That Slave `Feeling'
A Short Story
By Randall Austin
This story is erotic fiction meant for mature readers and should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. Please do not use my stories without my permission and please forward all comments to randallaustin2011@hotmail.com
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Hi! My name is Pepper, and I was enslaved for life by court order three years ago when I was 25 years old. In my last performance review I was given one of the highest ratings ever received by a domestic slave from the Oklahoma Bureau of Slaves. Therefore the Bureau has asked me to write a brief essay on how I found happiness as a slave and finally achieved that slave `feeling', for use in the Bureau's slave training program. It is the Bureau's and my sincere hope that if you are newly enslaved and reading this for the first time you will find comfort and hope in this brief sharing of my personal journey; a journey from being a rebellious slave to one who eventually found true happiness in serving my masters.
When I was a free man, and used to see slaves bowing and scraping to their masters' every whim, I used to think, `What a miserable lot'. How wrong I was. Of course, slavery can be a miserable existence for one who does not accept it, and who rebels at every turn. But if one does accept one's lot, slavery can be, as I have found out, a glorious and stimulating existence, especially when one finds and learns to accept that "slave feeling".
Out of high school I got a job as a construction site helper, doing general clean up and supplying the carpenters and masons with their needs. I thought it was the good life. I had planned myself to eventually become a carpenter. But for then I was enjoying what I thought was the good life, going out every night, hanging out with friends, drinking, dancing, and picking up chicks.
Through the years I was arrested for a number of minor offenses, usually bar fights, twice for drunken driving. One bar fight night I went too far. The owner ordered me out of the bar after I had provoked a fight. In retaliation I went to the back of the bar, and dumped gasoline along the perimeter of the building. I got into my car, drove past and threw my lighted cigarette into the soaked ground. The fire quickly spread, hit some sodding chemicals, and there was a big explosion. Many people were injured. I was arrested, tried, and sentenced to life enslavement for the common good. I was delivered to the Oklahoma City Slave Training Center for my initial training. Standard slave training at the center takes four months. I soon found out that by doing what I was told to do I could avoid punishment. So I did what I was told to do. But I was not happy. Indeed, on the inside I was seething with bitterness, anger, and resentment.
I found the whole training experience totally humiliating, which I later found out is what it was designed to do. As soon as I was delivered I was taken into a room. Seven slave handler/trainers were there waiting for me. They were in their fancy trainer uniforms. I had to get naked in front of all of them. They then all gathered around me and started taunting me, saying things like, "Well, well, look at the porn star", "Hey naked boy, where are your clothes?", "Hey slave, you ready to do a little work for free?", "Slave boy, you sure look cool, would you like to dance for us?", "What kind of hair cut should we give loser boy?", "You think your girl friend will like your new haircut?", "Are you hungry slave? What would you like on your pizza?", "Want to join us in a six pack, slave?", "What position are you going to use when you fuck your girlfriend tonight?"
After four months of nonstop humiliation, which I bore to avoid the whip and paddle, I was delivered to the auction house. When I was finally put up on the auction block and saw all the free people laughing and joking at the expense of slaves, I didn't think I could get any more depressed or feel any more hopeless.
I was purchased by a Mr. Hubert Parkinson for domestic service. Mr. Parkinson, his wife Imelda, a daughter, Isabelle, of 22, and their sons Tony, 24, and Steven, 18, were used to always having a house slave around, and I replaced their long held, but recently retired slave, Perks.
The entire family, while not vicious or sadistic, were constantly snapping orders at me. If I was too slow or irritated them in some way, they would say things like, "Pepper and father need to have a session together.", or "I can see dad needs to have a serious `talk' with you."
The family monitored my every movement, it was their method of slave control. I was not allowed to have a door to my room, which was really a converted utility room which I shared with the washer and dryer.
Mr. Parkinson always made me bathe with him so I could bathe and groom him, and he could monitor me, and make sure that I washed myself all over. I was constantly treated like a child, considered too stupid to know what was best for me. I no longer felt like a man, but like some total loser who probably was just a stupid kid after all.
One time while I was showering, and Mr. Parkinson was getting dressed in the bathroom so he could supervise me as I washed, as he always did, he ordered me to wash my arm pits more thoroughly than I had just done. I sort of moaned at the order. But that did it. Mr. Parkinson had had enough of my attitude. He pulled me out of the shower dripping wet, gathered my arms behind my back with one of his hands, and with the other he started paddling my ass with the paddle that was always handy for just such a moment. Holding me very secure in a standing position, he paddled my ass the way I knew he had wanted to for a very long time. I was getting spanked like a little kid, but for something not even a teenager would be spanked for. I was getting spanked for not knowing how to wash my myself properly, and expressing annoyance when asked to do a better job. It wasn't like I had taken drugs, or had a car accident. He had every right to treat me like a little kid because I was just a slave. As he spanked me I started to cry out loud. Through the bathroom window I saw Peter Sparrow, a neighbor about my age who often kindly chatted with me, driving off to work, and I felt like a total loser.
As the paddling continued I begged Mr. Parkinson to stop, to please stop, that I would behave. I felt totally miserable. I finally shouted out that I was nothing but a fucking loser. In my despair I said I was going to kill myself. Mr. Parkinson stopped the paddling, spun me around and slapped my face. He said I was not a loser, just a slave like any other slave in need of direction, and for saying that I was a loser the spanking was going to continue for a long time. I pleaded, but as Mr. Parkinson put me back in the secure standing position and resumed the paddling, he told me that it was about time that I accepted my status, that I was not a loser, but a slave. He asked me if I heard. I said, "Yes, I heard you sir. I am not a loser, I am a slave." He then said, "That a boy! Now let me hear you say that again." By this time his sons had gathered outside the bathroom and had opened the door to watch me get it. They were giggling as usual. So totally dejected, fully exposed, getting spanked on the ass like a kid, I said out loud through my tears, once again, "I am not a loser, I am a slave." But as I said that for the second time, something happened to me. I felt like it was so right.
In slave training we are taught that erections occur with some frequency during punishment. But when I said, "I am a slave" the second time, my penis got harder than I can ever remember it getting. When I made eye contact with Mr. Parkinson's two sons as I said that, I could see in their faces that they knew I was finally saying that I was a slave like I believed it.
As Mr. Parkinson continued the spanking, I kept talking out loud through my bawling. "I am not a loser, I am a slave, and I am happy to serve." When Mr. Parkinson started complimenting me and calling me a "good slave", though still spanking me, my penis starting pulsing and throbbing on its own, and as he delivered the final blows I ejaculated a load of cum all over this bathroom floor. I was full of shame and embarrassment, but at the same time it felt so totally wonderful. When the spanking was over, I felt a new strange feeling, and said to Mr. Parkinson and the boys, "Thank you Mr. Parkinson, sir, for the spanking. I am very sorry I have been disobedient. I am going to behave from now on. I am also very sorry that I soiled your bathroom. I will clean it up immediately sir."
Mr. Parkinson was beaming. He said, "Good boy" one more time. I felt truly proud. He said to his boys, "What you have just seen was a very special moment of acceptance for Pepper. I think he's going to be a very good slave from now on, boys." I immediately said, with new tears in my eyes - tears of joy, not of pain and humiliation, "I am determined to serve you well. Please let me know if I displease you. Is there anything I can do to help you boys off to school? Steven, can I gather your books?" Steven was taken aback, he said, "No, that's ok Pepper. But thanks."
I said to Tony, "Tony, sir, can I help you comb your hair for school the way you like it?" Tony was thrilled, "That would be neat Pepper." So Tony came up to the sink, and as I combed out his hair I asked him if he would like me to clean out his room while he was at school. Mr. Parkinson was overjoyed at all of this, smiling and happy to watch me serve master Tony. Tony said the room was ok for now, but maybe it would need a cleaning by the weekend.
When Mr. Parkinson complimented me again I felt a rare magical feeling. I felt good wanting to serve. And I found as I asked if I could do this or do that, I actually got a physical charge of euphoria that coursed through my entire body. As I pomaded Tony's hair I kept asking what more I could do for each of them. And when I asked Steven, who in the past I never liked because he was mean to me, if I could wash and wax his car, I thought I was going to ejaculate again. As I combed Tony's hair into an elegant pomp I never felt happier in my life. There I was totally naked, freshly spanked, serving my family like a good slave at last. I never felt so good in my life. And ever since that day serving my masters has been nothing but pure pleasure.
In fact, during the first few weeks of my new found pleasure in serving I was probably something of a nuisance to the entire Parkinson family as I went continually from one family member to the next asking if I could serve them in any way.
It has often been written and spoken that the only way an enslaved person can accept his status and find that slave `feeling' is through the bull whip. But I am here to tell you, that is not true.
Once you accept your slave status and find that special slave `feeling' that is within you, even your punishments will be experienced in a new light. You no longer see punishment as being humiliated and hurt, but as being molded into something better because your master cares for your well being and continued betterment.
Some scientists have argued that the slave feeling' is related to our sexual identity; some have argued that it is not a sexual phenomenon, but is an emotional issue that in some aspects mimics sexuality; some researchers have argued that the slave feeling' is in fact a primordial instinct; and the most heated debate concerns whether it is a dormant or latent potentiality of the cerebral cortex.
But as slaves, it is not our need to worry about the science behind what makes us what we are. I only mention the arguments out there to let you know that, indeed, there is something in our psyche that knows that slaves will exist in a society, that slaves are integral to humankind, and to help you accept the fact that as a slave you are indeed a part of the Grand Plan.
Some of my most special moments as a slave have come to me, ironically, when I have felt I was being punished unfairly. Young master Steven is sometimes moody, and he often takes his unhappiness out on me. He especially likes to punish me in front of his friends; that is just his style. Situations that in the past I would have considered very unjust and would have depressed me for hours, now give me the highest pleasure. For example, when Steven decides I need to be punished at times when I feel I have in fact been serving him well, the slave feeling at such times is so special and intense as to be almost unbearable, in a most delicious way.
As slaves, if we are ever going to be content, we have to come to the point where we realize that we are slaves and that status is not going to change. We all must come to the point where we accept the fact that we have no say on the matter of our enslavement. Once the state decrees it, we are slaves; it isn't going to change. We might as well accept it. For that acceptance is what makes all the difference. When we do come to the point where we accept the fact that we are slaves, that we have no choice in the matter, and that we have to do what we are told to do from now on and for the rest of our lives, something special happens. That slave feeling begins to take hold of us.
You can let that slave feeling take hold of you, too. By accepting the fact that you are a slave to your very bones, to the very depth of your being, you will eventually feel, I am confident, that rare magic, that tingling ecstasy, that very special feeling that only a slave can feel: that SLAVE FEELING.
The End
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