Master Paulus - Part 3 Lessons Learned
By: Christian Xavier Gartrip
(christianxgartrip@gmail.com)
Well, I guess most of you never thought you'd be hearing from me again. Yes? There's actually a good reason for my absence, but I'll save that story for later. In the meantime let me say that I have thoroughly enjoyed the many email inquiries as to my whereabouts and activities with Paulus. Master has read them as well, and he thinks it's ok for me to write again and post the adventures. Good for us, huh? I've also received several emails asking for info on Ben (the "Gentleman, Ben") from a series of stories I posted earlier in the year that detail how I ended up here in the first place. Well, Ben is alive and well and living somewhere in the Midwest doing whatever it is he does to whomever he can lure into his web. I did receive a rather nasty email from him a few weeks ago. He'd heard "thru the grapevine" that I had written about him, so he had read my story. Damn. He certainly didn't care much for it. Apparently I had portrayed him in a somewhat unflattering light (he used the word "beast") and wanted me to retract it from the site. Well, I did point out that I had changed his name, and that I had altered his description a bit so that no one would recognize him, but that didn't satisfy Ben. He called Master and demanded access so that he could "give that little faggot what he's got coming"... or something like that. Fortunately for me, Master refused, which tells you everything you need to know about him. The failure of Ben to recognize the irony of his own statements should also serve to tell you everything you need to know about him. So as I said, Ben is west of here, doing whatever it is he does. God help those poor souls who find themselves with him. Now let's move on.
As I recall, I last told you about my forced encounter with Master and his friend Molly and her cuckold of a husband, Andy. Weren't they a piece of work! I suspect that Master has been with them since then, but I've not seen them, and I am eternally grateful for that small wonder. In fact, I've not been forced to touch a single pussy since that weekend, although I have seen a few from a distance. Don't get me wrong, I've been subjected to quite a bit these past few months, just not that. And as I said, I'm most grateful.
Since I'm using this chapter as a way of playing catch-up, let me try to condense the 6 or 7 weeks that followed that weekend into one basic story. Indulge me and the awkwardness of my narrative, and know that the next chapter will be more in keeping with my previous ones. Trust me, it's for the best.
As the summer progressed and autumn approached, Master chose to focus almost exclusively on my own training as a slave, which was at times grueling and painful and at others, humiliating and monotonous. When it comes to training, Master is himself a slave to habit and rote learning, which is not surprising considering his military background. But for me, well, I'm more of a free spirit, so much of what we did seemed more like lessons from "the school from hell" than weekend Master/slave sexual adventures.
Mostly, it boiled down to a series of lessons that I needed to learn to be a better slave. He never really spelled it out quite that way for me, but it's how I see it as I look back on things. At first, he didn't seem to know what to do with me, and at times, he seemed a bit stumped as to what my role should be in his life. Those ways of thinking changed once he realized that he could actually "break" me and then change my way of thinking about sex and about other men in general. I guess it worked. Anyway, I've subdivided the rest of my piece into sections that detail what I learned and how I learned it. After you read it, you'll be up to speed with how I think, and next time, I'll take you back to my adventures.
Lesson 1: Timing and Grooming. I'm required to arrive at 6pm every Friday night, and I have always been prompt. Master has now taken to standing on the sidewalk, pacing, in anticipation of my arrival. His message is very clear: don't be late. Yep, got it. Even more important is my appearance. To Master, I am a slave and thus unworthy of any manly attributes. So every week I am subjected to what I have come to call the "boyification" ritual. Once Master and I are alone in our room, he spends the first hour or so shaving parts of my body of its hair. Our ritual is for him to cuff my hands behind my back and place me on the large counter next to the sink on the far side of the room. Master then spreads my legs wide apart and lathers my crotch with his minty shaving cream and removes the week's stubble from around my cock and on my ball sac. He never looks at me as he does this. He just focuses on the work at hand as if it's a chore that must be completed, no matter what. Master then places a pillow under the lower part of back and runs his index finger over the outer edges of my "cunt". (Master rarely refers to my asshole as an asshole. To him, it's a cunt. When he does refer to it as an asshole, it's usually in a different context, like when I'm being forced to empty my gut.) Anyway, he hates a hairy cunt, so he carefully shaves away all of the hairs that exist there and then gently drags the tip of his finger all around to check for strays.
To Master, this is not an act of eroticism. He does not display an erection while he's shaving me, and so I'm of course forbidden to display one either. This was a tough lesson to learn. Being handled in such a way is an intensely sensual experience for me, and so naturally an erection was a given. Master keeps a small wooden paddle on the counter, and when he senses even the slightest growth he reaches for it and smacks it quickly across my thighs (a most painful experience) until he's satisfied that my passion has subsided. On one occasion, I just could not control myself.
Master was sweating profusely from the intense summer heat, and he smelled like a Master should smell: raw. Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead and chin onto my stomach and crotch. His musky odor was all around us, and my cock sprung to life almost before I knew what was happening. Master was furious. With his large left hand he held my ankles high above my head so that my ass was hanging just off the edge of the counter. With his right hand he swung the paddle across my ass and then my thighs. It hurt so much. I could feel my flesh burn and the muscles in my back tensed up to the point of spasm as I tried to free myself. Escape was futile and so was relief. My cock just would not go down. Previously, it had only taken a few swats to achieve the correct response, but this time, nothing helped. Angry, he pulled my off the counter and pushed me down on the floor onto my knees. My hands were still cuffed behind me and now Master's boot was on the back of my head forcing my face into the carpet. He dropped the paddle onto the counter and ripped his belt from around his waist with a loud swooshing sound. I knew what would follow. Master has little patience with me when I "stray" (his word), and he lets his rage flow freely when he whips me. On that night he whipped me to the point of tears.
The belt ripped into my flesh again and again as I kneeled at his feet. He said nothing, he did not laugh or taunt me; he just whipped me over and over and over again. "WHAAAP, WHAAAP, WHAAAP, WHAAAP, WHAAAP!" When he tired of one position, he simply shifted himself and started again from another angle. In the distance, I could hear the laughter of the onlookers who watched, mesmerized at his brutality, from the sidewalk through the open window of our motel room. He rarely acknowledges onlookers, choosing instead to use them as a way of humiliating me further. I didn't look up at them, I couldn't, but I knew they were there, and the effect was exactly as he had intended: I was crushed. After the lengthy and particularly lethal whipping, he reached down between my legs from behind and pulled on my now flaccid cock. It had worked. I was soft. I had complied.
Master bent me over the sink and inspected my blistered thighs and cheeks, then pushed my legs apart and carefully finished shaving my cunt. My tears dripped into the sink, and it was all I could do to keep my legs from shaking while he worked. But I was good. I had learned my lesson. Since then, I've managed to keep things soft. I now have a few mental games I play to keep my attention elsewhere. So far, so good.
After the shaving ritual (my chest is basically bare anyway, and my hairy pits don't seem to bother him much), he wipes every inch of my flesh with a hand towel soaked in rubbing alcohol. I honestly don't know why he does this, and I would never ask. I assume he does it as a way of "sterilizing" me. I'm not naturally dirty or sweaty, but he seems to think I need it, so I endure it. Of course, the alcohol usually burns the parts of my body that are freshly shaved, but I've learned to ignore the burning and have actually come to enjoy it a bit. I know... it is kind of weird.
Lesson 2: A Clean Gut. This is off topic, so just go with me here... A decade or so ago, back when I was top, I started seeing a cute little flight attendant who spent weekends with me every so often. We weren't lovers in the traditional sense, but we liked to hook up and play house every few weeks when he had time off. He was wild for cock, so I was more than willing to ride his ass whenever he offered it to me. Anyway, he (like Master, now that I think about it) was very much a creature of habit. So on our weekends together, he'd show up after dinner on Friday and within an hour or so he'd be buck-naked screaming for me to "fuck him hard," and I did. On Saturday afternoon he'd always smoke my pole while I watched TV or read a book, then we'd head out to dinner and a movie. Well, one Saturday night I was wicked-horny (so to speak), and so as soon as we hit the sack, I grabbed his cock and started playing. It didn't take long to get him to respond to me. As I recall, we were whacking each other's cocks with my favorite lube when I suddenly developed an intense desire to fuck his tight little ass just as I had done the night before. Oddly, he seemed reluctant, but I insisted and before he could stop me, I'd forced my greasy pole into his ass. He loved it. He ALWAYS loved it, and he let me know it by blowing a hot load of spunk onto my sheets. Afterwards, we fell asleep, still covered in lube and jizz, sticky and exhausted. When I woke up the next morning, I made my way to the toilet to dump a load of morning piss and that's when I saw it: a heavily shit-stained cock that almost made me gag. (You don't want to know what the sheets looked like.) I jumped in the shower and washed away the stains. Embarrassed for him, I never said anything, but after that weekend, we drifted apart, and I never really regretted it. As a top, I never really understood the whole "enema" thing practiced by the more conscientious bottoms. After that last visit from the flight attendant, I figured it out. Scott (that was his name) and I always showered together on Saturday and Sunday mornings, leaving very little time for him to take care of things. Obviously, a nice pre-arrival cleansing had preceded those hot Friday night fucks. The forced pounding he took on Saturday had exposed the whole "dirty" little secret. Anyway, after that, I was a lot more considerate (and cautious) when attempting to seduce a partner.
So... back to Master. I am now a bottom, and I will probably remain a bottom for the rest of my life. If he has made any permanent change to my psyche, it is this one fact: I crave a good, hard, rough fuck. I crave it like a vampire craves blood. I crave it like an addict craves smack. I crave it so much, that I subject myself to the most obscene abuses and humiliations just to get it. At this point, I'll let pretty much anyone fuck my skanky white ass. Anyone. But what I really crave is the thick fat meat of a dark black Master. For that, I will crawl across broken glass, and every weekend, I nearly do.
Master is a fastidious bastard. He would never tolerate a dirty cunt... and God only knows what he'd do to me if he ever pulled a shit-stained cock from my ass. So he goes to great lengths to ensure that that never happens. Of course, I'm a slave, not a flight attendant, and I never get a chance to take care of things on my own. What I've learned is that Master is not a fan of scat (thank God), but nor is he squeamish about toilet issues like most men. As a career Army vet, I assume he's spent quite a bit of time sitting in a room full of toilets without the benefit of privacy screens. He has no shame in that area. I, on the other hand, do... And he knows it.
Master uses my WASPY shyness to his advantage in this area. I'm still not used to it. After the shaving and cleaning ritual, Master forces water into me through a tube that is attached to a large enema bag hanging from the ceiling of our room. And since the ceiling is covered in s-hooks, he can hang that bag pretty much wherever he wants. Usually, he bends me over a chair or the foot of the bed and fills me with the entire contents of the bag. It hurts. Try it, if you've never done it. Then try holding it for 5 minutes, or 10 minutes, or 30 minutes. I can now hold it for 45.
In the beginning, while holding the water, Master would sit on the couch and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes he would drink a beer or take a shower. Now, he "tests" me. A few weeks into my training, he pulled a belt from the wall and beat me with it. He did this because a small amount of water had leaked out and dripped down the inner part of my leg. That whipping was a slow one. He held the belt like a bullwhip, stood 3 or 4 feet away from me, and then pierced my flesh with it every 15 to 20 seconds to remind me that he was still there... and that far worse would be in store if I let go.
As the weeks progressed, the enema training became a favorite of his. One week, when he was feeling particularly sadistic (for I had done nothing wrong), he lifted my shackled hands above my head and tied them to an s-hook in the ceiling with a piece of rope. He spread my legs about 3 feet apart and attached them to a strip of wood (a 1 x 6 as a recall) with a set of special ankle straps that he'd nailed into the board. I was facing the open window and a small contingency of illegals had gathered to watch. Master filled my gut with warm water and placed a bucket on the on the floor beneath me. This was to taunt me, as I was unable to "squat" to release the liquid, even if I wanted to. To add to the pain, and to prevent an accident, he forced a small fat butt plug into my hole, essentially capping me like a bottle of shaken soda. Master then selected a handful of belts from the wall and spent at least (I kind of lost track) 20 minutes or so whipping me to the cheers of the audience. It was borderline torture. I really did think at one point that I might pass out, or worse. Then, just at the right moment he released me. I dropped to the bucket and forced out a stream of filth with the laughter of the crowd as the soundtrack to my humiliation. Master doubled over with laughter then shooed away the onlookers before forcing me to walk the bucket to the other side of the parking lot (nude, always nude) to empty it into the shrubbery.
With rare exception, Master always cleans me before he mounts me. The cunt must be clean. The cunt must be fresh.
Master also knows that his own bathroom habits embarrass me. Or maybe, he just fails to see the problem with his own lack of shame. Either way, he senses my discomfort and uses it to remind me of how much control he actually has over me. Master is the "regular" type, meaning that he has a schedule for toilet visits and rarely varies from it. On Saturday mornings, he takes a quick shit then a quick shower, and then we're off to whatever he has planned for me in the motel. Sundays require a much longer trip to the john, and he usually spends a good half hour sitting on the toilet, complete with coffee and newspaper. It's repulsive. Fortunately, it's not sexual, so although I'm usually tied up somewhere nearby, watching the whole thing, I'm never forced to suck his cock or anything while he takes a crap (thank God for small favors, huh?).
That part I've actually learned to handle. The problem has been (as some of you know from my previous stories) my own horror over how he controls my own bathroom behavior. After a good fucking, I usually feel the need to squeeze out the lube and jizz and backwash from the enemas (those of you who are natural bottoms will know what I mean by enema backwash). Master usually forces me to hold it in until he sees fit to let me release it (his timetable, never mine). That's bad enough, but I'm not allowed to use a conventional toilet when I'm with him. I have a bucket if I'm lucky, and if I'm not, I'm dragged outside and forced to squat in the grass of a nearby clearing. It's pretty much whatever suits him, not me. In addition, he is ALWAYS there to watch, which I absolutely can't stand the thought of, and only he is allowed to clean me when I'm done... the ultimate humiliation.
I'm now comfortable with the shaving and the open windows (well, sort of) and the whippings (most of the time). I'm even tolerant of being forced to sit by and watch him relax his way through his own bowel movements, but I still cannot SHIT on command the way he wants me to. I just can't. So for weeks and months I have had to hang there or kneel there or sit there or lay there as I endure addition whippings and beatings for being unable to shit when he demands it. Master seems to know that this is a major stumbling block for me, so he continues to display a moderate amount of tolerance in this area. I just don't know how much longer I can endure the humiliation, and I really fear the day when he finally gives up and finally lets me have it for failing him.
Lesson 3: Getting Fucked Is Not An Option. Being a slave means being a lot of things, enduring a lot of things. But for anyone who thinks otherwise, a slave's primary purpose is to serve as the receptacle for the Master's cock, and sometimes for the cocks of the Master's friends and associates. A slave cannot say 'no' when the Master wants to fuck his ass (or cunt). He can't simply rollover and say, sorry, I don't feel like being fucked, how about a nice blowjob instead. Saying that kind of thing to a Master will always result in a beating, if not worse. Fortunately, I learned quickly to love being fucked. I do. I really love to be fucked, and at this point, I don't even question my reasons anymore. Just know that I love it so much, that I will do anything to get it, especially if it means getting it from my Master. Having his cock in my ass is the only thing I actually live for these days. It is the one singular source of my self-worth. Of course, Master knows this, and it pleases him, but his mission is not to give me pleasure. His mission is to take his pleasure from me. He fucks my cunt whenever he wants, and I have no say in the matter. He fucks me on the bed, on the floor, bent over the sink, bent over a chair, chained to a wall. He fucks me in the morning when I wake up. He fucks me in the middle of the night while I'm sleeping. I have never refused him. I'm not allowed to.
When our "relationship" first started, he ignored the constant erections his fucking gave me. I'm not even sure he noticed them. To be honest, I think he's primary straight, with sadistic, bisexual tendencies. So my cock has never really been a focus for him. However, as we progress, my erections have become a bigger problem for him. From the beginning, he has controlled my orgasms. I am not allowed to cum unless he deems it for me. Usually he doesn't. In fact, it's not uncommon for me to spend at entire weekend with him and not cum a single time. Cumming is primarily the job of the Master, never the slave. If I do cum, he whips me, even if it's in my sleep. I don't cum anymore.
To rid me of my unwanted erections, Master spent several weekends fucking me with his cock and with a series of vibrating dildos and butt plugs. Master doesn't usually like a "long fuck." He prefers to get in, fuck me hard, deep, and fast, blow a load into my gut, and then get out. Of course, he fucks me several times a day, so it balances out I guess. These intense fuckings always gave me an erection. It's only natural, right?
Well, at some point, Master developed a distaste for this display of masculinity. It happened in early September. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was bent over the back of chair in room 12 of his motel. I was being fucked hard by my Master, unusually hard in fact. He seemed angry, but I didn't know why... not that it mattered. Master had his hands on my shoulders while he rammed his cock into my cunt. He shifted his hands to my hips and discovered my dripping boner slapping against the back of the chair to the rhythm of his assault. He didn't like it. He pulled out of me suddenly and spun me around to see it for himself. "What the fuck!?!" he bellowed. "What the FUCK is that? Who gave you permission to ENJOY anything? HUH? WHO?" I didn't know what to say, so I just looked down at the carpet.
Master grabbed my hair and pushed my head down onto the bed with my ass in the air. He slapped it with his open palm several times. "You DO NOT HAVE MY PERMISSION TO ENJOY ANYTHING! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?" I said nothing. My cock said everything.
He ripped a large paddle from the wall and planted it firmly on the center of my ass. "WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!"
"You're gonna learn RIGHT NOW that I don't ever want to see that again. You got it? HUH? ANSWER ME!!! WHACKWHACK!"
"yes sir"
"WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHACKWHACK!"
"yes sir, yes sir"
Master's pants were around his knees (he rarely fucks me while he's completely naked), so he pulled them up, opened the door to the room and left me spread eagle on the edge of the bed. When he returned, he was carrying a motel-issued bucket filled with ice cubes. He shoved 3 or 4 of them into my cunt and then beat my ass a few more times for good measure. He dropped his trousers and forced his hard cock back into me. My cunt was numb. I could feel his hips slamming into mine, but I could no longer feel that fantastic black cock as it ripped into me. My erection subsided. After he came, he pulled out and forced his greasy cock into my mouth. After his erection subsided, he let loose his urine for me to swallow. For the next hour, I sat on my knees in the middle of the room as the ice cubes melted from the heat of my rectum and mixed with the load he'd left there. His message was clear: I was now forbidden to display any outward signs of pleasure while being fucked. I got the message, but it was hard to internalize.
For the rest of weekend and for all of the following weekend, Master fucked me every few hours. When he wasn't fucking me with his cock, he was fucking me with one of his many plastic substitutes. He paid close attention to my crotch and at the first sign of an erection, he would pound my ass and thighs with a series of quick slaps with a belt or paddle. The ice cube therapy was a constant tool as well. I don't really know why he felt the need to beat this behavior out of me, but he did, and ultimately I have complied.
Now, when he fucks me, my soft cock hangs freely, and is unmoved by his actions. To be safe, he now keeps a rather thick strap nearby and within eyesight as a warning to me. I got the message.
Lesson 4: His Pleasure, My Pain. I was a typical kid. I was not a bad kid, but I did do typically bad things on occasion. My father was a strict disciplinarian, and punishment was a constant. Specifically, my father believed in "whuppin's." I got lots of whuppin's. To dad, a whuppin' was a very specific activity that never varied. When I misbehaved, I was snatched up and sent to my room. After a few minutes my father would come in and command me to "stand up, drop your pants, and bend over the bed." There was no argument or discussion. If so, the punishment was worse. After I was in position, with my pants and underpants around my ankles, my father would pace back and forth across the room behind me as he lectured me on why my behavior was unacceptable. Then I would hear the familiar sound of his metal belt buckle followed by the swooshing sound of the leather as he ripped it from his trousers. He would then stand behind me, just to the right of my exposed buttocks, and whip my ass until he felt satisfied. The punishment was typically 5 good lashings, but if I squirmed or resisted, I would receive 10. Usually, I got 10.
My father is dead now, he was a good man and he loved his children. I never ever got the impression that this was in any way sexual. It was just his way of punishing us. He learned it from his father, and he used it on us as well. I suppose if I'd been straight, and had had kids of my own, I'd do the same thing.
Looking back, I received no sexual pleasure from it, and I've mostly forgotten about it as I've grown up. But being a slave has now brought it all back, and when I think about those "whuppin's," I find the memory of them oddly erotic. Don't get me wrong, they hurt like hell, but now the memory of them makes me hard. During the week, when I'm safely in my apartment and away from my Master, I will often close my eyes and lower my pants and underpants and bend over the edge of my bed. I then take one of my belts and place it under my nose and inhale the odor of the leather. Doing this makes me hard. I imagine my father behind me, whuppin' my naked ass just as he did when I was a young boy. I then gently reach down and rub the head of my erect cock with my fingertips. After a few minutes my legs will go numb as the rush of imaginary pain makes its way through the lower half of my body. The cum starts to drip from the tip of my cock as the memory of my father's belt crashing against my flesh fills my head. I rub the moisture into the shaft and gently masturbate to the rhythm of my father's whuppin'. When I cum, I explode onto the floor just as my father finishes teaching me a lesson. Usually I drop to my knees and lick the floor clean of my jizz. When I'm done, I feel ashamed, and sometimes I curl up in my bed and cry myself to sleep with the taste of fresh cum on my tongue.
So why do I tell you this? Because to most people (normal people) pleasure and pain are opposite sensations, but to a slave, the line is permanently blurred. A Master receives pleasure from inflicting pain onto his slave. He is a sadist. For me, real pleasure is denied. At some point, the slave learns that pain and humiliation are the only sensations he will ever experience. As he learns to associate the pleasure that his Master receives from the pain he inflicts on his slave, he internalizes the association and begins to derive pleasure himself. I know this to be true because it has happened to me.
Master has denied me any of the traditional pleasures I once associated with sex. Being fucked and being whipped are one and the same to me now. Master uses them interchangeably, receiving an equal amount of pleasure from both. So do I, but for me, the pleasure is delayed. When I am alone, and I need to cum, I can only do so by imagining myself as the victim of my Master or of my father or of the handsome stranger I saw at the grocery store who serves as a fantasy later that night while I masturbate in my apartment. It is all I know.
Master enjoys the act of whipping me. He likes to act as if it's a burden or an unintended consequence, but I know that this is not true. He has amassed a sizable collection of belts, whips, and paddles or all shapes and sizes. He displays them on the wall next to the door of our motel room as if they are art to be admired. Sometimes, I see him admiring the collection when we are alone. He studies them, touches them, loves them, values them. They are his most important possession. Sometimes, when he has me working in the motel (I clean toilets on most Saturdays after checkout), he will find me on my knees in a random bathroom, bleaching grout or wiping dried piss off of the floor. When I look up and see him I know why he's there: He needs to whip me.
When I clean for him, I wear a dog collar that has a chain attached to it. When he finds me, he snatches the chain and jerks me across the floor and onto the bed of the room I'm in. Sometimes, if the bathroom is particularly filthy, and I've not yet finished cleaning the toilet, he will rip off my clothing (usually a white t-shirt and tight short-shorts) and then force me to bend over the toilet with my face in the bowl. Although I've done nothing wrong, he will spread my legs and unleash one of his many belts or paddles onto my ass just for the shear pleasure of it. If I'm not completely naked, he will at least pull down my pants so that my bottom is exposed. He would never whip me any other way.
These types of whippings don't usually lead to a sex act, but sometimes, if the whipping is particularly intense and lengthy, I know that a hard fuck is soon to follow. On these occasions, he seems to use the whipping as a substitute for masturbation. I think that whipping my ass in these situations gives him a raging hard on. Usually he can walk away, but sometimes he can't stop beating me as the blood rushes into his cock and his cock pushes against his trousers. It's as if his cock actually feels the inside of my cunt as his arm slams the belt against my raw white flesh. When that happens, he loses control and must complete the sex act with an actual cunt-fucking. He will then quickly unfasten his pants and release his black cock against my ass. There is no lube, no spit, no finger. He just aims his dark dry pole at my cunt and rams it into my gut. Usually he places his hand over my mouth because he knows that the force of the fuck will make me scream. He's right of course. I do scream, but it only makes his assault more violent. He likes it that way. I guess I do too. His breathing is unusually intense when he fucks me like this. He keeps me pulled close to him and he never removes his hand from my mouth until he has been completely satisfied. When he's done (the whole act usually lasts no more that a minute or two) he pulls out of me and tucks his cock into his pants as he walks away. "Get back to work" is usually the only thing I ever hear him say.
This is what fucking is to me now. I must always be ready to be fucked, sometimes violently, and often the fucking and the whipping are simply two different parts of the same whole. They are interchangeable, and always will be, and I guess I've grown to like it that way.
Lesson 5: There Will Be Voyeurs. Or, Life With Many Masters. My servitude is not a private affair. This, perhaps, has been the hardest thing for me to endure. Taking a shit on command is one thing, but living with the constant fear of public exposure is quite another. No, you won't find me on the internet, (not in video form anyway), but I fear that you might one day soon. Life in room 12 at Master's motel (he owns it but has a few silent partners I'll introduce you to in a later chapter) is a nonstop video all on its own. Our room has one large window overlooking the sidewalk and Master likes to leave the curtains open, and when it's particularly hot, he'll open the window and even the door if he feels it necessary. Our motel is not a typical tourist stop. It's rundown and not listed on the standard hotel-finder websites used by travelers. The "guests" are usually illegal immigrants, migrant workers, independent minded whores (pimps aren't allowed on the premises), and a constant stream of aging truckers who prefer a bed to the back of their cabs. Yep, nice people need not apply. Master bought the place a decade or so ago with a few friends from a national chain that was selling off some of its older properties. Master lives in the apartment at the front of the motel and serves as the manager. He rarely leaves.
Since the place is overrun with ne'er-do-wells of all stripes, the occupants and regulars pretty much do whatever they want and accept whatever they see: the ultimate example of the "alternative lifestyle" mindset, writ large. Master has no shame, as you know, so he never really tries to hide our activities from the masses. Of course, most of the folks ignore us just as we ignore them, but some of them really seem to enjoy the "show." The men in particular (mostly foreigners from Mexico and Africa) like to gather around the window when Master leaves it open and watch as I'm whipped or beaten. Master doesn't typically leave the drapes open when HE'S naked or when he's enjoying a particularly rough fuck, but he loves to let the neighbors watch me as he whips me for failing to live up to his expectations. Fortunately, they fear him as much as I do, so they leave me alone when I'm by myself. He holds them in contempt for the most part, so he never really shares me with them or anything. But he likes the whores, and in exchange for protecting them, he gets to fuck them whenever he wants, and sometimes I'm forced to watch. I hate that part.
I don't care anymore about the Sudanese teenagers who wander the parking lots or the Mexican men who rub their crotches on the sidewalk. I've even come to accept the whores who spread their legs and grin at me as my Master fucks and eats their cunts and tweaks their saggy titties. My fears stem from the random strangers from town who find their way onto the property in search of a good time or a quick high. I work at the local college (administration, not teaching), and I KNOW that it's only a matter of time before some frat boy wanders by in search of a cheap fuck and spots me or my car. When that happens, my life will be over. I know it's coming. I just don't know when.
The other problem is that to Master, I am nothing more than property. Valued property I assume, but property nonetheless. As such, he has no problem sharing me as if I were a hammer from his old toolbox or a cup of sugar from his pantry. So far, this type of thing has been rare, but alas, I know that that will change as well.
Being a slave means always doing exactly as your told. If I'm ordered to bend over and take some stranger's cock up my ass, I'm bound to do so. If I'm dragged out to the parking lot and forced to drink some teenager's piss, then I will have no choice but to do it. And if I'm forced to stand, spread eagle, in the middle of the room, completely naked, while my 60 year old black Master whips my 40 year old white ass as 6 strangers stand on the sidewalk laughing at me... well, you get the picture. It's been tough, and I'm still learning to accept it as "non-negotiable".
It's easy for me for now, because as a slave I have no name, no voice, no identity. I can endure it within the context of the motel's environment. The bigger fear comes during the week when I'm at the grocery store, the mall, or the gas station. Have I been recognized? Will I be? "When," seems to be the only legitimate question.
Lesson 6: "Extreme" Will Always Be Redefined. On one level, I have accepted my new life as a slave. I don't crave the company of other men as I once did. I am not a top anymore. During the week, I work, go home, and wait patiently for Friday and another weekend with Master. Mostly, I am alone, and I like it that way.
On the other hand, I live a life with a Master who is still testing me. Every weekend brings new challenges for me, and new tests that I must pass. The whippings are more frequent and more brutal. The fuckings are more intense and more numerous. The pain is more constant. Hell, my cunt hasn't been lubed in weeks. All of my fuckings are now dry. He doesn't even spit on his cock anymore, and I've stopped expecting him to.
I know that at some point, he will reach his peak, but I don't know what that world will look like at this point, and that is what scares me. When we first started, Master would tie me to the bed at night while he slept elsewhere. Now, he sleeps in room 12 when I'm there, and I sleep on a small foam square that he places on the floor. I sleep nude of course, without a blanket or a sheet, and at least one of my limbs is cuffed to the foot of the bed so that I cannot wander off or visit the toilet. He has placed a large dog cage in the corner of our room and I spend time in it during the day when he's busy elsewhere or when he's entertaining one of his whores. I know that at some point, I'll be forced to sleep there as well. It's only a matter of time.
As for my toilet: I once had a bucket that he kept in the closet across from his bathroom that I would use when he needed me to shit for him. Now, the closet is empty and my bucket is kept suspended from the ceiling on one of the many s-hooks that he has installed. When he needs to clean my gut or wants me to take a shit, he takes down the bucket and places it wherever he pleases and forces me to use it there. Of course, the bucket itself has become at times a luxury.
One weekend we never used it at all. Instead, every few hours, he would lead me to the nearby field next to the motel like a dog being walked by his owner. I spent the entire weekend "making business" in the grass or next to a tree or a bush. He kept my enema bag hanging on a tree limb that weekend, and on several occasions you could find me bent over at the waist with my arms wrapped around the front of a tree, cuffed into place, holding the water that he'd force into my bowels. Fortunately, it was a one-time-thing, and my time spent shitting in the grass is still somewhat of a rarity.
A Few Final Thoughts: I've no idea what the future holds for me. I know that I am doing things today that I never knew anyone ever did or could do. I also know that I like being a slave, and at times I take pride in the fact that I can endure the many things he does to me. I know that when I am with him, I no longer feel human at times, and I'm ok with that. Does he have a limit? Do I? I don't know. I assume we'll find out together.
So I guess this chapter has served to answer some of the many questions I've received over the past few months. It by no means answers everything, and I will continue to post chapters telling you of our weekends together. I can tell you that I have left the college and have secured other, more suitable, employment. I have also moved into a smaller apartment in another part of town. Master chose the apartment for me and selected the items from my old place that I could take with me. We still see each other only on the weekends, but now my life away from him is more in keeping with the kind of life a slave should want for himself. I don't mean to be cryptic, but I will explain the details of all of this in a few weeks. All of the above "Lessons" were taught and explored in August and September. This past October marked a bit of a turning point for us, so I will use the next few chapters to share the specifics of that part of my story.
CXG