First, the disclaimers. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, Copyright 2010. The narrative that follows did not happen to me or to anyone else I know. The characters in the story, like myself, are all of legal age. Don't contact Me to meet these slaves. DO contact Me if you want to become one of these slaves. Also contact me with any praise, criticism, or suggestions. All feedback is good.
Fagboy & Fagdad - Part 25
The fagdad would never have guessed that waiting was the hardest part.
Master and the fagboy were at the mechanic's. Once they left the table, the fagdad had spent the remainder of breakfast worshiping the Sirs' assholes while They ate the rest of Their quiche. They were pretty quiet, not out of any sense of secrecy; it just seemed like they didn't have much to say. And certainly nothing to say to an ass-worshiping fagslave.
Once They left, it cleaned up the kitchen and ate its breakfast of piss and cereal. It was learning to love the flavor of their rank morning piss. While eating, it fantasized about using all three Men's piss as an ingredient in meals made specifically for the fagslaves. Cooking rice in piss, for instance. The thought made its fagdick start to throb against its new cage.
Once the holes in their fagdicks and properly healed, Master purchased more effective devices to prevent hard-ons and ensure chastity for His faggots. It was a complicated device to describe, but essentially the ring in the head of its fagdick was attached to a cockring at the base of its crotch. This meant that for both fagslaves, their fagdicks were stuck wrapping down between and separating their nuts. Any attempt at an erection became incredibly painful, much moreso than the pinpricks by stretching their piercing holes against stationary metal. It also caused any swelling of their dickheads to push against the hard metal edges caressing against them. Very brutal, very cruel, very effective.
After licking its dog bowl clean, the fagdad moved today's laundry into the dryer and crawled into the bathroom to clean out its hole. Once cleaned out, it made the beds of the Men of the house and by then the dryer announced that the Men's clothes were ready to be folded and put away.
It took care of that. It then dusted and cleaned around the house, stopping whenever either of the Sirs called it for urinal duty, to pick up something They dropped, or for any other purpose They might have for it.
But now Their home was clean and there were no more chores for it to do. So it knelt in a corner just outside the Sirs' room and waited to be of use.
And that was the hardest part of being a slave in this wonderful home. Sitting and waiting to be of use. To have no immediate purpose, no immediate reason to be alive. To be empty and hungry, aching to be able to serve some function for its Superiors. Boring? Sure, that too, but more than that was this unendurable void inside it. Unendurable, but the fagslaves endured it because there was no other option.
The fagdad would sometimes cry in this corner if too much time went by. It was doing so now, adding to its misery the shame of not being able to handle the simple curse of idle time. If it were a Man, it could watch TV or read a book. Fagslaves, however, had no need for such things, unless it was to better themselves for their Owners. To read, for example, a cookbook. Or something on how to iron Their clothing. Or how to better service Their cocks. No such book was currently offered. So it knelt, idle, empty, unfulfilled, with quiet tears running down its pathetic face.
Quiet. That was something else that was unexpected.
The faggots were never told they couldn't speak. But somehow they both independently understood that the less said, the better. That a fagslave is seen and not heard. That it was disrespectful to call attention to itself. That nobody fucking cared what a fagslave thought or had to say. They could tell because the Men of the house just acted as if the fagslaves weren't even there, or only there as servants. It's like when a busboy comes to your dinner table to refill your water glasses while you were in the middle of conversation. You continue and not acknowledge him. Except it was like that every hour of every day. Only spoken to when given an order or to explain how that order had been fucked up.
The fagdad had even begun to notice a change in how they were spoken to. Sure, the faggots were often referred to by their labels: the fagboy, the fagdad, or collectively as the fagslaves. But increasingly, they weren't referenced at all. "I want a blowjob." "I want to wear my new blue t-shirt." The Men simply expressed Their desires and it was assumed that one of the fagslaves would take care of it. The Men were equally quiet in their praise. It was getting to the point that the fagdad was craving even the slightest smile or sign of pleasure with its service more than it desired orgasm. And the Men knew it. The smallest indication of Their pleasure, a subtle touch, smile, or wink, would be enough to make the fagdad tremble inside.
This was by no means a complaint. In fact, the fagdad enjoyed the ever-widening separation between itself and its Superiors. This provided a place where it belonged. A place where no Man would ever be.
The fagdad's ears lit upon hearing Sir Mitchell's voice. "I'm going to take a shower." The fagdad quickly cantered into Their bathroom and turned on the water, getting it nice and warm. "Stay in there and lather me up." The fagdad's dick pulsed softly; this was a welcome treat.
Sir Mitchell, still naked from breakfast, walked into the shower while the fagdad knelt in the corner. Once He was under the water spray, it stood up to massage the shampoo into His hair and then to softly scrub soap over every inch of His flesh, reverently cleaning His skin. It acted out of worship as it lathered up Sir Mitchell's arms and armpits and His muscular chest and torso. It knelt to wash His strong legs, His previously tongue-cleaned ass, and His magnificent crotch; its mouth watered at the thought of tongue-washing His beautiful balls and foreskin, but it knew better than to even ask. It gently but thoroughly lavished His feet with tender worship using the washcloth to gently scrub His ankles, soles and between His toes. It then rose to rinse His hair clean and apply conditioner, then slid back down His body to be sure all the body soap was rinsed off. It finally rinsed out the conditioner and turned off the water.
Sir Mitchell remained in the shower as it reached out for a towel and dried Him off in complete servitude. It took its time, making sure His flesh was completely dry, its mouth aching with hunger to taste His flesh. Anything He might want worshiped more intimately.
Once He was satisfied with the dry-off, He walked out without acknowledging the fagdad or the service. The fagdad quietly carried the dirty towel through the closet and into the hamper, its cell before returning to the corner, drip-drying, awaiting any desire either of the Sirs might have. Waiting. Always waiting. It bided its time by staring at the words forever imprinted on its arms. Servitude. Obedience. The words that defined its life.
Eventually Master and the fagboy returned. "I want My feet worshiped," Master simply declared as He entered His home. As soon as He sat at His desk, both faggots slid under the desk to unclothe His feet using only their mouths. They stripped off His socks and began sniffing, sucking, and licking the grime out between His toes as they had been taught. Silent, respectful worship of the Man who owned them. They remained there for hours in constant adoration of their Master. Were they bored? The fagdad would say that the work was boring and tedious, but there was nowhere it would rather be than in service to Master.
The clock chimed six and the fagdad slid out from under Master's feet and looked at His feet quietly. Master looked down at it and agreed. "Start dinner." The fagboy crawled out and the two of them left into the kitchen to prepare a meal for the Men. Sweet and sour meatballs. White rice. Green tea.
The two faggots allowed themselves the opportunity to quietly talk to each other while preparing meals. Not only did it offer them a daily chance to bond, but it added to the structure of the day. Besides, they'd have to talk anyway to coordinate preparations for the meal. The fagboy told it about servicing Men at the garage. The fagdad wished it could have been there as well.
The fagboy also spoke of this compound it kept hearing about. They agreed that it sounded fascinating, but there was no desire to be there. Everything they needed was right here.
There was no dinner bell. The faggots simply had the responsibility to have the food ready at the time they were instructed. At eight o'clock, the Men's plates were served as They walked into the room. The next hour or so was spent in a constant vigil, ensuring that plates and cups were kept full and that no Man had to reach beyond His plate for anything. The Men discussed Their plans for the evening. Sir Mitchell and a biker buddy were going out to a bar. He asked if either Sir Duncan or Master had any plans for the faggots. They both said no. As each Man left, He pissed into the dogbowl and the faggots scraped His plate into the marinade.
Once the last Man finished and His plate was scraped, the faggots split the clean-up duties. The fagdad started cleaning up the kitchen while the fagboy went to the bedrooms and turned down the corners of each of the Men's beds. It also picked up any clothes They left lying around and tossed them into the hamper. The fagboy returned to the kitchen as the fagdad was loading the dishwasher. Once it was loaded and started, they ate their marinated leftovers before crawling to the bathroom to once again clean each other out for use if one of the Men should so choose. Sir Mitchell called into the room. "Both faggots should be done and dressed in 10 minutes. Wear what whores wear."
The fagdad got a little nervous. Sir Mitchell and a biker buddy. A bar. A fagboy in tight leather shorts and a fagdad in stilettos, nylons, and an apron. The permutations sounded interesting, but also scary.