When my time at the mall was finished, I made a quick exit. Perhaps it is my paranoia, but it seems to me a mall security guard follows me all the way to the highway.
I had survived Master's latest test, neither under arrest or physically harmed.
Master took over my life six months ago after I commented on an online photo he had posted showing a young man, naked other than a studded leather collar. He is kneeling in front of his master, his mouth is open, and he is gratefully gulping down his master's piss.
There were several things I liked about the photo, the prominence of the slave's tits displayed a "worked on" status without any need for piercing. He was shaved, with only the slightest traces of pitt hair and a buzz-cut on his head. Even his legs appeared shaved. And I like the master's attitude^Åhe was looking off to the side, pissing the same as if he was using a urinal instead of a worthless bitch-slave.
After I posted my comment (Something like "wish that were me"), I got an almost immediate e-mail. It came some South Africa (a ".za" extention), a writer identifying himself as Doctor M., and demanded information about myself: "boy, I want to know more about you, and FAST. You have an hour to fill out this form. After that, I block your stupid excuse for a life from my e-mail."
The form was a series of questions, personal intimate questions. How often did I come? Did I drink my own piss? When was my first sexual experience? Did I have a master?
I dropped everything I was doing and spent 45 minutes answering the three dozen questions, realizing that I had an extraordinarily rigid hard-on the entire time.
Finished with the answers, I grabbed a few of my favorite toys, ran to the bathroom, got into my claw-foot tub and covered myself in piss. I pulled on my tit clamps, imagining it was the doctor. A medium sized dildo in my ass substituting for his cock and I was seconds away from shooting.
I scooped up my cum, mixed with the cold piss on my chest, and licked all of it off my hands, telling myself I was under orders. There was no new e-mail for a full three days, and I figured I had failed whatever test he was performing with the questions.
Then came another e-mail with orders. Explicit orders.
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My name from then on was to be shithead. No capital. He was Master or Sir. Nothing else, and NEVER was I to use his full name, which he had included in a signature block in his original e-mail.
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I was to immediately shave off whatever pubic hair I had around my cock and put it into a plastic baggie for safekeeping.
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He had a shopping list for me: get a baby bottle and a pacifier. Find little boy's briefs in my size and buy several pair.
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Mail him a handwritten letter explaining how I would serve him, pledging my subservience^Åinclude my real name and address.
I followed all of his orders, embarrassed at the drug store buying the baby items because the clerks knew me and knew I did not have any children. Following his orders, I opened the bottle once I was back in the car and filled it with piss. Driving home, I sucked on it, drawing the attention of a carload of teens who hooted and hollered at the adult baby next them. I blushed but kept the bottle up, where it could be seen. When the sunlight struck it, they could tell it was either apple juice or urine I was sucking on, and when I ended up stuck next to them at a light, one of them tossed the contents of a cup at my window^Åhe had pissed into the cup. My car had been marked by them, and my only wish was that the window had been open at the time.
Slut that I am, I licked the window clean when I got home.
Inside the house, I placed the baby bottle in the refrigerator in as ordered, and began keeping the pacifier in my mouth, something Master said I was to do for days at a time. It was during this period that I stopped going out much. Master had agreed to allow me to continue working for a certain number of hours each week, and during those hours I was allowed to dress normally and suspend his rules about the baby bottle and pacifier. But other than leaving for work, I was to stay home and wait for e-mail orders, wearing a pair of the little boy undwear I had purchased.I was ordered to wear the same pair untill Master decided I could change them. After two weeks, they showed the results: stains and an odor. Master was insistent that I wear them and only then if someone came to the door. The he started telling me to order things online from sex-toy websites, ordering one item at a time so there would be frequent shipments and frequent reasons for me to be exposed in my little boy briefs and pacifier when the deliveries were made.
I know you will find it hard to believe, but before Master, I never had any kind of anal sex. I was strictly an oral slut. He had me order the series of bright pink butt plugs^Åone at a time, of course^Åand started breaking in my ass. I would have to keep one in for a week, e-mailing him for permission before removing it to crap. Sometimes I thought he was intentionally delaying responding to my request, making me wait more and more painfully for his permission to remove it.
I slipped so easily into slave status that it obviously was something I had been waiting for. Each day I became more and more dependant on Master to make my decisions for me. The huge distance between us geographically wasn't a serious impediment to his mastery over me, but the little bit that is did create vanished one day about a week after the mall training trip when the mall-boy I had given my number to showed up at my door. He had traced my address with the phone number, and stood there looking at me in my little boy outfit, sucking on my pacifier.
"Well, it's good to see you are a consistent perv slut. aren't you going to invite me in, trash?"
To be continued Comments? Bamaboi2serve@charter.net