I followed Alan down the steps into the dungeon. We both wore jeans and t-shirts and I began to feel nervous as I saw the various rubber suits and restraints hanging from the walls, and the cage and sling and rubber bed in the semi-darkness of the room.
“This is where you’ll live for the next month or so – or however long it takes me to train you as my rubber man” he said slowly and deliberately.
I was beginning to have misgivings. Should I have really signed that piece of paper that gave him complete control over my body and mind? Would there be any way of going back on it if things became too hard?
“Take off your clothes” he said.
I pulled off the t-shirt and jeans and sneakers and he put them in a cardboard box.
“You won’t be needing them for a long, long time” he said with a grin, “so I’ll keep them for you.”
I could tell from that grin that he was getting off on the power I’d given him. I’d always begged him to completely strip me of my identity and to make me serve him as a total rubber man. Now I was going to find out what it would be like.
I stood there naked in front of him – not cold though, as the dungeon seemed comfortably warm. He gave my semi-hard cock a gentle tug and his grin disappeared.
“Get into the gear I’ve laid out for you,” he said, pointing at a pile of folded rubbers on a table at the side of the dungeon, “and wait for your master.”
With that he turned and carried the box up the stairs and shut the heavy door behind him.
I walked over to the table and unfolded the rubbers. There was a suit with an all-round zip, a pair of gloves and a hood with eye-holes and a zip mouth. I pulled on the suit, already feeling turned on by the soft, clinging feeling. Then I slipped the hood on, zipping it tightly down the back of my head and fastening the collar. Finally I stretched the gloves back up my forearms.
I knelt down on the floor with my hands behind my back and waited for Alan to return.
I waited for ages. It seemed like over an hour, though it was difficult to tell in the warm silence of the room. I began to feel the moistness of sweat in my gloves and from the warm breath inside the hood.
Still I waited. I wanted to feel my cock – now hot and very hard – through the rubber. But I knew I mustn’t.
Then I heard the door. I heard the slow footsteps on the stairs. I didn’t look up. I knew he’d want me to be completely subservient and that was the best way I could think of showing it right then.
I saw his boots on the floor in front of me: gleaming, tall, rubber riding boots that almost reached his knees and the rubber jeans that came out of the top of them.
“Look up at me, slave.”
I looked up and saw him. My beautiful rubber master. My perfect rubber master. Tucked into his jeans was a shiny, tight rubber t-shirt and over that was a rubber biker jacket. His eyes gleamed lovingly – yet almost viciously down at mine – and his face was completely without expression.
“Have you anything to say, slave?”
“I love you master.”
“More than anything in the world master.”
“Will you let me do anything I want to you?”
“Whether it’s to turn me on, to service me, or even just because I get a kick out of it?”
He paused. As I looked at him he stared back and unzipped the mouth of my hood. It was only then that I noticed he was wearing tight rubber gloves too. He pushed one of them into my mouth – a couple of fingers first – and then nearly the whole fist till I almost gagged on it. But I just sucked on it for all I was worth. Tasting the strange taste of the rubber and loving the fact that he was already – in a small way – inside me.
With his other hand he unzipped the jeans and pulled out his big, hard cock. The end gleamed with pre-cum and he slowly pulled my hood onto it. It filled my mouth. It tasted beautiful. I worshiped it with my tongue and my lips.
As I played with it, my face being pressed hard into his shiny jeans by him, he began to speak.
“I am going to change you from the half-decent slave you are into my complete rubber slave. You will be perfect by the time I’ve finished training you. You will have no life, no face, no personality – but you will be perfect. You will live here in the dungeon encased in rubber and you will exist to serve my cock, to take my piss and to do anything that turns me on, no matter how degrading. I will dress you in whatever rubber gear I want – as many layers of it as I want – and you will be sealed into it, completely turned on by it and by your discomfort and you will be unable to do anything about it.”
I sucked harder on his gorgeous cock. It was getting harder (just as mine was) as he talked and thought about what he could do to me and I wanted it to just explode and fill my throat with white hot spunk.
Then he pulled my head away from it and pointed my face up towards his.
He attached a leash to the collar on my hood and pushed me down onto all fours. I followed him as he showed me round the dungeon. First he pointed to the sling with loads of restraints and chain and rope hanging off it.
“I will fuck you in this sling. I will keep you restrained in it. I will lay back in it and have you rim me and suck me off in it.”
Then he pointed at restraints hanging from the beams and coming out the walls by the floor.
“I will fix you in these and use you as I want. I will leave you stuck in them for hours while I go clubbing and I will fuck you senseless in them when I get back”
He looked down at me, smiling wickedly. Then he pointed to the bed with the rubber sheets on it.
“Sometimes I will let you sleep on this bed” then he pointed to a small wooden box nearby, “though mostly you will sleep padlocked inside that. You will of course sleep in full rubbers, possibly with a butt plug up you and your cock and balls trussed up. You will wear fist mitts too so that you can’t get at yourself. Understood?”
I nodded, turned on and frightened in equal amounts.
Alan pointed to a small cage that was just high enough to stand in.
“I will keep you in there much of the time” he said. Finally he tugged on my leash and pulled me over to a large kind of a shower cubicle in the far corner.
“And this is where you will clean up whenever I tell you.”
He slowly walked back across the dungeon to the sling. I crawled behind him, dying for him to let me lick those boots. God, I thought. I love my master. How could I want anything but to be completely reinvented as his rubber man?
“Stand up” he said pulling on the leash. I slowly got up and we stared into each others eyes.
“We’ll start with something gentle – and then your torment begins.”
He maneuvered me back into the sling and tied the loose end of the leash to one of the chains that it hung from. He fastened my wrists and ankles tightly into the straps that hung from the chains and padlocked chains around my body and through the rings in my collar until I was securely fastened into the sling. He smiled as he pulled open the zip of my suit around my arse. He pulled his cock out again and smeared it with KY. I shuddered and groaned as he slowly pressed it into my crack, the muffled noises from my hood making Alan smile. Soon his cock was completely in and the intense, almost painful feeling made me heat up inside my suit. Alan leant forward slightly, put his hands over my shoulders and gently, ever so slowly, rocked my helpless, shiny rubber body full of tingling nerves back and forth onto him. He kept it slow for ages and ages as I sweated and whimpered and gazed out of my hood into his stern, beautiful eyes.
As he got faster and faster I looked at the sweat breaking out on him, my gorgeous, perfect rubber sadist. He let out a huge grunt as he finally shot his load into me and I shook violently with him. My cock was pressed hard against the inside of my clinging; wet rubbers and felt like it might just explode at any moment. I whimpered with anticipation.
Alan cleaned his cock off on a towel and put it back in his jeans. Then he zipped my suit back up and stood next to me, running his gloved hands all over my body while studying the way he could make me shudder with delight at the slightest touch.
“Did you enjoy that, slave?” he asked eventually.
“Yes master. Thank you.”
“And what do you want now? Tell me honestly”
“I want to come off, master.”
“Well you can’t. Not yet. You’re going to have to learn that the satisfaction of your cock means nothing. When you are finally my rubberman, you’ll want nothing more than to exist – sealed up in rubber – to serve my cock. You’ll forget that you’ve even got a cock of your own. Just as you’ll forget what it’s like not to wear rubber. What it’s like not to sleep in a box. What it’s like not to have a hood covering your head.”
“So what shall I do with you?” he said to himself after a pause, and continued feeling his way all over my suit, making sure he kept returning to my crotch so that I’d repeatedly arch up into all my restraints with a massive groan.
“I think we ought to start your training with some piss confinement, slave. What do you think?”
“Whatever pleases you master.”
“That’s better.” he said, pleased with my response.
One by one he took off the straps and chains and told me to stand up.
“Take the hood off” he said as he walked across to a rail with loads of suits, sleep sacks and straight jackets hanging from it.
As I pulled off the hood, streams of sweat ran from my hair and down my face. I looked at Alan. He held up a suit in front of me. It was made from heavy rubber and had feet and gloves as part of it. It also had a hood on it which had no eye-holes or mouth, but a number of tubes running from a raised area where the face should have been. A couple of them were small, thin tubes, another was a thick, corrugated one. There was a long dry-zip running up the back of the suit and I realized that it would be completely watertight.
“Shall I take this suit off first master?” I asked, as it was fairly hot just wearing the one layer.
“No,” he said, “and never speak unless I tell you to. Okay?”
I nodded meekly. Clearly I wouldn’t be allowed to suggest ways of making things easier on me in future.
“Get into it, slave.” he said, putting it on the floor.
I stepped into its feet and pulled the legs up. Then I found the arms and pushed my gloved hands deep down into them till they found the fingers at the end. It was a heavy suit, much thicker than the one I already had on and straight away I began to feel hot in it. Finally I pulled the head section back over my sweating scalp and everything disappeared into blackness. I could hear my breathing inside the small hollow space where all the tubes came in. The sound of the outside world was muffled and distant. I could hear Alan beginning to close the stiff, brass zip on the back of the suit.
I suddenly felt really claustrophobic and helpless. He really did have total control over me. There was nothing I could do. Although I felt frightened, my cock became rigid with excitement at being sealed up in a suit that was clearly designed to have people piss into it. I was surrendering to my master every last shred of dignity so that he could use me as some kind of human urinal. Presumably he needed a piss now, I thought. When the zip was fully shut and I was properly enclosed in my hot, heavy, rubber prison, Alan began to rub me all over again.
“You look beautiful, my slave. I might keep you in this a lot.”
It turned me on just knowing that it was turning him on doing such a degrading, sadistic thing to me.
“Come with me, slave.” he said and began to walk my unsteady body over to another part of the dungeon.
He pushed me down onto the floor and secured my feet with a pair of ankle-cuffs. Then I realized I was in the cage, because he pulled my arms between the bars and handcuffed them on the other side. Then he shut the cage door and I heard the metallic click of a padlock.
His voice was right next to the total blackness of my hood.
“I don’t need to piss right now,” he said, “but I probably will later. So you’ll be ready. Okay?”
“Good slave. You’d better get used to this kind of thing too, because this is how you’ll spend most of your waking hours: trussed up in rubber, waiting to serve me – either as my urinal, my cocksucker or my fuck piece.”
And then he was gone.
For hours there was just silence around me. All I could hear was the noises my suits made rubbing against each other and the slick rippling of the inner suit on my drenched body. My breathing sounded loud, filling the hot, heavy hood with its wetness. Although it was fairly comfortable to be sat down, my arms and legs ached with the positions they’d been secured in. More hours passed. God knows how many – maybe four or five.
Then I heard the door again and the boots coming down the steps. They seemed to take forever to cross the dungeon to me. My heart raced at the idea of being stuck in all this rubber and Alan filling it with his piss. My cock pressed itself against the suit.
Alan said nothing. I heard his jeans unzipping though and felt the thick, corrugated tube being lifted slightly.
There was a sudden rushing noise and then my master’s steaming hot piss gushed into my hood. Some poured into my open mouth, more splashed all over my face, neck and the shoulders of my inner suit. Some of it ran down inside against my skin, some outside over the shiny rubber. All of it showered into the heavy suit though: the rubber container that Alan had chained to the inside of the cage.
This was wonderful. Being put in total rubber enclosure (that I couldn’t possibly get out of) by the man I worshiped and having him fill up my suit with his piss. I almost came off as it rushed over me and into me.
Soon – and without a word – he was gone again and I was left in the silence once more. As well the sounds of my rubbers, I could now sense the atmosphere of this enclosed world. It reeked of piss and of sweat and of rubber. It filled the hood and my nostrils. I would have to learn to love this smell, I thought, as Alan would imprison me with it again and again.
After another hour or so – I think – he came back again. Once more he took a mighty piss down the tube. I almost laughed with pleasure at how good it made me feel to be showered by his fluids and to be contained in them like this. I wondered what I must look like to my master; this pathetic rubber figure chained up at his boots – totally faceless – with this tube that runs into the hood of his victim.
God, I loved him for doing this to me.
When he’d finished, I heard his rubber jeans creak softly as he crouched down beside me. He stroked my head.
“Good slave,” he said.
“You really are a good slave. You’ve been in that suit for quite a few hours now: you’re doing well. Now do you want me to let you out now or shall I shall I keep you in it for a while longer and do whatever I want for the rest of the evening?”
“Whatever you want, master” I said weakly into the hood.
“Good slave.” he said, stroking my head again and left me.
Soon after he’d gone, I found I couldn’t hold my own bladder any longer and pissed myself. Hot urine gushed up the inside of my suit, adding to the mess of sweat and pre-cum that already stuck it to my skin. Suddenly I felt like I wanted to cry. How could I do this to myself? Did I really want to live like this? Forever?
But I’d wanted this. Desperately. I’d wanted to become someone else – to become Alan’s rubber man. It was the greatest gift I could give him. It was the way I wanted to show how complete my love for him – my worship of him – was. To lose myself and become his object.
When he came back some time later he didn’t piss into my suit again, which I was expecting him to. He unchained me and led me to the shower cubicle. I stayed knelt down as he stood behind me and unzipped the suit.
“Wash and get naked” he said and shut the frosted glass door behind him before I could look up. As I pulled the suits off me, piss ran out into the shower tray, leaking from zips, falling out of the rubber limbs and streaming from my hair.
I rinsed the suits out and cleaned myself thoroughly. Then I hung the rubbers up on hangers just outside the cubicle. When I was completely dry I walked back out, naked, into the main part of the dungeon.
Alan lay on the bed, still in his rubber jeans and biker jacket, though he’d taken the t-shirt off. God, he was gorgeous. He looked every inch the master and I desperately wanted to suck him dry right there and then.
He held a cigarette in his right gloved hand and patted the shiny, black sheet with his left.
“Sit here, slave.” he said.
I sat naked on the rubber sheet. It felt good against my arse – all soft and horny. I looked at him – deep into his eyes as he continued to smoke and played with my hard cock and balls with his gloved hand.
“That feel good, slave?” he asked as he listened to my shallow, fast breathing.
“Want to come off now?”
“God yes, master.”
He smiled sadistically, knowing that I was at the point of just shooting my load all over his gorgeous, shiny gear.
“Well you’re going to have to do some good work with your tongue first. You can start with my boots.”
I licked those boots so hard, so lovingly. I worshiped them just like I worshiped his jeans and his jacket: his whole uniform – everything that made him look like the perfect sadistic master he was – the whole, shiny rubber uniform. I covered the jeans with my loving tongue too. The rubber tasted like sex. If I glanced up occasionally I’d see Alan looking at me, smiling. He knew just how much he controlled me – how much this training would allow him to do, just how far he could go. I knew from the smile that he was going to take me to hell and back” and he was going to get a pervy kick out of every bit of it.
He pulled me up towards him and shoved my face deep into his armpit and pulled the jacket over my head. I licked and licked while I felt his rubber gloves moving over my body, playing with my buttocks and my crack. Then I felt him pull my hands behind my back and snap handcuffs onto them.
He pulled me into a kneeling position next him and took his sweaty cock from out of the shiny, black jeans. I licked a load of pre-cum off the end of it and then felt his gloves tightening their grip on my head and him forcing my mouth deep over its length. Then he just kept pushing my head up and down, faster and faster and rougher and rougher on his cock until it shot a huge stream of hot, bitter cum down my throat.
He kept my face pressed down on it for a few minutes more as I drank up each last bit of gism that seeped from it.
“And now it’s your turn to come off slave,” he said and lay me back onto my restrained arms, wrapping his rubber-clad body around me. One glove moved over my mouth and pressed it firmly shut, while the other furiously wanked me off.
He whispered frantically into my ear between biting and kissing my neck.
“You’re going to wish you’d never signed that contract” I’m going to take you apart” experiment on your body” see what limits I can take you to” completely degrade you” torture you till you cry” I’m going to take away your identity, so you’re my nobody” my rubber slave”
I screamed into Alan’s glove as my cum sprayed up my chest and my body arched into his. I shook with ecstasy as he continued rubbing my cock slowly and gently till it had run out of gism.
I kissed his jacket and his nipples and his cock while he undid my handcuffs, so grateful he had let me come off.
He wiped up my spilt cum with his gloved hands and pushed them into my mouth so that I ate every last bit of my own load – the beautiful taste of rubber and cum.
“Thank you master. I love you.”
“Lick my boots,” he said, ignoring me.
Straight away, I rushed down to them and licked them with all the love I could muster. After a while he pulled me back up so that I lay next to him and we shared a cigarette silently. And while I had the ciggy, his rubber fingers played gently with my nipples till I had a raging hard-on again.
He’d obviously meant for me to get that hard-on because at that point he said “Get into that suit,” and pointed to one that hung near the bed. Obediently I slipped my body into it, finding that the zip was at the back and finished down between my legs. There was no zip or panel at the front. Alan zipped it up for me and played with the huge erection that pressed up against the inside of the front of the suit.
“It’s going to be hard for you in that suit tonight isn’t it, slave” he said, grinning cruelly at me. He strapped long fist-mitts onto me as well so that I had no chance of working the erection off.
“To the box, slave,” he said and pushed me onto all fours.
I crawled over to it as he walked beside me, and then I climbed into it.
He knelt down next to me and pulled out a rubber blindfold from inside the box. As he put it on me, I made sure the last thing I could see was his beautiful, cruel eyes. Then all was darkness.
“Say goodnight to your master’s cock, slave.” he said pulling my face slowly forward into his crotch.
I kissed and licked and sucked on it until it was hard, and he began to push my face into it again and again. Finally with a huge grunt he came in my mouth. I swallowed it and licked the remains off his knob.
His gloves cupped my face as he kissed my forehead.
“This is nothing compared to what happens tomorrow. Goodnight slave.” he said after a while.
“Goodnight master.” I replied.
He pushed me down into the rubber sheeting and closed the lid of the wooden box, securing it with two heavy padlocks and leaving me in the sweaty, dark silence – alone with my fears, my anticipation and my painful hard-on.
I was awake long before Alan came and unlocked the wooden box I’d slept in. The inside of my suit was drenched in sweat, and a huge load of pre-cum was smeared all around my cock which had refused to soften during the night. It had rubbed painfully up against my belly and the wet rubber of the suit, making it harder, making it leak more and more pre-cum as I tried to ignore it, my hands pathetically useless in the constricting, sweaty fist-mitts strapped onto my arms. It had been difficult to sleep at all in the stuffy confines of the box, my blindfolded head laid on an inflated rubber pillow and my soaking rubber-clad body curled up in a kind of fetal position. It was hot and uncomfortable and I still felt both frightened and excited by what might await me at the hands of my master now that I’d given him complete control over me.
I heard Alan undoing the padlocks that held the lid of the box shut and lifting it back. Straight away I could feel cooler, fresher air sweeping over my hot, wet body. He lifted me into a sitting position and took off my blindfold. As my eyes focused I could see him smiling at me out of a rubber hangman’s hood. The rest of his body was covered in a beautifully tight, shiny suit and gloves and waders. His gorgeous cock hung semi-hard from a small unzipped section of the suit, gleaming with pre-cum.
“Good morning, slave.”
“Good morning, master.”
“Get your mouth round my cock, slave” he said suddenly and sternly.
I quickly opened my mouth as he leaned forward over me while I still sat in the box. No sooner had my lips closed around his cock than it gushed a huge, hot wall of piss into my throat. I almost choked as it splashed around my mouth and filled it with a bitter, steamy taste. Alan’s gloves kept my head pressed firmly into his rubber crotch where he wanted it.
As I spluttered and gagged, trying to swallow as much of his juice as I could, it began pouring out of the sides of my mouth and down my suit. He pressed my head further down on his sweaty, rubbery knob as I continued drinking and choking on his piss.
He stopped and pulled his cock from my mouth, the smile back on his face, his eyes gleaming from inside the hangman’s hood. Then another burst of piss showered out, this time spraying my face and soaking my hair. Some stung my eyes, while more ran down into my mouth.
I’d never really liked the taste of piss – not unless it was pretty weak after a night on the booze – but I still worshiped it and wanted to taste it and drink it and be covered in it because it was HIS. It was like some fantastically obscene communion as I drank from his body, drank his waste – just to prove how much I loved him.
While I sat there, my head soaked in his hot piss, he picked up a hood from the floor next to him and zipped it tightly onto my head, buckling its collar roughly into place. It had no eye holes at all and fitted me perfectly – so tightly, filling my nostrils with the scent of rubber again and sealing in all that piss around my head and in my hair. It did, however, have a large open space for the mouth – much larger than the usual slits or zips.
“Are you really sweaty in that suit, slave?” he asked.
“Yes master, soaking.”
“Good” And you’re still hard from last night?”
“Let me feel” he said and began to grope my crotch really roughly, making me squirm with pleasure and bursts of agony as he played. This went on for a few minutes till I could hardly bear it and wanted to scream for him to stop when suddenly his hand was gone. A few seconds later I felt a leash being attached to my collar. He pulled me to my feet and walked me a few feet across the dungeon. I walked hesitantly and awkwardly, partly because of the lack of sight, partly because of the rubbing of my hard-on inside my suit.
Alan pushed me face down onto the bed while he – I think – sat down or laid down beside me, unzipping my backside and forcing a lubricated, rubber-gloved hand up into my crack.
“I want you to rub yourself off against the bed, slave.” he said, moving a finger around deep inside my arse. I moaned and whimpered and squirmed as it tingled and burned inside me.
With the fist-mitts on, it was difficult to make any kind of proper grip on the bed, but soon my tired, sweating body, cocooned in skintight rubber, was fucking the rubber sheets for all it was worth, breathing fast and shallow as I tried to reach orgasm without actually pissing myself at the same time.
Suddenly the muscles in my backside tightened round Alan’s fingers and my whole body seemed to go into spasm and I cried out loud a hoarse, wordless cry as hot cum splattered and shot up the inside of my suit. My cock seemed white hot and my limbs shook uncontrollably. My voice fell away and I was left, drenched and whimpering in the tight, wet void of my rubbers. My master slowly pulled out his fingers from my crack and gently stroked my back and my head. I could feel his rubber moving softly on mine and I loved him for putting me through such exquisite torment to pleasure the two of us.
“Good slave” he whispered against my hood, “good slave.”
He stroked me a while longer and then turned me over onto my back. I lay there, blinded and expectant as I heard his waders creaking next to me and felt his beautiful, suited body moving somewhere above mine.
Then he knelt down right over my face, one wader jamming in on either side of my head – his calves held my useless arms down on the bed – and unzipped the arse of his suit. In no time he had settled his crack down onto the opening in my hood. Rubbery sweat from his back and his crotch poured into my mouth.
“Rim me, slave! Rim me for all you’re fuckin? worth!” he shouted, wriggling his arse further into my face. I licked and licked, barely able to breathe underneath him, tasting his sweat and tasting his crack, thinking I was the luckiest man alive to have him – all rubbered up – shifting around on my face, lucky bastard slave that I am.
I could hear him moaning and grunting as I worked at his crack and soon his arms were reaching back and toying with my nipples – making me go at him even more frantically as my cock hardened once more.
Eventually he lifted himself off and I heard him playing with his zip.
“Mmmmm. Good slave.” he said as his body shifted somewhere above me. Then he settled down onto me again but a bit further back and I tasted a dangling strand of pre-cum that swung into my mouth.
“And now – as a reward for being so good you can have your breakfast. Do you want me to give you your breakfast, slave?”
“Well here it comes” he said viciously and rammed his cock deep into my mouth. I just lay there as he fucked my face, harder and harder and quicker and quicker. I moved my fist-mitts up behind him and stroked his buttocks as he plunged in and out of my throat.
“Aagh!” he suddenly shouted and, with a final jolt, shot a wave of hot spunk into me. I stayed still as he continued to move up and down on my face, slower and slower until he was exhausted and I had taken every last drop of his wonderful gism down.
After a while he got up off me and I heard him zipping his suit back up.
He pulled on my leash and helped move me up off the bed. I stood there completely disorientated in the blackness of the hood, still tasting his cum in my mouth as he slowly fingered my suit, playing with my nipples and running his gloves around my body, making me shudder with pleasure. Soon his hands reached the bulge of my cock and he rubbed it around, making it glide through the mess of spunk and sweat inside my suit. It was rock hard again and ached with every motion he made.
“It feels a bit messy in there, slave” he said, taunting me.
“Yes master. It is.” I replied feebly.
He continued playing with the bulge for a while, probably studying the way my mouth twitched as he turned it on more and more.
“Come with me” he said after a while and began to lead me across the dungeon. When we stopped he took the leash off my collar and began fixing restraints to my ankles, making sure my legs were spread slightly open. Then he lifted my arms up above me one at a time and, with them still enclosed in the fist-mitts secured them to some thick, padded restraints that were hanging from the ceiling on thick, heavy chains.
Then he unzipped my hood and took it off, putting aside on a table nearby. He came and stood in front of me, bringing a fearsome looking cat-and-nine-tails with him. He dragged its mass of rubber flails across one of his gloves, not taking his eyes off my face.
“I want to see your face while I do this” he said, a cruel smile appearing beneath the hangman’s hood and his beautiful eyes glinting at the pleasure he was about to have.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, slave” he said, “but I’m going to give you a fucking good whipping.” He tenderly touched the side of my soaking face with his glove.
“But you’ve got to learn to take any torture I decide to give you” no matter how severe. And also I’m just going to get a big turn-on out of giving you the most extreme sensations that you never even knew existed – and that you never thought you could bear.”
He began to run the whip across my chest and then my back and my arse as he walked around me. Soon his beautiful, suited figure was back in front of me.
“And if you’re wondering why I’ve not stripped you for this, it’s because it’s going to sting even more through all the rubber and sweat. Now be brave and take this like the perfect slave you want me to turn you into”
With that he started whipping my rubber-clad body, slowly at first, with intensely hot, stinging blows. At first I just made grunting noises and startled whimpers, but as the frequency and viciousness of the lashes increased I began to scream out loud. Not for mercy. Not for him to stop. But just because it was the only thing I could do.
He beat me all over: on my arse, up my back, on my nipples and on my crotch. Tears of agony streamed from my eyes as my body swung violently in the restraints, jumping at the explosions of pain that came with each blow. Through my tears I saw him stood in front of me in his suit and waders, swinging the lash across my hard-on, gritting his teeth, his eyes burning deep into mine. After a while – along while – he stopped and my exhausted body hung limp in front of him as I cried uncontrollably at the washes of painful heat that spread out inside my suit. He put the whip away on the table and came back to me. I wanted him to kiss me but he just looked at the restraints and began to undo them one by one. When he’d taken them all off I just stood there. He put one of his gloved hands on top of my head and pushed me down onto my knees.
“Good slave” he said as he undid the zip around his crotch and pulled out a huge, hard cock, streaming with pre-cum.
“Good slave” he kept repeating as he pushed my face onto it.
I sobbed as I sucked on him, realizing just how complete an experience he was going to make this for me. That pain was for real but he was doing it because I’d wanted to go through anything for him. He was just making sure I did go through everything for him.
His body jolted as he came in my mouth: warm, comforting spurts that told me he was rewarding me for the pain I’d gone through. The spunk kept coming – loads of it streaming in and rolling over my tongue and into the corners of my mouth. He kept my face pressed into his crotch for a while and then pulled me away so that I could look up at his beautiful, sadistic body and face.
The suit was skintight on him, as were the gloves, and his eyes were so intense they looked almost lit-up inside his hood. He smiled down at me.
“You did well, slave” he said, running a glove through my sodden hair, “but you reek of piss.” He patted my head and walked away to the rail with all the suits and sleep sacks hung from it. He spoke as he rummaged through the gear.
“I’m going out shopping for a few hours so I’m going to have to leave you on your own and I don’t want you playing with yourself and trying to satisfy your own cock when you should be thinking of me”
He walked back over to me carrying a heavy rubber straight jacket.
“Stand up, slave.”
I stood up and held out my arms, still sheathed in the tight fist-mitts, as he held up the straight jacket and put it onto me, feeding my arms deep into its long sleeves. Straight away the thickness of it heated me up even more than I already was and sweat began rolling from my hair, bringing the remains of my master’s piss with it.
He walked round behind me and zipped it up. Then before doing up all the straps, he opened the arse of my suit and pushed a heavily lubricated vibrator up it. I groaned as it made its way deep inside me and he strapped it into place with a tight crotch harness that it was attached to. Then he fastened all the straps on the straight jacket extremely tightly, padlocking each of them shut. He did the same for the straps that went between my legs and the buckles and fastenings on the end of the sleeves. Finally he firmly locked up the stiff rubber collar of the straight jacket and walked round in front of me.
The constriction was making me ache already: this might well be a very long few hours for me, I thought.
Alan walked me over to the cage and sat me down in it, locking the door of it as he left. Then he knelt down next to me and I gazed deep into the eyes that sparkled from inside the hangman’s hood as he smiled at me.
He held up a small plastic device with a button on it.
“Oh, and this is how I’m going to make sure you’re thinking of me while I’m away” he said and pressed the button down.
The vibrator started up and my body jolted as my hard-on sprang up against the inside of my suit. I moaned. Then it stopped again.
“Now stay there, won’t you” he said with the cruelest smile on his beautiful face. God I loved him for reducing me to this. God I loved him for having this much control over me. I nuzzled my face up to the gloved hand that held one of the bars in front of me and he watched, smiling at his pathetic and willing victim, as I kissed and licked it for minute after minute.
He leaned his face into the bars and kissed me with a long, tender kiss.
Then without a word he got up, turned around and left me, switching the lights out as he closed the cellar door behind him.
I lost track of time really, totally disorientated by the dark and the silence and aching from the severity of the straight jacket’s tightness and the soreness of my whip marks in the clammy wetness of my suit.
But after some long while I heard what I thought was the main door to the house shutting as he left.
The vibrator buzzed and throbbed as it burst into life, rubbing up against my prostate. I pictured Alan in his suit and waders brandishing the whip – and straight away I let out a huge, agonized moan as a fresh load of hot cum sprayed up the inside of my rubbers, my body squirming around in the cramping, padlocked security of the straight jacket.
I couldn’t believe how much pain I was in from just being slumped there in the cage for so long. My skin felt sore and still smarted in the dampness of my suit from the vicious beating from Alan’s cat-and-nine-tails. My chest and arms ached with the constriction of the straight jacket, padlocked so tightly onto my helpless body and my arse ached from the thick vibrator strapped into it. I sat there for hour after hour, sweating in the darkness, drinking the streams that rolled down my face to try and quench my dry throat. I leaned my temples against the cold steel of the cage bars to cool them down and shifted uncomfortably in my gism and all the other mess that was building up in my suit.
I thought I heard the distant noise of the front door as he returned but he didn’t come down to the dungeon for another two hours or so. I had no idea of what time it might be: there would be no daylight – only the light and dark that he decided I should have.
Finally I heard the heavy door to the dungeon being unlocked and his boots coming down the steps once he’d shut it behind him. The lights came on and I squinted for some time, trying to adjust after such a long period of total darkness. When I was eventually able to see, I found that he was stood near the cage just staring at my pathetic, hunched form. He was wearing the one-piece suit and waders again, with gloves and the rubber hangman’s hood completing his outfit. He looked so severe and so powerful – I smiled weakly at his beautiful, perfect, masterful figure.
“How are you, slave?” he asked after a long silence.
“Aching, master.” I replied.
He just smiled with an obvious satisfaction.
Then he unlocked the cage and lifted me into a standing position and helped me to walk slowly towards the restraints that hung from the ceiling. This time he didn’t reach for the wrist restraints but let down some wider ankle restraints on another set of chains.
“Lie down on your back, slave.” he said, and I clumsily made my way down onto the floor, still in my suit and straight jacket.
“Put your feet up in the air” he said sternly.
I did so, and he secured my ankles in the restraints. Then he went over to the wall and used a pulley to raise them further and further up until I was basically resting my shoulders and upper back on the floor, my legs strained and dangling from up near his chest. He walked over to the table and fetched the riding crop. He stood virtually over my face, looking into my terrified eyes as he tapped the crop against the open palm of his glove.
“I never want to hear you tell me you’re aching, slave” he said angrily and lashed the crop across my bollocks. I screamed out loud with the intensity of the pain and my straight jacketed torso swung wildly with the shock.
“I want only to hear you worshiping me! Understand?” he said as he whipped my scrotum again. I screamed once more.
“I said do you understand, slave?” he shouted and swung the crop right across my cock.
“Yes master!” I managed to cry back before screaming with the stinging of the blow through the drenched suit on my tender flesh.
He walked around behind me and flogged my arse with all his might. My muscles clenched on the vibrator and I lurched pathetically around on my shoulders, trying to avoid the worst of the beating. He wouldn’t let me avoid it though, and just kept beating me and beating me till he could hear how hard I was crying and that my body was so exhausted it just hung limp and shook with each new blow.
He stopped and walked around to stand over my face again, pointing the crop down and rubbing my face with it.
“Are you sorry, slave?”
“Yes master, I’m sorry. I love you.” I replied, sobbing.
“Thank me for punishing you then”
“Thank you master.” I said quietly and reverently.
“Good slave” he said, beginning to smile again, “I punish you to teach you a lesson and you must thank me for teaching you, mustn’t you slave?”
“Yes master. Thank you.”
“Now lick my waders, slave”
Although it was difficult to move myself in the straight jacket, I managed to lean my head over and set my tongue to work on the heavy, industrial rubber of my master’s waders. My dangling body – a shiny, black mass of straps and padlocks twitched and swung as I tried to keep my face leaned into his boots.
After a while he knelt down over me and just felt me through the straight jacket, feeling how tight it was on me, rattling all the padlocks, getting turned-on at how trussed up I was and slowly moving his gloved hand up to massage my sore cock. I whimpered and shivered at the mixture of pain and relief he gave me and wanted to shout out how much I loved him – but I knew I must keep silent unless he told me to speak.
Then, still knelt over me, Alan undid the zip of his suit so that just his crack was showing and, without a word, lowered himself down onto my face.
I rimmed him deep and hard, showing how good a slave I could be – hardly able to draw breath most of the time, gasping frantically at the hot, sweaty air trapped inside his suit. My tongue flicked around inside his crack while he used his mouth to suck on – and play with – my genitals even though they were imprisoned in my skintight rubbers.
I heard him moaning as I kept on rimming him, and I kept letting out small whimpers as he gently bit on my nads through the suit.
Then he moved himself off me and walked off to the chains and pulley at the wall. As he pulled on the chains my body was slowly lifted clear of the floor altogether, and he kept working at the pulley for a while, zipped his backside up again whilst unzipping his cock and then walked back over to me.
I dangled upside-down, completely helpless in the straight jacket with his wet, hard cock dribbling a long strand of pre-cum right in front of my mouth. His rubber gloves stroked my hair for a moment and then grabbed my head tightly and plunged it down onto his shaft.
He pumped my head back and forth onto its length as I gagged and spluttered. His motions became quicker and I heard him sighing and groaning as he came closer and closer to orgasm.
He stopped suddenly as he groaned really loudly, keeping my head pressed absolutely into his suit – the whole length of his cock filling my mouth. Then it just exploded into my throat with a huge wash of hot cum. I almost choked on it and tried to struggle my way free, but he just held me there and a few seconds later another burst arrived. A third followed soon after with a final, exhausted jolt and he slowly relaxed his grip.
As I swallowed all that was left, he pulled up a chair in front of me and found a cigarette on the table by the wall. He lit it and sat down, smoking it as he calmed down – staring at the sight of me hanging upside-down in front of him in a suit and straight jacket, licking the remains of his gism from my lips.
He smiled as he smoked and we gazed at each other in complete silence: him, probably enjoying his handiwork at total restraint – and me, worshiping him for every way he could use me as his rubber slave.
He put down the cigarette in an ashtray for a moment and slowly lowered my ankles to a position where he could safely undo the restraints. He pulled me up by the heavy, steel D-ring on the front of the straight jacket’s collar and dragged me over to the chair. He made me kneel between his legs and lick his sagging, juicy cock while he continued smoking, and with his free hand he ruffled and stroked my messy, wet hair.
After a while he moved me back onto the floor so that I lay on my back in front of the chair. It was a bit uncomfortable because of the tight strapping and buckles and padlocks down the back of the straight jacket but it still felt like a resting position. Alan zipped up his suit again and sat back down, prizing my legs apart with his waders. He lit another cigarette and sat there in complete silence watching me, grinding my crotch around with both his boots. I moaned and whimpered, looking up at him occasionally to see his satisfied grin beaming from beneath the hangman’s hood.
“You’ve had that suit on since last night, haven’t you slave?”
“Are you hot in it?”
“Good. I want you to get used to feeling like that.”
He continued massaging my knob and balls with his waders for a while and then lifted up the radio-control device for the vibrator that was still strapped to me.
“I think it’s about time you messed up your suit a bit more” he said, and pressed the button down as his waders played harder and harder with my tackle.
I grunted and groaned as my arse tightened and twitched on the vibrator. I couldn’t hold it any longer: my eyes shut, my whole body arched up from the floor and hot, painful gism shot up my belly.
After I had stopped groaning and settled down into a limp, rubber body on the dungeon floor again my master stood up and turned me over. As he slowly undid all the padlocks and straps he spoke to me.
“You can go to bed in your little box now. You’ll stay in the suit till tomorrow. And you can have a lie-in tomorrow morning ’cause I’ve got some workmen in: something I organized while I was out today. But I’ll come and get you up after they’ve gone and we’ll continue your training.”
It was only once the straight jacket was pulled off me that I noticed I was still stuck in the fist-mitts. Alan slowly and delicately unstrapped and removed the vibrator and zipped the arse of my suit back up.
“Bet your arse is sore, isn’t it slave?” he asked.
“Good. I’m going to train it to take me anytime, so it’ll probably be sore a lot more times over the coming weeks. Now, let’s put you to bed”
He made me crawl on the floor behind him as he walked over to the wooden box and opened it up. I stepped into it and laid my head on the rubber pillow.
“Sweet dreams, my slave.” he said and closed the lid, leaving me in darkness.
“I love you” I heard him say as he snapped shut the heavy padlocks on the lid of the box. Even after all that exertion and coming-off, I was hard again. I was also drenched in sweat and cum inside my suit and my hair reeked of my master’s piss.
It was going to be another long night.
I found it difficult to sleep that night. Not surprising given the heat inside the box and the mess of juices that seeped around me in my suit. All the places where Alan had thrashed me so hard – my cock and balls, my buttocks, my back and my tits – were hot and sore, and the inside of my arse ached after having had the vibrator up it for so long. Even my arms still ached from the time they’d spent so tightly strapped up in the straight jacket. All I could smell in the confines of this tiny, secure cell was rubber, sweat and piss.
I was exhausted though, and after a few hours desperately trying to get comfortable – shifting around in a mess of gism – I finally fell asleep.
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.”