(These brief stories are short sketches of slaves. My plan is to submit one a week to Nifty for four weeks starting in March 2010. When sketch #4 is posted, I'll ask you to vote on whichever of the four character you liked the most. The story that receives the most votes (presuming there are enough to make it worthwhile) will be turned into a complete story. Enjoy! And PLEASE..DO comment along the way! It is the only real reward we Nifty authors receive. bamaboi2serve@charter.net)
Sketch #1 Gallery Display Slave
I could see only faintly from behind the cum rag that was draped casually over my head. It was an old white bath towel that had been ripped in two. But my other senses were working perfectly, and I could not escape the cum and piss smells that were part of the old towel. Many of the fluids that caused them had come from my own slave body. There were stains of various colors, shapes and sizes. Had it been stretched out on a frame, it might have served as art. But at the moment serving as art was my service.
I stood in a corner on a raised square platform, perfectly still as ordered, trying not to flinch even when a passerby tweaked one of my enlarged slave tits, or sent my abused slave ball swinging by a push of the weights that pulled my slave sack down seven inches below my crotch.
Master had given me his usual very specific instructions, knowing that I would follow them exactly, both because obeying his every whim excited by masochistic nature, and because the price for disobedience or failure was too great to consider. The fact that there was only one ball being stretched was exhibit #1 of the results of failing to obey Him. I had learned that lesson during my training period.
Although I could not see them clearly, I could tell the people in the room were dressed formally, and the clinking of glasses and plates let me know Master was serving food...no doubt very fine gourmet food...at the party.
I was part of his entertainment, a piece of installation art.
At least that's what Master told his guests. Stories like that allowed him to get away with things that would otherwise have had someone calling the police.
In reality, I was, and am, His worthless slave. He does to me what he wants, and I beg for more. I never tire of serving him, and have never said no to Him.
I cringed as someone tweaked both my tits at the same time and spit on my chest. I could feel his saliva drip down toward my completely hairless cock, contained in a shiny metal cock cage, secured with a shiny chrome padlock.
The key to the padlock, I knew, was attached to a chain. One end of the chain was attached to the leather cock ring being worn worn by another slave. The other end of the chain, with the key itself, was inserted several feet into the slave's ass. Master liked to watch me retrieve it with my tongue only, crawling across the floor to present it to him after I had washed it my mouth enough so as not to soil his hand.
Master only freed me from my chastity cage once a month, for milking.
I was standing in a round, three-foot wide corrugated metal container, like a big pie-pan, like a metal pan you might place below a water heater. Every few minutes, one of the men at the party would come by and urinate on me, his piss gathering in the bottom, so I stood in a urinal...was part of that urinal. A small set of three stairs on my side allowed the men to reach a level above me, so as to let their pee hit me on the chest. As intended by Master, the constant pissing and humiliation caused my cock to try to stay very hard, despite the cage enfolding it. That was part of his plan for me, as a piece of living art.
In a bowl on a tall stand next to me were loops of string with fishing weights attached, and guests were encouraged to use special Christmas-ornament like hooks to attach them to my slave cock cage. Some of the guests realized they could also hang some from the open hoop rings on my slave tits. Others discovered the hooks were sharpened, and pierced my skin to hang the weights from random places on my slave body. As the party went on, more and more of the little weights became a part of me as art.
Also on the stand were permanent black markers, and guests had used them to write on me, Some of it was crude graffiti, like the arrows pointing to the large plug in my slave asshole. The phrases "piss boi" and "cunt slave bitch" and "holes for rent" were written across my chest and on my back. Some wrote just single words on my arms and legs. Faggot. Whore. Rentboi. Slut.
Although I could not read the words during the party, I knew what they represented, and they too turned me on, keeping me on display as a slave boi who's cock was fully constrained by his Master, who knew that an erect slave was a contradiction in terms.
The party was a great success.
(Coming up -- Sketch #2: The new slave for training)