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A slave's Induction
Ch 7 - The Begged for Proposition
With Nick's recent revelations about my good fortune, and the Boss's leniency, and what could happen to me, I knew what I was about to say, and how I would say it, was more critically important than ever. I needed to be sure to demean myself while venerating him. Like he'd seen me doing from afar that night making him laugh at Nick's observation of me being "like a lamb to the slaughter" - worship him, while denigrating myself. I needed to apologize to him and beg him.
I started, and he interrupted me to say he'd rather see me kneeling. I painfully worked my way into that position relieving some of the pressure on the plug. I was glad to find that the Ôlittle things meaning a lot' syndrome, worked on the "less pain," side of things as well, not just the, "more pain," side. I knelt on the towel and started again. He put his cigar in the large ashtray and interlaced his fingers on his stomach, the picture of serenity - the exact opposite of what I was feeling - what he knew I was feeling - what he wanted and intended for me to feel.
I began with him, instead of with "I," or "me," "Sir, You are the most amazing man I have ever known. Your looks are those of a god. You are as strong as you are dominant and demanding. You have shown me your power, and by it all, Sir, I am awe struck. You gave me an offer and I said I couldn't do it - afraid of the exposure. I asked impertinent questions about anonymity and made it a condition in order to accommodate you. I'm very sorry Sir. You said you wanted a face the men who buy your video can identify with."
I thought about Nick's words, "He loves to be begged," and I did so, "I beg you Sir to please allow me to be that face - exposed for your pleasure and for the good of your project." I stopped for a moment to see if he would interject or question. He gave me a, "rolling along" hand gesture, letting me know in his silence that I should continue - that he was listening. I still needed to convince him.
"My decision was purely self motivated Boss, Sir. I was inconsiderate and disrespectful of your likes, needs, wants, and wishes Sir. It was wrong, and I am very sorry for my mistake. I want to change that to making decisions based on what you prefer, how you prefer it, when you prefer it, where you prefer it, and for how long, Sir. I beg you Boss Sir, please Sir, give me the opportunity to accept your offer, I so foolishly turned down, so I can prove it to you Sir." I slowed to a stop. He picked up his cigar.
"Anything more?" he asked, as he put it in his mouth and rolled it around and bit lightly on it. I thought quickly and thanked him and said that there was.
"Yes Sir. This stuffed-pussied bitch toy is grateful for everything you have done for and to it - for making it reconsider Sir. Thank You Sir. You first Sir, always and in all things," and a final, "Thank You Sir, Boss - Master Sir."
He leaned the chair back reclining it, laced his fingers behind his head and sucked on the cigar in his mouth looking pensive. "Had I said enough? Been respectful enough? Used enough Sir's? Begged enough? Been sincere enough? Self-effacing enough?
The seat came forward. The cigar got played with in the ashtray and then left there. His feet remained on the desk. I was so nervous waiting, it felt good when he started to speak even though I didn't know what to expect. "Master huh? He said, "Well you're getting a little ahead of yourself, but it speaks to your sincerity and gives insight to the effect I'm already having, so I'll allow it. First off, I accept your offer of your manhood and your person. When I own something I own it outright, so just for clarification, this is a 'lock, stock, and barrel' offering I'm accepting, right?" Before I could answer he added, "No limits or conditions. You retain no rights to your person for yourself. Both your body and mind are objects of my personal property. Is that what you had in mind with your offer?
"Yes Sir," was what I said. Hearing it all set out like that, it was impossible to comprehend, but it seemed already to be happening. He sat there so relaxed and cavalier about discussing my existence as property, about my retaining no rights for myself or to my own person. I was acknowledging no rights to my own body and mind. It seemed like it shouldn't be real, but my condition - my pain - my horrifying night in his cage - was verifying that it was. My arms still had limited sensation from the elbows to fingertips. Everything hurt - even things the men hadn't touched. My ass cheeks were on fire from the belting I got. There weren't many, but the strikes were savage with that belt swung by such a strong person. He may not have even realized how hard he hit me, but I can tell you it was unimaginable. The welts felt like they must be huge. I thought about how guys always commented on my ass, seeing it in the locker room or wherever. I tried to imagine what they'd think seeing it like this - how stunned they'd be at its distorted plugged and belted appearance.
"Then it looks like were on the same page." He said, and abruptly shifted to the next subject. "As to the movie offer, I thought you'd come to see things differently if I gave you time to think about it. "You have a much better feel about you - much more what I imagined, seeing you watch me from across the bar - here now - afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing to me. That arrogance and sense of self-import you had the other night are gone. I remember your ass planted there on my sofa saying, 'no' to me. You were actually sitting on my furniture, setting conditions in order for me to use you, in essence, telling me that you were too important to be identified in my production."
He stopped and just looked at me a moment and made a chilling addition to his thought, "Just remember, whenever it's necessary, I can give you time out to consider what needs adjusting and just how you might adjust it." That simple expression, 'time out' sent chills up my spine.
He took another slow draw on his cigar and looked at the glowing ash on the end as he expelled the mouthful of smoke - blew a few rings, and continued, "You also LOOK much better. Naked and on the floor is much more appropriate for something like you - kneeling there respectfully, cunt stuffed so full and deep you can hardly think straight, not knowing what to do till you are told. The expression on your face shows a combination of worry and complete focus, trying to get it all right for me. And, turn around." He said. "Show me what Nick did to you, and tell me why." Humiliated, I showed the Boss my burning belt stripes and explained fully how I got them.
"See," he said with self-satisfaction in his tone, "now this is the way I imagined you when you were presenting yourself to me in the bar so enamored and worshipful. When you were sitting on my furniture saying, 'no' to me, this is how I saw you." His arrogance was so assured as he continued, by listing some of my attributes, "- a subservient, obedient, naked, kneeling, fisted, plugged, beaten, controlled, owned, fearful, respectful, thankful, urinal. I could go on," He gloated, "but that's enough identity markers for now. Oh," he added, "did I mention ash tray?" he asked, knowing he hadn't.
"No Sir."
"Yeah - even ash tray. Come over here." Bill patted his of his upraised thigh and I crawled to his side. "Tip your head back and open your mouth. I'll show you. As I obeyed, Bill took a long leisurely draw on his fat stogy adding more ash to the growing accumulation at its tip, and blew the smoke in my face. Slowly he moved the cigar into position over my open mouth and paused, "Bet you've never been a man's ashtray have you?"
As my tongue began to move trying with my open mouth to form my negative reply, he casually flicked the cigar with his finger just like I'd seen him do a few times over the glass ash receptacle on his desk - and the long tight cylinder of smoked spent tobacco fell into my mouth instantly making fact of his just added descriptive adjective regarding my identity. It was hot, it was dry, it was unimaginable, and it was my Master's. By his hand and his objects he had violated and claimed my ass for his purposes, and now his ash was violating and claiming my oral cavity in the same way.
"That's got to be dry," he said as he put his legs down and stood up over me looking down into my - or his - ash filled mouth. The nice thing about you as my personal ashtray, is that you self clean. Here, I'll help you with that. He snorted up a big cigar smoking hocker and centered his mouth over mine before letting the plentiful slimy snotty lunger drip in with the ashes, "Now swallow that filth & show me a clean ashtray," he ordered.
I did what I never would have imagined. I closed my mouth, worked the combination of the Master's slime and ash - with several swallows - down my throat, tipped my head back, and opened again.
"Not clean enough!" he yelled, and expectorated a forceful blow again into the back of my throat, "Now show me a clean ashtray, or I will dump this whole glass tray full," he picked up the ashtray off the desk and held it up over me as he finished his threat, "into that hole for you to process."
I swallowed and swallowed and worked up saliva of my own and swallowed again till I felt the terrible taste dissipating before opening my mouth for his critical inspection.
"Nothing worse than a dirty ash tray," he said, "You ever show me a dirty one again, and I'll have you smoking a cigar a day to the nub for a week and using this thing here," he stuck his finger in my mouth moving my tongue around and further inspecting, "for the ashes! You hear me shithead?"
"Yes Sir Boss Sir. Your ashtray is very sorry Sir." He sat back down and put his feet back up on the desk as I stared worried and nervously at the floor.
I was all the things he said - and more (or less depending on how you looked at it). There was nothing he had enumerated that could be denied, and as he had taken his time enumerating the litany, I was forced to face the truth of each descriptive. I couldn't imagine why, and I wasn't sure how it had come to this, but the fact of my being exactly the way he wanted me right now - exactly the creature he was creating and had just described, was unmistakable.
He picked up a couple of stapled pieces of paper and held them out. Take these back to your towel shithead. He put them in my ashtray mouth and ordered me to crawl like the dog I was, "Go! Sit Fido!" he ordered. As I crawled obediently away, my excruciatingly plugged and belted ass in his plain view, he told me what I was about to read. "You have accepted my offer to be in my movie without conditions or foreknowledge of the particulars, which is as it should be. What you hold in your mouth, however, is what I choose for you to know and be thinking about, for your upcoming staring roll. So go ahead and read it over when you get settled there."
I came close to letting out a reactionary yelp as I sat back down, but with great difficulty, I managed instead after removing the pages from my mouth, to thank him in a fairly normal sounding tone. Sitting on the plug had renewed the hurt from the untold depth and astonishing stretch it was so effectively causing my asshole and insides. As I read the listed information for the roll of the castrator, I began to sweat. The first thing it addressed was the matter of anonymity. It said that for identification purposes, so the viewers could relate to a real person, my name - tom - would be clearly tattooed on one of my pecs or shoulders. It said the filming would present as many shots of my face while I am working as possible, and that it would include close ups of expressions of my pleasure and self satisfaction while working on "my" victim.
Then it addressed the procedure itself. It said that I would be shown videos of nuttings for instructional and training purposes and then required to do a simple, surgical type of removal. Then it talked about specifics of the procedure. The sack would be opened and each testicle pulled out. They would be carefully eviscerated and left to hang by their chords for a time to be specified and for activities to be specified. Whenever directed to, I, the castrator, would suture and tie off both vesicle chords, and on queue cut each nut free retaining as much of the attached chord as possible.
Regarding the determination of the nuts themselves, it said that the castrator would do as instructed in the moment, and enumerated a horrific litany of possibilities that I couldn't imagine myself doing, but at the same time knowing I would.
Then it made reference to the victim. It said that some men actually want to be castrated. This would not be one of them. He would not be a participatory subject, and he would not be gagged, so that his objections and pleas could be, "heard and enjoyed." It said there were others, but listed one possible scenario. The victim would have been lured with a lot of cash, to make a fake S and M video. I would secure him and then announce his fate to him and torture him for a time before the finale. I finished reading.
I had seen some of the footage. I knew I was as red as a beet, and I was wet with sweat both from what I'd just read and my pain. I wanted to say, "Those things we discussed in the bar about castration, were fantasies. I didn't mean I would actually want to cut a man's balls off. Please don't make me do this." I sat there humiliated, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew I was not to speak without being addressed, so I held the paper in my lap and looked up at the powerful man behind his desk writing, and waited.
Without looking up from his work, he spoke to me, "How's our soon-to-be movie star? Done with the cliff notes so-to-speak?" Respectfully, as always, I answered that I had read it all. "Now at least you have an idea of what your roll will be so you can prepare mentally to do a good job," he said.
I wished I didn't have "an idea", or the correlating mental images that were now implanted. He went on to inform me of the timing of my appearance. "I'll be filming you in a few months. I want to get you in your best possible shape mentally and physically. Nick will work you hard toward the physical end. You look good, but I want you maxed out, what ever that ends up being. Lots of heavy chemicals for both mind and body are in order. I have already begun your mental augmentation. I'm sure you can feel changes taking place in your thinking. Increasingly the drugs I put in you and my programming are causing a reordering of your thought processes. Needing to please me by how and what you think will become instinctual, and taking any kind of exception will become lost."
The man - now my owner - sat comfortably and told me how he was going to essentially tune me and remodel me for his pleasure and purposes. I would begin to confess - no matter the consequences - improper thoughts. I would feel the need to be allowed to confess, and beg for help - for correction - not forgiveness - as that is not something given to slaves.
"With discipline, and drugs, and use, and programming," he told me, "You will become exactly what I want." Lots of protein, chemicals, and forced workouts, and the right amount of rest would be the formula for the physical improvement, "There's enough time to get you really tuned up, for your debut on the screen." He hit a button on the intercom and called to Nick, "Nick fix a couple of shots for the toy here." He released the button and continued on with me. My lack of control had just been made more obvious. He said we had a few minutes to wait for Nick, "So let's -" he said, "- take the time to talk about your plight."
"Let's and we," I thought, "what new meaning those words had taken on." They seemed such unlikely words for my new situation.
"I remember," he began, "A cocky individual that actually thought of himself on an equal footing with me just a short time ago. He stepped right up in front of me in the bar, presuming to block the view others had of me. You remember that person?" he asked.
"Yes Sir," I answered as the obvious offender.
"That was you wasn't it shithead?"
"Yes Sir." I started to say I was sorry, but got cut off.
"You remember being self determined, making your own decisions, doing what you wanted, in other words, being your own person?" I answered politely in the affirmative. "And how has that changed?" he asked.
"This person is yours now Sir."
"This WHAT?" he yelled.
"This shithead - ashtray - slave is yours now Sir! Sorry Sir!"
"Better," he said. "Before, even if you had something a little uncomfortable, you would eliminate it, or change it. Now, there you are, sitting on that monstrous plug. Your weight is pushing it so deep, and it's hurting you so much. Now, not only can't you take it out, you can't even stand, or change positions to ease the pain till I tell you to. Right?" He WAS right, and politely I concurred. "Hell," he gloated, "Now, you can't even express how you are hurting with natural strain in your voice, because you've been told not to."
"Stand up!" was the abrupt command. I worked through the pain to get to my feet but not to his satisfaction, "Were you favoring your pussy, fist bitch?" Before I could say anything, he ordered me to repeat the movement, "Do it again! Sit, and stand. Quickly!" I practically fell back onto the plug jamming it back in deep and immediately almost jumped up, apologizing through the painful exercise thanking him for it as required.
Though it hurt, the movement was almost a relief from the static position of sitting on it - at least for a brief moment. Nick entered with two full three milliliter syringes in his hand, and his announcement, "Here, Boss." They looked threatening with thick inch and a half long needles attached.
"What was it?" I wondered, "If it's steroids, it's quite a lot." Fact was, I could only guess as to the contents of the syringes. They could be anything. I remembered my angry reaction to something as insignificant as the one pill Nick had given me when I arrived. I was indignant because I wasn't told what it was, or asked if it was ok. Now, what ever they wished to pump into me would be simply a matter of course, over which I had no business to question.
The Boss yanked me by the arm over to face the side of his big cleared desktop. He pushed on my back collapsing me at the waist face down onto it. My feet still on the floor, he told me to spread them, and relax my ass and legs. As I did, I felt both needles penetrating me high and to the side of both my glutes. I couldn't even imagine what my ass must look like with the huge plug distorting it. He pushed slowly on them until they were buried in me - each deep to their hilts. Holding them and using his thumbs, he began the injections at the same time. I could feel the viscous fluid collecting inside my muscles. I was going to ache from the volume of the stuff, but that was the least of my worries at this moment in time.
Just as he'd begun to inject me, the boss told him to go get him a drink from "the fridge." "Right away Boss," he said. He walked away from me and left the room.
"If this isn't a sight, I ask you," Bill said, sarcastically. I heard a few camera clicks as he continued. "You hugging my desktop, naked except for your harness and plug. Your normally hot ass has angry red belt welts on it, and is completely misshaped around your asshole. All that can be seen of what's causing it is the big thick black disk base of your plug. Who would believe to look at it, whatÔs inside of you or the intense pain you're feeling from it. It would be fun," he quipped, "to have people you know, gathered around when it gets pulled out. They would be so aghast and embarrassed for you. And just imagine their reaction to your screaming 'thank you,' when it got shoved painfully all the way back in."
He told me to look over my shoulder as he was snapping pictures so he could get some identifiable face shots included. "And as if you didn't look ridiculous enough, there's two big hypo syringes sticking out of your cheeks to boot. Makes for some great pictures to post on the web though," he said, "We'll send out notices to your friends for a link they can access to see pictures and you performing some of your new tricks - being asked if you want to stop, & you begging so sincerely please for more.
Nick entered with Bills beverage and slowly finished injecting me as Bill sipped his drink and snapped a few last pix before putting the camera down. He had an idea, "Nick, go get the video camera lets try something," he said, "also bring a duplicate of the plug in shithead's pussy."
As Nick left the room, Bill sat down in his chair right in my face - my head lying on his desk facing him. I tried not to look into his eyes. "Look at me!" he said with a raised voice. I looked into the same beautiful steel grey eyes I'd seen before, but they were different now. Before they were alluring and pulled me in. Now they seemed to be piercing me like knives and cutting out my spirit for sport. Now, they were the eyes of my fearsome terrorist/ tormentor - I his fearful victim. The powerful god man peered into my soul and spoke with utter gravity in his voice. "Get this, Tom. If you never got anything before, listen, and get this. I like you. I like how you look. I liked from the start how worshipful and focused you were on me in the bar. Every time I looked over, you were unaffected by anything around you, and zeroed in on me. And I liked discovering your interest in castration."
As Nick had intimated, Bill said he was allowing for the possibility of my replacing his house slave. The one that had taken my clothes, had been sold, and was being picked up by his new owner the following week.
"Some slip up's and mistakes on a limited basis I can tolerate. I will punish you for them, and that will not be easy for you. But," he continued with increased intensity, "If I ever think you are trying to take back any degree of your self, or of control - if I ever believe you are doing something that is not because it's FOR me, or because OF me, I will give you a time out, that will make the one in the cage seem like a night at the Hilton with room service."
For a moment he just starred into me making me understand he was claiming all that was here and daring me to challenge his authority. Then he added, "Do we have an understanding? Do we have a deal?" There was that word again. I began to realize this, is how, "we" WAS now. "We," were both here to make sure the Boss's comforts and preferences, his pleasures and his needs were met, and if I ever did something to make him believe otherwise, there literally would be Hell to pay. His next words of warning would echo in my head, "I promise, you will not be allowed to, but you will beg to die."
Yes, "we" had an understanding beyond any doubt. And as I lay there in his face, on his desk, another piece of his property, I was led to make clear my understanding that His proposition - His deal - was indeed and unquestioningly iron clad.
"Good," he said off-handedly but with emphasis. He sat back in his chair effectively removing the immediacy of his face from mine. While peering into my depths - my very soul - he had made his contract with me. Until now he was just playing with me - testing me - presuming to "kick the tires," as he'd so appropriately put it. From this moment on, things would be different. Now I was his formally declared property - his slave - and while he'd allowed me the privilege to call him Master a few times before - now, that was an inexorable fact.
Whether I was ever allowed to look into them again or not, the look of his eyes close to mine would last with me a lifetime. His intoxicating body scent, and that of his breath with the smell of his cigar lingered in my mind as I stayed in place on his desk. Those too would remain. Indeed a deal had been struck - an understanding established - a contract cemented. I would never forget how casually it had been sealed, "Good." His one word was enough to establish that "we" had - a deal - an understanding - a contract. The deal - my person, my body, and my mind, were now his property. The understanding - that what happened to me, was no longer my business, and if I tried ever to make it so, the punishment would be more than I could imagine - the contract - that these conditions were acceptable and agreeable to me as unquestionably permanent and binding.
Nick entered with camera in one hand and my plug's twin in the other. Bill took the camera, "Now lets see how well you can play this for me. I want a convincing and accommodating performance. You know enough by now to be able to do this in a way that will please me. So impress me," he warned. He had me face out into the room and turned on the camera. He scanned my naked form from face to feet as I lay clutching his desk in silence.
He went to my ass and closed in on the base of the plug inside me. He had Nick lay the plug's twin on my back - its base just above that of the one buried inside me, and shot both framed together. At Bills direction, Nick - out of frame except for his hand - lifted the plug and stood it straight up on my lower back. He scanned slowly up its enormity to the top. He had Nick hold it near my face and moved into position, "What is this?" Bill asked me.
"It's a plug just like the one inside me Sir."
"Really? This whole thing is inside you?"
"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir."
"Tell everyone what it's doing."
"It's stretching and stuffing your fuckhole Sir.
"Looks like it would be quite painful. Can you describe how it feels?"
"It hurts so much Sir. Its so deep and it's stretching and filling everything so painfully Sir."
"Would you like me to remove it?"
"Oh no Sir. Please Sir."
"You sure you want to keep it in with all the pain it's causing you? Why is that?"
"Because it pleases you Sir."
"And it's more important to please me than to relieve the intense pain?"
"Yes Sir!" was said with emphasis.
"How about if we just pull it out for a moment to prove to everyone it's really in there & then we can shove it right back inside. Then maybe leave it in all night. Would you like that?"
"Yes Sir to please you Sir - You first Sir, always and in all things.
"Then tell me what you want."
"Please Sir could you pull it out to show everyone, then shove it right back inside your fuckhole - and can it be left in all night so I can stay in pain for your pleasure Sir?"
"I think that's a reasonable request."
"Thank you very much Sir."
Bill handed the camera to Nick who followed to the plugs base. Bill unbuckled the harness strap and without warning, he grabbed onto the huge base and pulled till it stretched my ass wide open. As I screamed, he held it playing it back and forth at its widest point exposing my raw pink pussy lips in and out as he deftly pushed and pulled on the plug with the obvious use of strength and control. The inner cone was doing the same thing unseen to my second sphincter.
"Oh my god!" I cried out, as the camera moved to catch my tormented expression and tears - before returning to the action end of the scene.
"Ok," Bill yelled over my noise, "Bring it down so they can hear me," he instructed. With all my effort I mediated my noise as he addressed the would-be viewers about what was happening. He said the plug had been in me for a long time and it would be hard for them to imagine the pain I had been in for a while - that what he was doing was truly rather inhuman - and explained about what was happening with the inner cone. Satisfied with the torment he'd accomplished he pulled the plug free of my tortured hole and held it up for the camera's inspection as I yelled both in pain and relief. How I wanted to beg him not to replace it - how close I came to pleading, "PLEASE NO MORE SIR!" Just as he spoke out over my noise.
"I don't think I've heard a single thank you," he admonished. He put the tip right back to the hole from which it had just been so welcome-ly removed. With the force of a jackhammer he shoved on the base and it reentered even more painfully then it had exited. I never stopped agonizing through the whole exercise. Groaning and hollering, I issued my strung out words of apology and screamed my exhorted gratitude through the searing scorching pain of reinsertion, "THHAAANNNKK YOOUUU SIIRRRRRR!!!!"
The harness was buckled back in place and the camera went to my face to capture the agony as I was prompted to scream my obligatory words again before it was shut off and put down. Seeming self-satisfied, the Boss, casually adjusted his belt line, and walked toward the door with Nick at his heels.
"Tell me the words you live by," he said, as he opened the door. In my torment, I yelled my mantra as he left the room not choosing or needing to hear it all. It was for my benefit - a reminder each time I would often speak it - of my existence as slave - service instrument - toy - and object, "You first Master," As I yelled the next word Nick pulled the door closed. My owner gone - and all alone, I lay there and finished - yelling out the words I hoped he could still hear, "Always and in all things, Sir." Something was different about what I'd said. I had called him "Master," only now for the first time, that was a fitting address that would come to involve untold ramifications.
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