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 30
Mitchell was once again showering. That is, he was once again standing in the shower being worshipped by a faggot. The bitch, this time the nearly always-drooling fagboy, was cleansing every inch of his flesh in an act of pure reverence.
Mitchell was always the quietest of the three men in the home. He chuckled softly, knowing it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for. Mitchell had majored in psychology, about to get his Masters degree. Several years had passed since Alexi, Duncan and he had moved into what was once the faggots' home. And it had been wonderful.
Once the fagslaves had been detoothed and further animalized, everything fell into place. Their constant, silent service was a given in the household. The men never had to lower themselves to even think about the slaves; everything was deeply understood by everyone. The men lived their lives and the faggots accommodated their every desire. Everybody was happy.
Mitchell enjoyed using his psychology background to gain insight into the other two men. Duncan was clearly a sadist, getting off on the cruelty he could bestow to the hungry pigs. The crueler he treated them, especially the fagdad, the deeper their hunger grew to grant him his desire.
Alexi, however, didn't feed off cruelty; he simply loved the power and authority given to him. He loved micromanaging every aspect of the fagslaves' lives, stripping them of any authority and power. And as they surrendered more deeply to him, they became increasingly dependent upon his domination, continuously deepening the cycle. It was the psychological equivalent of a self-sustaining machine, amazing to witness even if, to the uninitiated, it was falsely understood as inappropriate or improper. Mitchell observed just how well this worked for everyone involved and recognized that it was far more sustainable than many traditional partnerships.
And then there was Mitchell. Quiet, unassuming Mitchell. Everyone assumed he was merely a sidekick to Duncan, a Robin to his Batman. But that was not the case. Sure, Mitchell enjoyed Duncan's company and they were great friends. But Mitchell didn't need Duncan to have fun.
Mitchell loved being worshiped. He loved being a God to these lowly minions. Sometimes they would revel in the opportunity to lick His filthy feet or his foreskin for hours and hours without complaint. Sometimes they were, as the fagboy was now, turning what might for others be a routine hygienic action into an act of adoration. However it was exercised, their worship turned Him on like mad.
Once soon after moving in, Mitchell had both faggot tongues making tender love to His body; one fagslave was adoring his dirty asshole while the other was reverently licking His rank, sweaty nuts. All the gears in Mitchell's head suddenly clicked into place and He knew what He could and would be forever taking from faggots: their veneration. His cum would be their communion, His piss their baptism. And, from time to time depending upon the circumstances, He would take faggots' financial offerings as well. He was their God. A quiet, confident God whose rarely spoken word made them quiver in apprehension. Whose asshole and crotch were temples of worship; whose sweat was a blessing for a desperate faggot's tongue.
In the house, He spoke only occasionally. And acknowledged one of the faggots even more rarely. He knew from first meeting Ryan that He was at a level far above him. It only took the structure of this amazing household for that understanding to gel into the holy worship Mitchell now silently demanded from the fagslaves. Without ever decreeing it, without ever having to declare "I am your fucking God," it was simply understood. Alexi was obeyed, Duncan was feared. But Mitchell was straightforwardly worshiped and adored.
Alexi was fucking brilliant. Weeks after forbidding the faggots speech, he methodically taught Mitchell and Duncan conversational Russian. After a few months, they were speaking it, although roughly for awhile, whenever in the presence of a faggot. So the bitches never knew what the men were talking about or what was about to happen to the faggots. Living in a constant state of ignorance except what was needed to be told to them. Which was primarily just stating a desire. "I want a soda." "I want a blowjob." "I want to punch some fagnuts." Say it, and it happened. Like fucking magic.
After getting his BS in engineering and chemistry, Duncan worked full-time at a nearby company while continuing his studies. His working knowledge of Russian was very influential in his getting that position. Once there, he found a woman who was his match, both in science and in sadism. The two of them married and (with Alexi's blessing) took the fagdad with them into their home. Over the following years, Mitchell noted the fagdad's ever-deepening transformation into a subhuman beast. Its nipples stretched to nearly two inches from alternating hours of vacuum pumping and hours of weighted clamps. Its nutsack lowered to its knees from constant weights. Its useless prick constantly healing from being cruelly cut or whipped. Its tongue stretched out to more deeply pleasure Duncan's wife. Although it would never speak again, one look at its always-bruised but smiling face left no doubt of its euphoria in its new state. It was, simply, a manimal.
And Alexi had begun looking around for a female slave to own and use with the fagboy. There was no great find yet, but it was clearly only a matter of time. Alexi's easy-going confidence and Eastern European handsomeness always turned heads, both of men and women. The man could, if he were evil, overturn nations or head cults. Fortunately, Alexi wasn't evil; he enjoyed power without abusing it.
But still, Mitchell knew, it was time to move on. As the fagboy adoringly rinsed the shampoo from His hair, massaging His scalp and feeding Him with its energy, Mitchell regretted such experiences with the fagboy would end with this last rite. He wondered if the fagboy even knew. The moving men would arrive later in the week and all his conversation with Alexi on the subject had been in Russian. But, like animals, those who live in such a primal state sense things they have never been told. Mitchell was curious, but not curious enough to acknowledge the presence of the fagbitch that was currently lost in its act of adoration.
Mitchell had engineered His way into the compound and had begun to be a frequent visitor there. He was beginning to understand just what the place was all about. How and why Men used faggots. How they were predators and the faggots merely willing prey, each of them feeding off the other's energy. And how Men and their Cocks were Gods to be worshiped by lowly, pathetic fags. The compound was a temple, a consecrated Church of Cock. And He was among the Gods glorified and prayed to by anonymous tongues of worthless faggots beneath His worth knowing or acknowledging as anything more than that: "faggots."
Mitchell knew there was a full life ahead of Him. Once the shower was over and He was respectfully dried off, He got dressed and left the fagboy for the last time, turning to it and giving it a soft smile that made it fall to its knees, and then finding Alexi in the living room and shaking hands goodbye.
It had been a good life. But for a God, it was about to get even better.