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Even The First - PART EIGHT
THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE.
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Even The First - PART EIGHT
[quote] Keep it busy. It is important for training purposes.
It is also important to keep your slave in a state of advanced physical perfection. A fit slave is capable of fulfilling greater demands, can respond effectively to harsher punishment and more enthusiastically to your sexual requirements. Constant activity maintains its energy, stamina and morale and sustains a strong and sexually receptive, better, deeper, more satisfying fuck.
Take the time to observe your slave at work. One of the greatest pleasures of owning a slave is watching it engaged in menial labour, using all of its body's muscular possibilities to degrade itself before you; the feeling that its humiliating labours are being monitored and assessed is a great motivator for your slave, because it craves your attention and has been trained to please you.
Meaningless futile labour is the life force of a slave; it enjoys being exercised, like a horse or a dog, and gets enormous sexual enervation from performing before the audience of its master and its master's penis.
[unquote]
Paul liked to keep me strong and maintain the super-fitness I had developed in the military. He created a strict regime of exercise for me. It filled most of each day, so that when I was not housekeeping or preparing meals or servicing Paul's endless sexual appetite, I was doing activities to improve my army physique.
The basement where I lived was very cold due to several large windy damp-proofing air-bricks. Paul said he liked it well ventilated cs that way the smell of my piss and my shit did not accumulate. I had to exercise just to keep warm. Sometime I did squats, just to generate heat. There was only cold water, so when I showered, or washed my hole, I was completely freezing and had to exercise vigorously to fight the chill.
I did muscle-rotations using the large choice of installed equipment - free weights, wall bars, benches and grips.
Paul made me undertake a cardio regime which involved running round the streets and going down to the river to swim - which I did in all weathers.
I like to be exercised. I do. I like to be naked, or near naked, and feel my gear swinging against me. Yeah, I am like a horse or a dog. Yeah. I am. I am like an animal.
And come to think of it, yeah, he did like to just sit in his underpants stroking his thick meat whilst I went about the house or worked the garden. There's a large garden that needs a lot of stuff doing.
Due to all this activity, I was always trim, and my tough muscularity was evident to the arousal of envious onlookers when I was out and about. Some of them attempted to attract my interest or acquire my sexual services by befriending either Paul, which he enjoyed somewhat contemptuously, or myself, which he forbade absolutely. If he found out I had been talking he had ways to discourage me, as you can imagine. This influenced the kind of interaction I became involved in. I was alright saying hello to people. Anything more made me nervous. Occasionally someone came on to me strongly, and I had to avoid this.
When Rodder came round to Paul's house and introduced himself it was after a long period when he used to talk to me when I was out jogging on the estate. I had found it impossible to deflect his attentions.
He had started deliberately meeting me where I stretched out in the municipal space at the bottom of our road. I used to go there towards the end of a run to cool down and do some press ups and use the frames to do chin-ups, press-ups, sit-ups, and such general muscle-extending exercises. Rodder would come along and watch me. He made it clear, by staring at me and attempting to engage me in conversation, that he was impressed by my strength and fuckability. I'd be red, hot, and sweating from exertion, breathing heavily, my tight sweaty running costume filled out, muscle pump and cock expanding the skimpy nylon.
Rodder used to stand there watching me, and once or twice he offered to help - though I'm not sure what help he meant. I think he only wanted to touch. He was full of questions. I tried to answer fully and truthfully. I was always polite. I always called him Sir. Rodder was getting more and more excited and horney to have me service him. Once when I was doing chin-ups he came and stood so close behind me that my buttocks brushed his face and I had to manipulate my crossed ankles carefully so as not to strike him in the balls; as I finished he grabbed my waist, presumably to help me drop to the ground. As I landed I turned and found myself face to face with him and had to wriggle quickly to get out of him embracing me and pushing his erection into my groin. I did feel it brush.
I laughed, as if it were nothing. I was embarrassed. He laughed. "That's nice."
I'm not sure what he meant.
"I'd like to meet your boyfriend," he said. "Perhaps we can arrange something."
He must've followed me home and found out my address. Later, one evening, after Paul had returned and after I had been fucked and made Paul his evening meal and now stood to attention, looking straight ahead (that's how he'd taught me) whilst he ate and watched television, the doorbell rang.
"Right, See who that is," said Paul, after a pause, without looking away from the screen.
I was naked, and wearing my large metal slave collar, and my legs were chained with the long chain I wore around the house (it didn't restrict my movement as such, just dragged and chinked so I was always aware of it). So I went to the front door.
As I opened it I kept my erection hidden but Rodder could see clearly enough that I was totally naked and he caught sight of the chain on my foot and the collar. He grinned.
"Hi there kinky! Is your, um, 'Master' in?"
"Who is it?" shouted Paul.
"Man to see you."
"I'm a friend of your boy!" Rodder called through the jar of the door.
Paul reacted like he'd been electrocuted. He rushed out and pushed me out of the way of the door, grabbed it and started to close it in Rodder's face.
"What's this?" He said to me.
I was confused.
I looked down and didn't speak.
That made Paul even more mad.
[quote]
The slave mind is unsuited to the possibilities of conscious freedom. Thought and self awareness are damaging to your slave, which is why we use training, punishment, reward, conditioning and distraction to achieve mental control. In extreme situations, for example where the slave questions its routines or resists instruction, the owner should resort to extreme violence or, failing that, implement a regime of psycho-sexual drugs together with tougher punishment. Once stable control has been reasserted an amended maintenance programme of punishments and inducements, with permanent physical reminders such as scarring, tattoos or castration, should be established in order to avoid the possibility of the slave demanding, or even conceiving of, manumission.
A slave cannot want to be free.
[unquote]
Reading that book... was like reading a description of my life, almost a diary, of the past 15 years. It made me sick.
What had I given up in becoming Paul's sex slave and house boy? What would I have achieved un-caged? Was sexual and household servility my only usefulness? Was I no more valuable than my physical beauty made me in the eyes of others? What else could I do? What else could I have been? Until I found Paul's book I had not even asked these questions, and now I did they made me depressed and confused and angered and frightened. Now I saw things differently.
I was Paul's fuck servant, his fucking fuck servant...
What was to become of me? What gets done with an old slave, when I could no longer keep my muscles, the sharp etchings of my stomach turned to fat, the lean skin-tone across my body bloated with fluid, the drift towards useless old age, when my hole was no longer tight and I was no longer fuckable, when Paul no longer wished to fuck me and my resilience could no longer bear the cold basement nights and freezing showers. I should have stayed in the forces cs by now I might be dead, like Squigger. That's a solution of sorts. What difference would it have made?
Now I was tearful and moaned like a kid, pathetic and absorbed in self pity. I crouched by Pauls bed and blankly wept at the hopelessness of it all, frustrated angry tears that ran in rage from my eyes.
I turned and faced Paul's mirror. My eyes were blue and contrasted sharply with the red rimming. What did men see in these eyes? The tears made my face shine. I looked at my lips, moist and pink, made for kissing, made for blow jobs; mouth made for licking; my thick neck and the hard nut of my Adam's apple, made for swallowing the cock squirt of so many masters as Paul had made me do.
What made them want me? What was I worth?
"Right. You go downstairs," Paul ordered, holding the door shut in Rodder's face. Rodder had stepped back to avoid being hit - like Paul would actually punch him. It might have happened! I trotted downstairs, trailing chain, and adopted the upright kneeling pose, waiting for Paul to finish with Rodder. I could hear him say, "I don't know you, do I?" And Rodder said something indistinct like to explain. And then Paul stepped outside I think, cs they continued talking for some time. The mumbling came through the ventilation bricks. I was conscious that they were talking about me. It excited me to think they were talking about me. I wanted them to be talking about me. My election was painful.
Eventually the front door reopened and I heard footsteps. They were coming in. I strained to hear everything, but all I heard was these footsteps. They were going into the room with the tv.
Then Paul shouted for me.
I grabbed my leg chain and ran upstairs, quietly on the soft balls of my feet. They were sitting in the tv room, on separate chairs, facing each other. I lowered my chain to the ground and stood to attention. Rodder looked happy to see me.
"Right," said Paul. "This man has a proposition that I like. Kneel."
I sank to my knees and looked down. Paul was wearing his black and white trainers. Rodder was wearing blue trainers with fluorescent yellow stripes. He had a dark blue tracksuit, I could see from the legs. Paul was wearing black trackies. He had dressed. He had been wearing just his underpants earlier, with his cock sticking out of one leg hole.
Paul told Rodder to show me his cock. I could see it pressing through his trousers, but I wasn't sure what I was seeing. Rodder stood up and dropped his trousers. I crawled over to it. It was huge.
"Right. What do you think of that?" asked Paul with a grin.
"It's good Sir," I mumbled. Smiling.
"It is good isn't it? And do you want it?"
"Yes Sir."
"Bet you do. Can't wait. Right."
Rodder pointed at it and I crawled even closer and he suddenly grabbed my head and stuffed it down my throat. It made me gag so much I actually vomited. They both laughed like drains. "That happens a lot," said Rodder. I was coughing and coughing.
When it stopped he forced it into my face again. He told me to relax. I tried to relax. It made me open my jaw so it ached and I was breathing intermittently through my nose and he was just using my neck like a cunt. Each time he pushed it in I had to hold my breath until he let it out again, as you'd expect. And I could feel it going down inside my neck like a wild parasite. I closed my eyes as Rodder drove it so deep I was buried in his bushy pubic hair.
When he stopped I fell to the ground panting. Paul kicked my head. "Lick," he said.
I licked the fat pole of Rodder's prick and also his balls and the hair area all around.
I could still taste the vomit in my throat.
When they were finished, I just continued licking, til Rodder said, "I think the bitch is ready."
"Right. Do you you want it?"
"Yes please Sir."
"Where do you want it?"
"Up my arse Sir."
"Right up your cunt.
"My cunt."
"Right."
I think I was so excited by Rodder's huge cock because it just made him look so hungry like he was desperate to fuck with it. It must be strange to have a cock of such enormous size, always inside your pants wanting to be let out and used on some guy, any guy who'd be up to it. I wasn't sure how much damage it could do to me. I knelt back on my heels, waiting for Rodder to tell me how he wanted it. He held it in his fist and pumped it a few times, wrapping his fingers over the huge ugly head.
I felt irresistibly drawn to it, as Paul and Rodder both could see.
"Right," said Paul. "See he really wants it! Might as well now."
"Oh boy," said Rodder. "He's so eager. I usually, you know, have to, you know, use some thing."
"Right. Well whatever. Hold on. Come here." Paul stood up and led Rodder towards the cellar door. I followed. I stayed on my hands and knees - it seemed appropriate. When we got down the stairs I knelt down on the concrete. Rodder waved at me to crawl move to him to worship his wood.
Rodder was well impressed with what he saw. He found the cellar fascinating. "Well, would you credit it? It's a regular Aladdin's cave. What a playroom. All this... equipment. Who gets to use this?"
"Just me, and a few select friends."
"What, so they bring their guys here?"
"Right. No. You misunderstand. This is all mine. Everything. I share it, that's what I mean."
"Including him."
"Right. Lube's over there."
I knew where Paul was pointing, even though I was kneeling in front of Rodder licking the shaft of his prick. He was stroking my head. Paul was watching us intently.
Rodder gave my head a push. "Hey slut, lube up for me."
I released him my mouth, reluctantly, and crept over to a table where there were various tubs and tubes of lube. I took a large squish of one on my palm and pushed it into myself. Paul was watching. I returned to Rodder and wiped the remaining gel up and down his prick and over the tip. Rodder exhaled deeply.
"Ok... that's enough. Now..."
Paul intervened, "Right, over here. This is good. Put him in this," he indicated a leather fuck-sling I was used to being fucked in. I stood and sat back into it letting Rodder stand between my legs, spreading and raising them so that his wood bounced above my genitals.
"Right. Tie him," said Paul.
"You wha'?" said Rodder.
"I want to see you tie him. His hands go on those manacles and his ankles there."
Rodder groaned, " Man... like I really want to screw him. He's so fucking hot. Why does he need all this crap? What's the big deal?"
"Right. The deals this, mate. The deals if you want to poke my fucking slave then you do it my way and I want to see it restrained cos when I see you screw it I want to see you screwing it and not some snivelling cunt struggling cos it can't take the strain. I don't want to see you being careful. I want to see you let him have it no holding back. No loveydovey bollocks. Right? So. Fucking tie up the bitch and let's get on. Look, do you honestly never have a struggle?"
Rodder was silent. He looked at me like, for a moment, he was sorry. I never understood. I had my arms and legs up. I was ready. I had my hole pointing up and there was nothing in my mind resisting the invasion of his vicious tool. I looked at it and felt it touch my hole and I wanted it.
I wanted it so much.
So Rodder came round and painstakingly manacled my wrists and legs up into their positions on the fuck-sling, so there was nothing to impede his use of my gaping shitter. I couldn't move around or struggle or anything if, like, I couldn't take it.
His cockhead repeatedly touched me.
"Right."
"Does he need a gag?" asked Rodder.
"Do you usually have to gag them?"
"Sometimes they scream."
"Right? Interesting. So they do resist, sometimes."
"I'm just saying," said Rodder. "If we need to restrain him then perhaps we'd better gag him while we're at it. Just in case."
"Right," said Paul. "Just in case. I see. Well I don't think so cos I'll be at that end won't I and I'll deal with it. Now for fucks sake get on."
So that's when Rodder put it in me.
And I screamed.
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END OF Even The First - PART EIGHT