First, the basics. This is, once again, a work of FICTION. Real-life considerations will take a back seat to erotic pleasure and story-telling; this slave, these Masters do not exist. Wanna change that? Or just wanna share comments/praise/criticism? Fine: Not_your_Typical_Master@yahoo.com
Copyright 2012
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The House Fag, Chapter 14
Once I was able to be (painfully) seated on the Stallion, I was apparently now deemed worthy of fucking. As my loneliness and isolation increased, I was beyond grateful to be allowed to have another use to these beautiful Men. I rearranged my schedule to clean myself out during the afternoon while They were out so that I'd be ready for Them if either of Them wished to make use of my faghole.
I was beginning to understand the differences in how each of my Owners enjoyed using Their fagbitch. To Master Thomas, I was just a hole to use to get off. Lord Zachary, however, took sadistic glee in His abuse. When Master Thomas called me to fuck, I was ordered to spread my legs like a whore and use my hands to spread my faggot ass so all He saw was a wide-open faghole gaping open for His use. Lord Zachary more often ordered me down into the basement where He'd tie me into some unbearably painful position, making His fuck even more cruel and brutal, a hellish rape of unbearable agony.
And, of course, this allowed a new depth to Their stoking of my insatiable hunger for Their abuse. Master Thomas would often summon me from my cell and have me stand underneath the mounted wide-screen TV, facing the wall, early in the evening while He watched His favorite shows.
"Spread your legs and buttcheeks, fag. I wanna watch your fagcunt pout and drool for Me all night. Maybe I'll be seduced into fucking it before going to bed." It would just take a couple of minutes before I started to focus completely on my faghole, open, empty and desperate to grab onto Master Thomas' Cock, any Cock, for validation as pure fag fuckmeat. By the time Master Thomas was done for the night, I was nothing but hole, aching to spasm and clench around His idolized Prick. He often stood behind me at that point, teasing my throbbing hole with His finger, as if deciding whether or not I was worth fucking. I couldn't help but sob my overwhelming hunger as I instinctively tried to grab His finger with my desperate faghole. Sometimes He would fuck me, but often He would not, merely dismissing me back into my cell. The frustration was agonizing. I couldn't help but mount the Stallion for hours trying to scratch my unquenchable itch.
One night, Master Thomas got up from His recliner and returned moments later from upstairs. He snapped a photo of His fag in this most depraved and humiliating of positions, hole exposed and pleading to be used. I found a printout of it days later while cleaning. It took my breath away. The many months of near-constant fucking by the Pony and the Stallion had done their job. My faghole, lips wide and swollen, looked like a deformed pussy. I was Master Thomas' true fagcunt.
Every once in a while, my fag cock would be uncaged for these ordeals. I was never granted permission to stroke it; that would be rude and selfish. Even I knew that. Instead, I was being given tacit permission to orgasm like a true whore, just from the pleasure of Their rape's milking of my faggot gland. And these Men did rape. There was nothing subtle, romantic, or caring about Their use of Their faghole. All in, all out, a brutal battery ramming of a faggot-hole for as long as it pleased Them.
These assaults on my innards (both physical and psychological) drove me fucking crazy with lust. If I ever said a word to either of Them while They hammered Their fag, I was immediately kicked or slapped into silence; I was only to moan and whimper my pleasure to Them. My own release of orgasm was of no concern to Them, of course. They might want a quick fag-rape to empty Their sacs, in which case I was locked back up, moaning in desperation. Or They might want to rape Their fag repeatedly for hours, bringing me to edge of cumming time and again. Or They might screw Their fag so hard my faggot balls emptied at some point, but They would continue to use me long and hard for an hour or two, overloading my senses to the point that even pleasure turned to a torment all its own.
And there were many times when, having been displayed and/or fucked for so many hours, Their unyielding Cocks would batter against my stupid bladder, making it seem as if I were cuming with thick streams of piss, leaving a puddle of fag urine on the floor for me to later lick up. Lord Zachary was especially amused by this, demanding He be thanked for allowing the pleasure of a fagcunt's orgasm.
When They were finished, I was commanded to fall flat on the floor and worship my User's toes in gratitude as He emptied His bladder on my head and/or hawked up a massive spitball to toss on the floor. As He sauntered away, basking in His power over His stupid fagslave, I gratefully sucked up the puddle of piss and/or spit from the floor before retreating back into my cell to give payment for the meal I had just been allowed to swallow.
At some point, I'd written a check and offered it to Master Thomas, begging Him to cash it so I could continue to pay for the honor of being Their fag. He laughed, ripping it up and returning it to me. "No need, cuntface. Nothing left in the account."
I gasped in fear. Would I now be denied what was my only source of pleasure?
I guess my emotions were easy to read; the slave I had become had no need to hide any emotions or intent. He shook His head, chuckling. "Listen, fag, this has never been about the money. If it had been, I'd have taken it at the get-go. I just wanted you to feel your life, your being, your sense of who and what you used to be, slowly bleed away into our hands. It was fucking wonderful, dickbreath. And now, after all this time, after all those payments, there's nothing left in there," stabbing His pointer finger deep in my chest, "but us. There's nowhere you'd rather be, nothing you'd rather do, isn't that right, faghole?"
I nodded, head humbly down, tears rolling down my disgusting fag face. This Man, once again, proved to be a fucking genius. He ripped and raped Himself into the depths of my pathetic soul. I was nothing but His. His and His Son's. Their stupid little house fag. I was too stupid to realize what Their future yet held for me.
The worst part of the experience was that once I'd made this realization, Master Thomas seemed to never want to see my faggot face again. I was given a full hood and told to put that on whenever called out of my cell, so my pathetic ugly head was encased in leather, leaving only a mouth faghole for service. The only exception was when Lord Zachary had me on display for His friends' entertainment; then, I was forced to watch my audience's ridicule and disgust. By this time, I'd known my Captors' home well enough to be able to crawl around without vision. But to be denied the vision of these intoxicatingly handsome Men was unbearable.
And of course, They knew it. Their programming of me, clever as always, now included random periods of several moments where repeated screens flashed in front of me, taunting me, training me, teaching me.
I LOVE MY MASTER
And then, Master Thomas' stunning body or his charming smile. Barely recognized before the screen changed again.
I LOVE MY LORD
Lord Zachary's smirking image, seen from the ground look up, staring down at His minion, His body an image of towering strength and power. Gone before it could be savored.
I LOVE MY GODS
A photo of the two of them, sitting together, father and son, Master and Lord. Teasing me with the briefest possible glimpse of the Men I worshipped.
The series repeated over and over for a few brief seconds, filling me with love, fear, and hunger for the Men who owned me. Making my slavedick pulse and leak within its cage. Then gone for an unknowable number of hours or days until the sequence randomly returned. I often stared at the screen etching its programming into my stupid little faggot brain and prayed to be allowed to see Them once again.
One evening while Lord Zachary was out, Master Thomas summoned me from my cell to join Him in the family room. He was reclining in the quiet room. The television was off.
"Thank YOU, so much, Master Thomas, for allowing YOUR fuckup faggot the honor of being with YOU. What can I do to make YOU happy, SIR?"
Master was downright chatty. "You know, fag, one of the cool things about My work is the gifts I'm given for saving someone's home or their life. The city policy is that any cash be used to furnish or maintain the house, but any material goods are shared amongst the shift. One guy, he owns a cigar bar, had a small fire break out from his electrical system. Nothing serious, nobody in any harm. But he was so grateful that we got it taken care of before it got serious, he gave us these." He placed the side of a massive cigar against my neck. "Yeah, fag, I know. It's as close as I'll ever get to being a fag like you, suckin` on one of these babies. It's a double-corona. I know that doesn't mean a damn thing to a dumbfuck fag, but even you can tell it's bigger than most guy's cocks. Not bigger than Mine, though, huh?"
It felt to be almost 8 inches long. I had to agree. "No, Master Thomas. Not nearly as big as YOURS, Sir."
"These, we each got a box of them. Cubans. Partagas Lucitanias'. It's fuckin poetry in smoke, fag. The problem is, though, I don't have an ashtray. And then, I thought, stupid Me. Of course I do. Kneel at My side, fag, while I chill and enjoy."
I knelt there as He lit His gift. The room erupted in tantalizing smells of fruit, earth, and spice. It was a very sensual smoke. I'd never gotten into cigars, but even I could understand this was a gift worth savoring.
He slowly, sensually, sucked air through the cigar into His mouth. I knelt, smelling the smoke and wished I could crawl inside His delicious mouth with it. I'd never been allowed to taste His mouth, of course, but I had no doubt of what it would be like. And now, combining that flavor in my mind with the scents coming from that cigar, I was drooling from every hole I had.
And then, after several minutes, Master Thomas showed me my purpose. "Lift your head up to the ceiling, faggot, and open your suckhole wide." I did and he flicked His cigar into my open hole. I waited for Him to slowly pull back, allowing the ash to dissolve on my faggot tongue, and then swallowed His refuse.
What did I feel? Not humiliated. Not hurt. Only grateful to have another use for the Man I craved so incredibly. I shivered my pleasure and gratitude.
"That's a good little faggot. Enjoy it as much as I do. I'm going to savor this for a good long time, fagface." He wasn't kidding. He let that cigar serve His pleasure for what seemed well over an hour, with His fag gratefully swallowing every flake of its ash. The room was dead quiet, nothing to distract Him from the bliss of His cigar. I could feel the tension melt from His body as it was enveloped in the smoke of His pleasure.
I was mad with desire, fag dick throbbing in its prison, my soul on fire with gratitude for being allowed to spend time in the presence of this stunningly handsome Man (even if I wasn't permitted to see Him) who owned me. I burned with a desire to be used in any way that might suit His whims.
"I want that faghole in two places at once. Crawl between my legs, fagbitch, and bury my meat down your faggot throat for awhile." I whimpered in anticipation as I spun to where He commanded me. Hands obediently behind my back, I swallowed His fuckpole to the base, thinking back to that first time, when such a feat was impossible. I moaned my gratitude for His training, making me a cocksucker worthy (I hoped) of His mammoth prick. His Cock did me the favor of lubricating my suckhole, dried from being Master Thomas' faggot ashtray.
I slowly opened and closed my throat around Him, turning my throat into the kind of pussy Master Thomas loves to fuck. While clenched around His cock, I slowly slid my head back and forth, using my throat to luxuriously jack His meat. I twisted my head to the left and right, letting the ridges in my throat slide back and forth against His pleasure. He moaned His satisfaction.
I'd bring HIm to the edge of orgasm time after time as he wafted in the pleasures of my throat and His cigar. And each time He'd be ready to cum, He pulled my mouth off His cock. "Open wide, faghole, and receive My ash." He'd tap His cigar into my fagmouth. I'd moan in gratitude, savor and swallow His gift, and then return to service His mouth-watering meat once again.
Only after His cigar was a stub so small it became difficult to hold did He demand this deep worship of His flesh to end. He used one hand to hold my stupid skull in place as He silently drained His nuts down my throat. Then, while I was still holding the remnants of His seed in my mouth, He pulled His cock away and tossed in the still-lit remnant of His cigar, allowing it to sizzle with His sperms against my tongue. Holding me still in place, He then aimed His prick, relaxed His bladder and allowed His piss, fresh from His hose, to quell the fire in His fag's mouth. With my mouth exploding from the tastes and sensations overwhelming it, He ordered me back into my cell, savoring and swallowing His dregs, eager to be His ashtray yet again.