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 16
Then there was the softball game.
Lord Zachary called me out of the cell to tongue-clean between His toes as He called up His Friends to invite Them over for a softball game. I was too stupid to do the math, I guess. Four isn't enough for traditional softball. Once everyone had arrived, we all went down to the basement. I knew then this was going to be another game where there was only one loser: me.
Lord Zachary drew two chalk lines on the floor, several feet apart. "Fag, put your feet outside these lines." I obeyed. He then tied my hands together in front of me with rope, pulled the rope over the high metal bar, and back down. He put clamps on my nipples and tied the chain of the clamps to the rope. If I relaxed my arms, their weight would amplify the clamps' bite and pull on my tender tits. He then roped off my nuts together, looping the cord a few times to pull them away from my body.
"OK, softball. One at a time, we each get to roll two dice. The guy who rolled then gets that many swings at your fucking balls with this bat. If your feet ever slide inside the lines, then he gets to advance to the next round. The winner is the one still swinging when everyone else has finished without you pulling your legs together."
I was already tearing up just from the explanation. A new depth in agony was awaiting me. Lord Zachary's sadism had reached new levels of cruelty. "Thank You, Lord Zachary, for Your attention to a dumbfuck fagslave, Sir." The Boys all snickered, knowing how much fun would be had at my fucking expense.
Josh rolled first. "An eight. OK, give me that bat. Let's make this fuckwad howl."
And howl I did. With the very first strike. I screamed in agony, but braced my knees and thighs in place, refusing to pull my legs together, instead holding them apart, inviting the next assault.
"Beg Me, fagbitch."
"Please, Sir, please hit me again with the bat." It was sincere. More than anything else in the fucking world, I wanted this agony to end. Seven more strokes. Please.
But, instead, he taunted me. He aimed squarely toward my balls, swung and stopped millimeters away from the strike. I'd sucked in my abs, straining against the blow that didn't come. Instead came the humiliation of four young Boys laughing Their heads off at my desperation.
"PLEASE, SIR, PLEASE HIT ME AGAIN, SIR!!" I never wanted anything more in my desperate fucking life. And as Josh casually appeared to turn away, he quickly rammed the head of the bat into my distended nuts. I never saw it coming. "OOF." Unprepared, my thighs defensively mashed together, cradling my nutsack and pulling my ankles across the lines. I screamed in agony and despair, knowing this game might never end. The Boys were in hysterics, laughing at the futility of my effort. "I decided to bunt," Josh smirked.
I was used this way for hours. The roll of the dice became totally unnecessary. They just took turns swinging the bat at my swollen nuts, watching me try to keep my faggot nads available for the next gut-wrenching swing. Eventually, Master Thomas came down. "What the fuck's going on down here?", more curious than angry. Lord Zachary explained Their new game. Master Thomas shot back upstairs and came back down, moments later, with my leather hood in His hand.
"I have a better idea, Zach. Is there a chair down here somewhere?" There wasn't, so He approached the footstool and pulled off His shorts. He sat on the footstool and spread His meaty, hairy thighs, centering everyone's attention on his magnificent Cock. The footstool suddenly became His throne. The Boys didn't say a fucking word, and that said a lot about how impressive His Prick was. "Pull the fag down and put its hood back on it. I don't want to look at its ugly face." Lord Zachary untied me and I fell, sobbing, onto the floor. With my hands still bound together, I awkwardly crawled to Master Thomas. "Thank YOU, Master Thomas, so much, for YOUR mercy . . . "
"Shut the fuck up, fag, and wrap your faggot mouth around my prick." I did, moaning as I relished His flavor. "On all fours like the dog you are, fag. Arms straight down. Legs spread nice and wide. That's a good fag. Great. Now, you boys still get to play. Use the bat on its nuts. The game ends when I cum, in which case the fag wins and the batting practice stops, or when it offends me by either biting into my cock or letting it escape its cocksucking lips. In that case, you boys can tie it back up, ankles tied spread apart, and enjoy yourselves all day and night." I felt Master Thomas' legs slide between mine, making sure they spread wide to give the Boys ample room to swing at my defenseless balls.
Oh, fuck, no. I needed to focus on Master's Cock as my nuts were being pummeled over and over again. Bring Him to orgasm, which often takes hours, or else just endure my balls being hammered for even MORE hours. My choice was to accomplish the impossible or face the unbearable. I sobbed and collapsed my throat against His meat.
"Oh, yeah, just like that, fag. Have at it, kids!"
I have no idea who pounded my nuts next. I screamed into Master Thomas' sacred Cock, vibrating my vocal cords against Its girth.
"Shit, that feels good. We should have done this a long time ago." Another swing against my faggot balls. Another scream into Master's Meat. Another sigh of His pleasure.
I was learning my true place. Worshipping my Master's cock while screaming from my Lord's torturous attention. The ultimate in servitude. A laughable fagwhore existing simply for the entertainment of Others. "Whad'ya know, boys: the best blowjob on the fucking planet is from a screaming fagbitch." I moaned again, cringing at His praise, and then wailed once more into His God-like Cock as the next swing made contact.
After unknowable, unbearable hours, Master Thomas finally gripped my skull and pulled my head even deeper into His pubes, emptying Himself into my grateful faggot throat. The Boys were silent, in awe of His strength and domination. In that moment Master Thomas' potent power ruled the room. Once He finished draining Himself, he pulled Me off His cock, slapped Me hard across my offensive faggot face, grabbed his shorts and wordlessly climbed back upstairs. He didn't say a fucking word. Nobody did. Everyone was simply awed into silence.
I didn't know it then, but that marked a change in how I was to be used. I accepted Master Thomas' praise, eager to be of His further use at the expense of my own agony. From that night on, whenever He wished to cum, I would be tortured while sucking His awesome Meat. He would enjoy punching my fag-nuts, providing me the near exact physical location of agony to which I was giving Him pleasure. Reinforcing the difference between Men like Him and fags like me.
And although I had officially won the softball game, Lord Zachary's sadistic games continued on many other occasions. I was often ordered into the basement and machine-fucked for hours. Again, whether or not I orgasmed wasn't important; all that was needed was an open display of my misery for His entertainment. He'd often invite His Friends over to watch and shake Their heads, wondering what idiotic, repulsive fagwhore would allow a mere kid to do this to him. Sometimes He'd just toss the Pony to me, unbound, ordering me to fuck myself to orgasm without touching my prick while They all watched and laughed at the dumbfuck fag trying to get off. One particular time, one of Lord Zachary's Friends decided to help "inspire" me by jacking off on my face. Cody didn't want a "degenerate queer" touching His prick. I wasn't allowed to even open my mouth to swallow His seed. Once His cum splattered against my face, all the Boys used my face as a cumrag
while I was fucking myself into a frenzy with the Pony. It was horrible witnessing all these Kids jerking off over and over, feeling Their loads splatter my face, while my own fagdick, hovering on the verge of cumming for hours, was off-limits to my own touch. I was thereafter routinely used as a bukkake fagrag by Lord Zachary's Buddies, marked by Their seed which I was forced to keep on my face, drying and dripping.
Another time, They spent the afternoon drinking beers and pissing into a plastic gallon jug while I was impaled on the Pony machine-fucking my faggot ass. They then hung the full jug from my fag-nuts and produced a long thin plastic tube from which I was told to suck down Their urine. I would be let down when the jug was empty. Yeah, except They ran a second tube from my faggot cock (or, as Lord Zachary enjoyed referring to it, my deformed fagclit) back into the jug. I was forced to try to hold in up to a gallon of piss in my guts and bladder without refilling the jug. It was a frustrating, agonizing, exhausting day as I repeatedly failed to hold back the rising tide and forced myself to recycle Their boypiss. Each hour the taste was more bitter, more toxic, and yet I had no choice but to keep trying to please Them as They snickered and howled at my desperate failures until my pathetic moaning and sobbing eventually bored them.
The following night, Lord Zachary called me back down into the basement. He tied me in place, spread whorishly over the footstool, legs spread, fuckhole exposed. He put a gas mask over my head. He'd modified the gallon jug of rank recycled piss so that long narrow plastic tube now went from a small hole in the handle deep into the depths of pee. He then sealed the inflow filter from the gas mask to the lid of the jug. As I inhaled from the remaining air in the jug, I would be pulling air in through the straw, through the quarts of stale concentrated urine. Every breath I took stank of condensed boypiss. Lord Zachary then called His Tribe of adolescent buds over for a fun evening with the fag.
Once they all arrived, He unzipped, took out and stroked His cock, and unceremoniously started fucking Me atop the footstool.
"Jesus, Zach, you fuck that thing? Are you gay?"
"Fuck no, Chet. Turn on the Blue-ray I brought down today, huh?" Chet flicked the remote and now, in front of Lord Zachary's and the Boys' faces was a video of some woman getting screwed hard. Lord Zachary started timing His thrusts so that the bitch on screen and the fag in person moaned in unison. The Boys started to laugh.
"Hey, Alan, you see that small brown bottle on the floor? Pour that into the piss jug through the tube, ok?" Oh, shit. Poppers. With every breath, concentrated piss and poppers. I started moaning even louder, my stupid fag prick shimmying with every thrust of Lord Zachary's incredible Cock.
It was only a few minutes until my fag dick was spasming a load of fag cum down the side of the stool and onto the unfinished floor. More snickers and laughter from the Tribe of Boys. But it was enough to bring Lord Zachary to orgasm and He flung Himself over and over against my body, giving me shivers from my faghole and from my spasming fag prick. "Who's next? Anybody want to shoot a load up our whore?"
I thought the Boys would be bashful, but no such luck. Maybe it was They were used to seeing how a stupid fag could entertain Men. Maybe it was the pure aggression of Lord Zachary's rape that made it clear there was nothing "queer" about Him. Or maybe that aggression pressured Them into feeling They'd be less manly if They didn't rape my hole. Whatever the reason, I was fucked over and over and over. Each boy would only last for a few minutes before shooting, but They kept coming back for more. And in my poppered state, I kept cumming as well. The sensitivity kept growing and growing and soon my sorry slavedick was just in a constant drool of fagcum. I knew better than to make any noise save depraved moans and groans, but inside I was screaming from the overload of sensations from every inch of my flesh. I never knew orgasms could be such torture. And with such randy Boys, a never-ending torture. I cannot tell you how many loads were sprayed
up my fuckhole or how many loads spewed from my fagmeat. All I can tell you is that I was sobbing, biting my tongue and lips raw, and for the first time in my life, I prayed to be unable to cum ever again. But that didn't stop a thing. Just poppers, piss, and pounding into my fuckhole and prostate. Over and over and over again. Unrelenting. Unstoppable. Unmerciful. I blacked out only to recover as Lord Zachary hammered Himself into me in a single thrust, making me scream in painful pleasure. Pain and pleasure were now one and the same. I never felt so helpless in my fucking life.
From that day on, even a mere whiff of piss makes my imprisoned fagdick throb and drool, mere strokes (though impossible strokes) away from orgasm. I became eternally addicted to piss. The stronger, the better.
The experience that day also seemed to mark an end to my torment by Zachary's friends. I think they were too shocked by such overt sexuality, overwhelmed and cowerded by it. As much as I cringed at being used and abused by the herd of savages that are teenage boys, it also meant that more than ever before, the only verbal contact I had with anyone was when Master Thomas or Lord Zachary bellowed out a command, allowing me release from my cell. I had no opportunity for conversation, no validation for anything except as a stupid cocksucking fagslave. The only contact I had with anybody else was the occasional stranger's cock wanting to be serviced and emptied at the "Head"-quarters. Such cocks were truly worshipped in ways I'd never understood possible, so grateful was I for their presence. Anything that had been "me" had inexorably been cleared out. What was once a sliver of my fantasy life had become all that I ever would or could be.
It was a life of shame, misery, deprivation and depravity. It was the life of a house fag slave.
On one of my days tongue cleaning Master Thomas' toilet, I'd taken off my hood (as I was allowed to do for that task) and, while standing up to stretch, caught a glance of myself in the mirror. It was enough to make me gasp. Although I was never a handsome man, I'd kept myself in good shape and tried to keep myself as attractive as possible.
What was staring back at me was an unshaven, dirty, disheveled thing. A lowlife. Some street bum I'd have crossed the street to not have to pass. Skinny, but not wasting away. The lukewarm leftovers at night took care of my nutrition. My limbs were in good shape; Lord Zachary's use of me in the basement meant good workouts of my arms and legs. But my hair was uncut and ungroomed. I'd grown a scraggly beard, and there was something in my face that was haunting. It took me a while to figure it out.
I was no longer a "who"; I was, quite simply and obviously, a "what." A mere object to be used and commanded. There was no "me" there any more.
And with that thought, it softly smiled, and went back to work tongue-worshiping Master Thomas' deliciously filthy john, fag clit drooling in its cage.