Becoming a Slave, Part 2
My heart pounded like I'd die of a heart attack as I stood over the kitchen sink and sprayed the shit out of my hair and off my face with the hose attachment and some dish soap. My master, which is what he undeniably had become, watched through the webcam perched above the laptop LCD monitor resting a safe distance away on the kitchen counter. He even let me rinse my shitty mouth, although I had to use dish soap to do it. I took deep breaths trying to get myself under control. I might have welcomed death as an escape, except that I figured he'd send my pics out Wednesday morning anyway.
Once I had all the gear locked back on--I'd had to lick the dildo clean before replacing it and the harness, along with the collar and CB3000, just to refresh the taste and smell of feces in my mouth, but at least nothing needed to be chewed so it wasn't mashed into my teeth and around my gums--there were more instructions to come. There was the question of how to ensure I would obey him about leaving the gear on until I arrived Wednesday since he couldn't watch me 24/7 until then. The solution turned out to be simple. I held a few dollar bills up to the webcam so he could write down the serial numbers. Then, as he watched, I glued the keys inside them to make a little envelope. This envelope would go into a padded envelope I'd buy at the post office that afternoon and mail to him. If the serial numbers on the bills didn't match, he'd know I'd made a switch.
We then examined my wardrobe. I tried on all my jeans for him, and he selected the tightest fitting pair. I then cut off the legs one inch below the crotch. He also selected an old, threadbare white undershirt. I ripped off both sleeves, leaving tattered seams that would expose my arms from the shoulders down. Finally, he selected an old pair of hiking boots I hadn't worn in years. They still fit, albeit uncomfortably. That was my new wardrobe. Everything else was to be abandoned to the charity movers, and I was to wear nothing else from that moment on--when I was allowed to wear clothes at all. I asked what I would wear to work on Monday, and he said to fuck work on Monday. I'd have to be home Tuesday for the movers anyway and I'd be out of there as soon as they left, so what the fuck was the point of one more day? To drive home the point, he countermanded the order to donate the clothes and ordered me instead to destroy them. Immediately. Using kitchen knives and utility shears as he watched, I slit every pair of pants, shorts, and boxers from crotch to each hem. Every shirt from the collar down each sleeve. Before long, all that remained--aside from my pre-selected uniform cutoffs, shirt, and boots--were my shoes and a large pile of rags.
With my ZIP code from the previous night--and he had my full address and phone number now, too, of course--he confirmed that my local post office was open for another thirty minutes--the inside window only; they wouldn't collect from the outside drop box until Monday. I was to make sure that the padded envelope I'd be sending the currency-wrapped keys in was postmarked today from that post office. I'd have to go in and mail them in my new uniform. In broad daylight. In the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Most of the gear I wore would be covered, except the chain collar and the small padlock that locked it into place. I'd be humiliated, especially as I left my apartment and returned and people whom I knew could see me. But he wasn't done.
I was to begin draining my credit cards by taking the maximum daily withdrawal from each and putting the cash aside to bring to him. I was also to return to Walmart. He wanted me to buy an electric razor with trimmer attachment. And I was to obtain boxes so I could spend some time packing my stuff--one box for all the things he'd picked out for himself and the rest to be given to the charity movers. And he wanted me to buy a set of permanent markers. The kind that don't wash off skin. Black and some different colors.
Then he told me he would be back online at midnight and not to eat, drink, or piss until then. Obviously, I couldn't bathe, shit, or jerk off.
Those hours were undoubtedly the most dreadful. Not because I went out into public dressed like a rent boy. Not because of the stares of curiosity and disgust that followed me. Fortunately, no one I knew saw me. Some people I recognized around the apartment, sure, but no one I was on a name basis with. Not my actual neighbors. But people who knew I was normally a straight-laced, preppy, bookish sort of guy who was now wearing next to nothing with hiking boots, a bulging crotch (from the CB3000 and the erection inside it), and a metal collar locked on my neck.
No, those hours were dreadful because I didn't have him, even his virtual presence, to distract me from the reality of my situation. There was no way out. I'd made sure of that. I'd volunteered everything he needed. I did think about it, though. Ways to back out. There weren't any. I'd agreed to it all. Everything he had on me he had because I gave it to him. It wasn't black mail. The only black mail was to ensure I didn't pussy out. He hadn't extorted me into anything, not really. I was fucked because I'd fucked myself.
I did everything he said. I got the trimmer, the markers, the boxes. I started packing because I had about 8 hours until he'd be online again. It was in my bedroom, as I started stripping the bed, that I saw myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I gawked. I looked like what I was. A fucking sex slave. My dick had apparently not just been hard, but had been leaking at some point, because the jeans cutoffs bore the tell-tale dark splotch of precum just below the bulge in the crotch made by the chastity device.
I got hungry and thirsty and even had to piss again, but put it all off. He wouldn't know if I ate or drank, or even pissed, but I obeyed. I might as well start getting used to it. In a few days when I was with him, he'd be able to tell whether I ate or drank or pissed, and I wouldn't be able to do it behind his back, and who knew how often he would let me do anything? He might make me go without for days at a time. So I had to start adjusting.
By midnight, I was getting tired. Packing and cleaning house to move isn't easy. I heard the IM chime on the laptop. He was pleased I'd started working but he was pissed off that I still had my uniform on. He expected a slave to know clothes were not worn indoors. I'd have to be punished, but that would come later. First, he wanted me to use the electric trimmer to buzz my hair. Not to shave my head, he corrected when I asked if he wanted me to do it now. Oh no, he wanted me to suffer the embarrassment of asking a barber in a public shop to shave it. And my eyebrows. I wasn't getting out of that. But he wanted my scalp down to stubble now. And so I leaned over a trashcan and watched as the locks fell, obliterating my own respectably stylish haircut.
He then had me stand in front of the cam and take more pictures. First, a wide shot, showing my cropped head and my uniform. Then with the uniform off, showing off all the gear. Then a close up of my face. Then I was to get the black Sharpie and write "toilet" on my forehead, with a line beginning between my eyebrows, down my nose, and ending with an arrow on my upper lip that pointed to my mouth. Another pic, this one with my mouth stretched wide and tongue stuck out. Then he told me to sign back onto the website where we'd met less than 24 hours before. But not under that profile. Not the slave profile he'd already seen. No, he knew I had another. He knew I had a "normal" profile, one that didn't reveal my sick, perverted side. The profile that had my hobbies and my face pic--what I used to look like--the profile I used to chat and hang out with people.
I told him the screen name. He made me upload the new pics, the ones I'd just taken, not the one's I'd taken of my scat experience earlier in the day, thank God. And then he ordered me into my chat room. Not the fetish room I'd met him in. My chat room, the one for my town, the one where people knew me. He followed me in, but didn't type anything there. Instead, he just typed to me in the IM window.
"beg to service them," he ordered. "u cant eat ur shit nemore so i want u 2 beg them 4 theres." Holy fuck. The tears welled up again. My body started shaking again. He saw it all on cam. "and drink there piss. tell them u want 2 do there dogs to if they have ne. and u want to do it all on cam if ne1 wants 2 watch."
These were guys who recognized my screen name. Who thought I was a normal, vanilla guy. I'd met some of them. Some for hook ups. Some just to hang out. And I did as I was ordered anyway. I typed exactly what he told me to type, while he watched on the cam and read it as it printed out in the room. My new pics, side by side with the old ones, the ones from my former life, confirmed it. No one had hacked my account. It was me behind the keyboard. And guys messaged me. The ones I knew asking what the fuck was up with me. The ones I didn't know calling me a sick fuck. He told me not to answer anyone who wasn't into what I was asking for, so I didn't. I was too ashamed to message the ones I knew anyway. What could I say? They hadn't even known I was a sub, let alone into what I was now begging for.
It didn't take long. None of the guys who answered my pleas were guys I was into. They were all fat, old, bald, or ugly. Or all of the above. More than a few were guys who'd messaged me to hook up before, could tell someone else was now in control, and were ready to get a piece of me. Some were guys I'd been rude to, who were keen on getting some grudge use out of me. Each guy who seemed serious was given my master's screen name, and they messaged each other behind my back. I didn't know what they said or whether he was sharing the rest of my pics with the interested guys. I lost track of how many guys I directed my master's way. I think some of the ones from the room were calling or IMing their kinky acquaintances from other rooms, because screen names I'd never seen before started messaging me.
After a couple hours of this, of my anxious waiting to be told I'd been pimped out, my master finally IMed me.
"i got u some dates 4 tomorrow boy," he typed. "but now u need 2 go 2 bed & get some rest. going 2 be busy tomorrow."
He proceeded to tell me he'd made appointments for me, giving my address out to some of the men he'd talked to. I'd be entertaining him all day, over the webcam, as I serviced each of the men he'd arranged. I was then told to get the half-gallon milk jug, still filled with water from the night before, told to retie it, and to assume the same sleep position as before. And I obeyed, lying on my back under the overhead light, my knees and balls and jug hanging off the edge of the footboard towards the dresser, where the laptop and cam sat running.
And my first day as a slave ended.
Becoming a Slave, Part 3
The ringing phone woke me. I jolted upright in bed, only to feel the painful yank of the water bottle tied to my nuts. I rose gingerly. My balls felt like they'd been beaten with a 2-by-4. I reached for the cordless headset on the dresser.
"Rise and shine, fuckface," I heard. It was the first time I'd heard my master's voice and my dick instantly filled the CB3000. His voice was perfect. Firm timbre, deep, masculine, a touch of Southwestern drawl, commanding tone, and that unmistakable quality of youth. "Get in front of your cam. I want to see you."
"Good morning, Master. Yes, Master," I replied and moved in front of the laptop and cam, still on and running from the previous evening.
"Your balls are starting to look real good," he said. I looked down to see how red, swollen, and low they now hung. They were at least an inch lower than they had been before I'd met him less than 36 hours earlier. I guess sleeping two nights with them tethered to 4-5 pounds of dead weight does that.
"Thank you, Master, I want to please you, Master."
He laughed. "Yeah, you're gonna please me real good today, too, boy. Go unlock your front door. And leave those balls alone." I waddled from the bedroom to the front door, walking bowlegged to keep the swinging milk jug from slamming into my knees. "I've got a bunch of guys coming over for you to serve. They're going to get an hour each, and you're going to do whatever they say, just like they were me. I already set the rules with them last night, so they know what they can and can't do. And it's all gonna be on cam for me to watch, if I feel like it."
"Yes, Master, thank you, Master," I mechanically replied. But I trembled with fear.
It took only minutes for the litany to begin. He had told the men that the door would be unlocked. The first one didn't knock. Rather, his presence was announced by the thundering, "Hey, cockslut, where the fuck are you?" My master had told me to set up my mic with the webcam, and my master heard him through it; through the webcam, he saw my eyes widen in surprise and terror. He told me to call out to him, and I did.
I quickly rose from the laptop and knelt on the floor. The first thing the guy--a tall, burly, ugly, trucker type--did was cuff my wrists behind my back. I recognized him as a troll I'd often told to fuck off in the chat room. The second thing he did was slap my face so hard I fell sideways. He reached between my legs under the CB3000 and seized my balls. Squeezing hard enough to make me squeal, he quickly untied the milk jug. Wrapping one hand around the loose scrotum to force my orbs to the bottom of my sack, he made a fist with the other hand and began punching my already sore balls.
"Not so stuck up now, are you, cunt?!" he yelled.
I screamed, begging him to stop, defenseless and unable to protect myself.
"Yeah, you beg real good! Now beg to eat my shit!" And I did, while flailing my legs, twisting my head from side to side in agony, and wretching. And after a couple minutes of begging and nut punching, he released me. I curled up into a ball, gagging and spluttering. He roughly kicked me onto my back and dropped his jeans to reveal the nastiest pair of briefs I'd ever seen. They were torn in places and mottled with crusty yellow and brown stains. He shucked them off too and turned, straddling my head and facing my feet. He lowered himself and all I could see was the fat, hairy, foul-smelling cleft rapidly approaching my face. And as he settled onto his knees, he let rip the most pungent fart I'd ever smelt. And then his asshole rested on my mouth.
"Rim me, pig!" He shouted, slammed his fist into my nuts yet again. I screamed again, muffled into the cavernous butt, but immediately started stroking his sphincter with my tongue. As the tip tentatively broached the ring of muscle, I feared what would lay within. And rightly. Instantly, I encountered a firm, disgusting mass. I withdrew my tongue, but the opening I left was filled with the turd, which emerged unseen and following my retreat into my mouth. "Fuck yeah," my abuser yelled, grinding his ass on my face. "Eat my fucking shit, you arrogant, preppy fuck." And with no other option, I did. He must have been saving up since yesterday, because he fed me log after repugnant log, until I felt bloated with shit. And then he made me continue rimming him long after his hole was sparkling clean.
But he wasn't done. With the plug locked in my ass--perhaps the first time I was happy to have it there--he couldn't fuck me. So instead, he swiveled on my face and rammed his throbbing 4" cock into my shit-stained mouth. He only took a couple seconds before he unleashed another treat for me to relish. I don't know what that guy ate, but his shit and cum both tasted like they'd been scraped off the bottom of a hotel dumpster. When, panting and sweating and heaving in his morbid obesity, he withdrew his stub of a dick from my mouth, he announced that I was going to take his piss, too. But he wasn't going to wash away the taste of his shit, which he wanted to linger on as a memory of him. So he pressed his dickhole into my left nostril and squeezed the right side closed. Before I could even react, he sent his burning waste cascading through my sinuses and down the back of my throat. My eyes watered and I nearly puked, but, gasping to breathe through my mouth, I swallowed what I could.
He rose as I lay snorting and choking on the floor. "Yeah, now you sound like a real pig, pig," he snickered as he dressed. And then he was gone. I lay in a puddle of spilt urine, my face covered in spit, piss, tears, cum and shit. I was too worn out to rise, but I heard the IM chime from the laptop. I crawled over to it and saw my beaming master. With my hands still cuffed behind me, I couldn't type.
"he thru the handcuff key on ur bed," he typed. "but i want u to stay like that. u have 3 minutes before the next hour starts and u get ur next customer."
"Thank you, Master," I sobbed, and sat down in pain and revulsion.
I served a dozen guys in all. A dozen meals of shit. A dozen piss cocktails. A dozen cum desserts. One guy blew his nose on my tongue. More than half spanked my ass, some with their belts, until I could feel the searing blisters and deep bruises left behind. They slapped me, leaving their hand prints on my face. One guy brought a riding crop to use on my balls while I served him. He left it behind and two more had the same idea. The worst though was the guy who spent at least ten minutes beating the soles of my feet with it. By the end, I was so exhausted not even the echoing pain could keep me awake. Before I drifted off into delirium, my master let me uncuff myself and tie the milk jug back onto my balls, which I again draped over the end of the mattress before falling asleep.