I yelled out “Oh Fuck! Oh God!” as I pumped out more and more of the sticky white substance, drenching myself in it. My body spasmed as waves of intense pleasure shot through me.
I think they were impressed at themselves and the effect they had on me. I was disappointed. I felt robbed of what could have been a much longer and more pleasurable experience.
I lay on the bed, shuddering for a moment until Darren grabbed a towel and cleaned me up. I was still tied and couldn’t move.
“Do queers always cum that easy?” Jim asked. I shook my head. “No Master” It seemed odd to call him Master but after what I had been through, I knew I would never be able to think of either of them as equals again. They had broken me and made me theirs.
I lay, looking at Darren, waiting for further instructions. To my great surprise (and pleasure), they picked up where they had left off. Darren began running his hand over my chest while Jim fondled my balls, no longer swollen or aching.
My cock lay to one side, at rest, but I felt it begin to stir again. I lay back, savoring the moment. All the pain and all the suffering had been worth it for this. The two most important guys in my world, the two who now owned me, were pleasuring me.
Darren began stroking my neck whilst Jim’s hand ran lightly over my now hard cock.
I was determined to hold out much longer this time and make the most of this amazing experience.
Darren was tweaking my nipples again and whispering in my ear. Jim was stroking my cock, agonisingly slowly. I strained against my bonds – I SO wanted them both.
As if he had read my thoughts, Darren whispered “Do you want us to take you?” His breath in my ear drove me wild.
“Yes Master” I whispered back.
“Whatever the cost?” he whispered again.
“Yes Master, please”
They stopped for a moment, exchanged some whispered words, then I felt them swap places. Jim was now concentrating on my neck whilst Darren played more firmly with my dick.
“Would you like to taste the Jim cock?” he whispered softly.
I nearly choked there and then. “YES” I said in a definite tone. “YES MASTER”
”While Master Darren fucks you?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing
“YES PLEASE MASTERS”
“Whatever the cost?”
“YES PLEASE MASTERS” I repeated. I had got the idea in my mind and I wanted it more than anything else. I should have picked up on the ‘whatever the cost’ line which both had used on me – but I didn’t.
They re-tied me on the bed in an ‘on all fours’ position
Jim shuffled round in front of me and unbuttoned the fly of his boxers. He pulled out his dick which was semi-erect and already appeared large. He pushed it to my lips which I willingly opened for him.
It slid in and down my throat. I began to suck. It tasted even sweeter than I had imagined. Quickly, it stiffened and became fully hard. It was almost more than I could take. But I was determined to give him the blow-job of his life, even if it choked me in the process. I began to build up a rhythm and he sighed, as if in pleasure.
Suddenly, I felt Darren’s cock sliding between my spread legs. It hurt as he entered and I tried not to let the pain distract me from sucking Jim’s now huge cock.
I was finding it hard to breath with Jim’s cock in my mouth and Darren’s up my ass but I concentrated on getting synchronized so that as Darren pushed in, which pushed me forward slightly, I went down on Jim.
Ever since I had known them, I had fantasied about this and now here I was, getting spit-roasted, by my two former best mates – now my owners.
This was my sole purpose in life, this was why I was here; to serve these two young studs.
The pace quickened now as Darren’s relentless pounding became faster and harder. This caused me to push deeper down on Jim’s solid meat. I cradled his big hairy balls in my hand and he seemed to like that. Moments later, I felt him tense. Then he exploded. Hot spunk fired down my throat like a bullet from a gun and he gave a yell “Swallow it bitch!” I didn’t need telling. Greedily, I milked every last drop. Moments later, I felt Darren shoot his load inside me.
I didn’t care about humiliation anymore. Only men could be humiliated. I had gone past that. Why should a slave feel humiliation – it was part of my role to be used as their fuck toy, to take their spunk.
Darren slapped my ass cheeks hard as he continued to shoot inside me and Jim slapped my face as I licked the end of his knob clean.
They both withdrew and smiled at each other.
Again I was released and given a towel to clean myself up. My cock was still hard from what had just happened but I could see that having both cum, they were now interested in just one thing; sleep.
They tied me back in my spread-eagle position on the bed and settled down, one either side of me. I didn’t mind too much. What had just happened had changed everything. I felt sure it was to be the first of many such sessions and I would have the chance to cum again. How wrong I was to be….!
I slept long and deep that night and awoke the next morning to find myself being untied by Darren. I was ordered to make breakfast and perform various household chores – wearing the leather chastity belt, hood, collar and lead.
Dutifully, I carried out my chores, all the while, reflecting on what had happened last night. Once I had finished, I was given a cold shower and cleaned up by Darren who then informed me that he and Jim were going out. I was made to drink a glass of whisky and swallow four tablets and tied back in my spreadeagled position on the bed. They removed the chastity belt but tied my balls up so tight it made me gasp but I was already feeling a little light-headed as they threw a duvet over me.
I heard them drive off in Jim’s car and thought they had been a little quiet. As sleep overtook me, I wondered where they were going and what else they had in store for me.
My dreams were filled with strange sexual images, no doubt inspired by the previous night’s antics. I dreamt I was being pushed about and slowly realized that I wasn’t dreaming it but in fact I was being manhandled. As I fought to come to from my sleep, I realized that the hood was being removed..
Bright lights were shining down on me. My head was spinning.
I blinked and saw both Jim and Darren in the room. Both were wearing surgical gloves and various medical equipment was in evidence.
“Slaveboy,” Darren said in a somber tone, “You are accused of trying to make us gay by enticing us to get involved in sex acts with a male. We have decided that the only course of action to cure this is if you are NOT a male anymore.”
I guessed this was one of Darren’s mock castration specialties which he used from time to time to scare me. I felt sick from the whisky and tablets and I had a pain in my groin.
“I don’t feel well” I said. “I’m sorry but can we stop now?”
”I don’t think you understand the seriousness here,” Darren said. “You are going to be castrated”
“Yeah, I know the routine,” I replied, not in the mood for playing, “But I really don’t feel well. Its those tablets you gave me with that whisky. Can you let me sleep it off and we can play later?”
”We are not playing,” said Jim, pulling back the duvet, “This is for real”
I looked down and almost passed out from shock. My balls were swollen and black. They had been tied so tightly, that the circulation had been cut off. Even if they were playing, they had probably done irreversible damage. But I suddenly knew they were deadly serious. I freaked out and began to scream, still staring at my half-dead testicles.
Darren came over and stuffed a sock in my mouth, taping it over with duct tape.
I struggled and yelled muffled shrieks through the gag.
He put a hand on my forehead and spoke softly. “Didn’t you enjoy last night? Don’t you want to do it again?”
I stared at him, wild eyed, and he gazed back.
“We want to do it again. All the time, in fact. But we cant with a man – it would make us gay. But if you lose these,” and he put his other hand on my balls. They were cold and had no feeling. I knew they were almost ruined. “If you lose these, you can be our sex slave forever. You wont be a man so it wont be gay. And anyway – you agreed to it last night. We said ‘whatever the cost’ and you agreed”
I was shaking. Tears filled my eyes. But I knew it didn’t matter what I wanted. They were going to do it anyway. My two tormentors were going to become my two castrators. They were going to nut me, here in my own bed, in my own home, and I was powerless to stop it.
“We have entonox so it wont hurt,” said Jim, pointing to a cylinder by the bed. “And I have got a load of pain killers, antiseptic stuff a proper scalpel and some superglue so no need for stitches. A simple cut and it will all be over.”
They had it all worked out. A simple cut and it would all be over. My life as a male would be over. I would become a sexless eunuch. Their sexless eunuch; to be used for fucking and sucking whenever it pleased them.
It was my sweetest dream and my worst nightmare in one. I felt sick to the stomach. My head hurt, I felt feint, the pain in my groin had worsened and to add to it all, I had a raging hard on. Darren spotted it. “Look,” he said to Jim, “His dick has decided for him. Cut him.” And with those words, my fate was sealed.
I begged and pleaded with them through my gag but they took no notice.
Jim began to paint the antiseptic solution over my balls and my cock was duct taped to my belly to keep it out of the way.
Darren put the mask that would deliver the pain-relieving gas over my nose and mouth and switched on the flow.
They prepared everything and ran through a checklist before Jim picked up the scalpel. I was glad, in a way, that if anyone was going to nut me it should be my one-time best mate and now one of my two Masters.
Resigned to my fate, I watched – horrified and fascinated – as he located the area he would cut. And then, almost surgeon-like, he began to work with the scalpel.
As the blade cut into the tiny neck of flesh between my cock and balls, I came one long, last time.
It was the last time I would ever shoot my load and was probably the best one of my life. As my scrotum was separated from my body before my eyes, and my cock pumped out jism for the last time, I knew that this was what I wanted.
A life of slavery stretched before my eyes – of being bound and helpless at their mercy. Of being forced to perform for their pleasure and always denied that ultimate pleasure for myself. The only cum I would ever know again would be theirs. Being made to suck their mighty cocks or have them rape me when they desired. And all the time, being reminded of my status by the space between my legs where my balls had once hung.
I felt little pain thanks to the drugs and gasses. Jim’s cut was a clean one and there was scarcely any blood as they had tied them so tightly. He made a neat job of gluing my severed scrotum back together and he applied dressings in a very professional manner.
When he had finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork and to smile for the camera.
To my astonishment, I realised that they had filmed the whole thing. “We didn’t tell you as we didn’t want you to pose or act up. We wanted it all to be natural.” Jim explained.
“We are gonna put a trailer on the internet but sell copies of the actual video.” Darren added. “You will be famous”
“And anyway, its not something we can do again so we figured we needed a souvenir” Jim added, laughing.
I actually smiled back. Already, I was beginning to fall asleep again, the drugs and my emotions taking effect.
“You are gonna be out of action for about a week but when you are recovered, we will have a nice new plaything,” Darren joked. He bent over and kissed me on the forehead. “You have been a good slave today. Now get some rest and get better soon.”
I nodded weakly and watched them both leave the room before finally sinking into a deep sleep – my first as a eunuch.