These short sketches of slaves are being submit once a week to Nifty for five weeks (originally it was 4, but I've expanded it by one). Next week's will be the final one .
When that sketch is posted, I'll ask you to vote on the one you like
the most (some readers have already done so!). The story that receives
the most votes (presuming there are enough to make it worthwhile) will
be turned into a complete story.
(bamaboi2serve@charter.net)
Sketch #1 /nifty/gay/authoritarian/gallery-display-slave Sketch #2 /nifty/gay/authoritarian/training-the-new-slave Sketch #3 /nifty/gay/authoritarian/special-duty-slave
and now, Sketch #4, The Recorder Slave
If I try really, really, hard, I can picture myself from before...a boy of just 22 who had never had the slightest skin problem. No pimples or other troubles...just somewhat dark, beautiful, clear, smooth skin. I was virtually hairless except for my pits, my crotch, and my legs, and even there it was only a light covering of fine black hair. That's common for Asians like myself.
Then my parents got into deep financial trouble. My Dad has borrowed money from a loan-shark, and some thugs came to collect. First they threatened to disfigure my mother, to cut off her breasts or even her ears, and they refused my Father's offer of himself in her place. Then I stumbled into their hands when I returned home that day after classes at the University. They seized on me, saying they would consider the debt paid if I were go agree to go into service to their gang for five years. I readily agreed, despite my parents protests, and I was carried away to the mob bosses enclave.
The very first week, the mob boss had me carried to a nearby business where the gang's symbol was tattooed on my chest, right between my nipples, three inches high and in thick, deep black Chinese characters. Then the nipples were pierced, and thick black metal rings were soon a part of my life. They pulled my nipples downward, stretching them by weight alone.
I quickly found out why I had been accepted as a substitute for my parents debts The gang boss was gay, and my slim, somewhat delicate figure appealed to him. I had always considered myself bisexual, so his demands were not completely foreign to me, and every-time he fucked me or had be rim him or his gang thugs, I remembered it was for my parents. He had me grow the head on my hair very long, and liked me to wear pink or white frilly girls panties and little else inside his compound.
Within just a few months, though, the boss man grew tired of me and started bringing other, fresher boys in for his pleasure.
It was then that he was struck by an inspiration. One night, he had me tied to a St. Andrew's Cross in his bedroom to witness the other boys giving him pleasure. My own cock was locked in a metal cage, preventing me from even growing fully erect. The only time I came was when I had a wet dream at night, a more and more frequent occurrence. But starting that first night on the cross, when Sir fist-fucked a young white boy as I watched, a new routine began.
As the boy was being carried away, the tattoo artist who had marked me with the gang's symbol came in.
From now on, Master told me, the names of each boy Sir used, and their age, was to be tattooed on my body. He had not promised my parents anything other than to return me in five years, so he felt free to use my body as a record of his sexual conquests, or in any other way that pleased him.
The young American was the first: "Bobby, 16", inscribed on my forehead, Two years later he would be back again to serve Master, and that time would be remembered on my right ass cheek as well, as "Bobby 18".
In between there were many dozens of others: Arron 19, and Samuel 20 (a beautiful black youth from Nigeria who Sir allowed me to rim as a birthday present), there were many Asians like myself too, Aakar 24, who later learned to love Sir's piss so much that he went through his inheritance paying Sir for it. There was "Avinash 18" (who was not as his name meant, indestructible) and Rikiya, indeed a strong one. His name and age now graces my right leg in bold red letters.
I became so used to the artisan's needle that I could read as he worked, used to the pain, unconcerned about how my body was being marked.
Once, when Sir had taken in an especially beautiful black-haired Greek boy, he had Demetri 18 needled onto my cock. There was no reading for me that day.
Now and then, when Sir lacked the funds to pay for the tattooist's work, he provide my body in payment. After they had finished the latest inscription, I would be carried to the tattooist's basement playroom, where he and his friends would use increasingly large dildos on me and invent new ways to clamp my no longer tender tits. Only once did Sir complain, when they returned me with my hole gaping wide open from the insertion of a metal baseball bat into my ass. Sir complained that the stretching made it difficult to read the "Edward 17" tat directly above the hole. After that, the tattooist's crew always waited several hours for my ass to close up before carting me back.
At the end of my five years service to Sir, he prepared to return me to my parents. But I was 27 then, my Father had died, and Mother was living with my sister. I saw no reason to expose her to the canvas her only son had become. Instead, I offered to continue servicing Sir. I had no more clear skin to offer him, but my peculiar appearance promised little luck finding a job out in the world. Instead, I became a tool for him to use, to help soften his boys up for their own service, licking them, letting them fuck me endlessly, telling them in great detail about each boy recorded on my skin, letting them read my body, turning them on, preparing them for him to ravage as he desired.