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 2011
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The House Fag, Chapter 8
I began to fall into what would be the routine of being Their servant. Master Thomas' work schedule had Him away for twenty-four hours at a time, but I never knew when those days would be. Kept in my cell, there was no way to be sure of the passing of time, whether it was 6:30AM (when He might leave for work), or 8 AM (when He might just run out for a few quick errands), so there was no real way to judge when He might be coming home. Fortunately, Lord Zachary's schedule was more predictable. He had classes during the day, but He might come home in the early afternoon or not until late in the evening if He had soccer practice, or a game, or was just out with friends or on a date. There was no reason for a common fag to be told these details.
I stayed in my cell while They got up, showered, had breakfast, and prepared for Their day. Of course, if Master Thomas had been working the day prior, He'd be coming home around the time Lord Zachary would be leaving for school. Some days He'd be exhausted and go to bed, but other days He'd freshen up and go out again. Once the second of Them had left or gone to bed, I would get out and clean up after Their breakfast. Dine off their cold, dry leftovers. If there was Gravy Train in my bowl, I'd swallow it down and pull out $10 to leave on the kitchen table in payment for my piss-gravy meal. I`d then start the day's chores, always listening for one of my Owners to wake up or come home. As soon as I heard a door open, I would run into my cell, closing the door behind me. If things were left unfinished, whichever of my Owners who just came home would call me out by name.
"Fag, get out here. This is very disappointing." I knew I was going to have to face my punishment for fucking up, once again faced with a no-win situation. All the better to entertain my Superiors.
Master Thomas would shake his head, give me a condescending smile, and make me feel completely incapable of following the most basic of commands. Some stupid nincompoop who was just too inept to understand the simple rule of the house: chores are to be finished before Master Thomas or Lord Zachary come home. He made it clear how insulting it was to Him to have to lecture a stupid and disheveled fag when He came home. Explaining all this with His innocently handsome face and His friendly smile, He made me feel like dirt. Ugly. Stupid. Incapable. Hopeless.
If Lord Zachary caught my work incomplete, He would be far more direct, yelling at me for being such a fucking idiot and calling me "a stupid fagtard too cock-crazed to tell the fucking time." The sheer volume and power of His voice and the acidity of His words would make me literally crawl into a corner, wanting to melt into the wall. But that wasn't enough. He'd start kicking me with His sport cleats, making my agony both physical and emotional. I never fought Him; I knew He was absolutely right. I knew the fucking rule; I was just too stupid to figure out the routine of His schedule. It took weeks before I finally found it was posted above the desk in Their study.
I stayed in my cell while either of Them was home unless I was called out to perform some service for one or both of Them, but that was an unlikely occurrence. Most often, I'd be imprisoned there, forced to watch my programming, while They had dinner and watched TV. Sometimes Master Thomas would call Me out for the evening. He would point to instruct Me to either kneel just past His feet on the extended footrest of His recliner, or to crawl between the footrest and the recliner so my head popped up between His thighs.
On the first few instances, I was too stupid to understand my place, and began to worship Him with My tongue without His instruction. That earned me a quick kick or slap (depending upon where I was stationed) and ordered back into my cell for the night. I eventually learned my job was simply to be there, staring at His beautiful feet or at the crotch of His jeans or shorts, and to feel the emptiness in my mouth grow with each second.
This was even more cruel when He was stripped down to His boxers and I could just catch a glimpse of His cock or balls by looking up His hairy thigh. If I even moaned, I would be slapped and dismissed for disturbing Him from His TV show.
On nights when Lord Zachary was home alone, I would be summoned for similar service, but stationed next to the sofa where He was comfortably stretched out. Lord Zachary would also torment me by taking off His shirt and positioning me within inches of His chest or His pit while He relaxed. Maybe He'd allow Me to nurse His flesh, but even this was a rare joy.
These many nights of unsatiated hunger just deepened my gluttony for cock. I was kept in a constant desperation for use by these Men. Any use. Any time.
I noticed new phrases added into the program.
I CRAVE FILTH
I AM A DIRTY ANIMAL
I DROOL OVER FEET
I NEED TO SERVE
I AM EMPTY WITHOUT A MASTER
And new, more intense, photos were added in over time as well. More intense abuse. More degrading behavior. A constant and consistent eroding of my mind. They say that a lie, repeated often enough, becomes the truth. I cannot say whether these feelings were always within me, but I can say that over time, I was identifying with every message that was broadcast into what was left of my soul.
When the second of my Owners went to bed, He would call out to me, "Good night, fag." Sometimes Lord Zachary would sarcastically snicker something like "Sweet Dreams". I was allowed to get up to eat Their leftovers after They went to bed, as long as I was silent. I crept into the kitchen. Their plates were on the table. I helped myself to what was left on them, tepid and unappetizing. From time to time I would find the leftovers soaking in piss. That would mean I'd leave money on the table, $5 for each pissed-marinated entree. I then cleaned up the kitchen, carefully moving plates and cookware as quietly as possible. Then was a good time for me to empty out my bucket for the day and to clean myself out outside in the dark.
I'd get back in and be allowed to rest for a few hours. It was impossible to sleep well in my cell, hence the sarcasm of Lord Zachary's "Sweet Dreams". The best I could do was lean against the door, impaled on the horse cock, and hope for some rest. I eventually was either exhausted or pliable enough, maybe both, that I could sit on the stool with all of "The Pony" inside me. It was agonizing, but bearable. Whenever my eyes were open, they would land upon the images that were constantly eating into my brain.
Some nights, in the middle of the night, the panel over the gloryhole would open and I would be presented with just the head of a cock to worship. I had to first pass 5 bills through the hole. I would know then whether I was to drink piss or to worship it to orgasm: if the cock slid through, I knew I was a urinal; if not, then I would pass five more singles and know I was a suckhole. Once I was fed, the cock would pull away and the panel closed. I would rest there until another day of enslavement, humiliation, captivity, hunger and belittlement would begin.
They would often have guests. Sometimes friends for drinks, or to watch a game. I was openly known by some as the house urinal. All I saw or knew of these Men were Their cocks. I was nourished by Their piss, for which They were paid, of course, and left alone with my own ever-rising bucket of urine reminding me of my place.
With the exception of when I was called out of my cell to wantonly hunger for or occasionally permitted to worship my Lord or Master, I was kept in isolation. I was never allowed to speak to anyone. I was only spoken to when given a command to perform. The only time I was permitted to touch a Man was when He presented His cock to be drained of cum and/or piss. And I was increasingly horny, each day more so than the one before. I was never any closer to orgasm; merely more desperate for ANY release, even if not my own. Between the constant chastity I was enduring, the frequent teasing of Master Thomas and Lord Zachary with Their delicious flesh out of reach while They relaxed, and the constant stream of images on my program, all I could think about all day and night was the servicing of Cock.
There were sometime ladies over as well. I never met any of the women either of Them dated. There was no mention of me to them that I was aware of, and I knew better than to leave my cell or make any noise for any reason while they were around. One woman's voice in particular, I heard from time to time. I recognized the voice of that auburn-haired woman from the first time I was Master Thomas' wingman: Cindy.
One day Lord Zachary opened the door to my cell. "I want to go to the movies with My friends. We want to see `Death Dealers 2'." I had been a free person when the original came out. It was one of those "teens go on their own and some brutally die" movies. Rated R. Which was, I figured, why I was being told about this desire. I was to be His ticket to the movie. "I'll drive, but you have to sit in the seat next to me," he ordered. "We'll pick up my friends along the way." I got dressed in my only change of clothes and got in the front passenger seat.
We made three stops along the way. The boys were all very quiet until one of them got the nerve to ask. "Zach, who's this guy?"
"That's no guy, dipshit. It's our house fagbitch."
Three young voices asked in unison, "What???"
"Yeah. This cocksucker hangs around and does stuff around the house for us. Whatever we want. I needed somebody over 17 to take us to the movie, so I told it to come along. Otherwise, it'd be cleaning our house or doing our laundry or something stupid like that."
I know their minds were going a mile a minute, but nobody had the balls to ask. Thank fucking God. We arrived at the local theater, some small mom-and-pop place. I bought everyone's tickets, of course. And their popcorn and sodas. We all sat in the theater. One of the boys went out and came back a few minutes later. "Jesus, that bathroom is disgusting. There's no way I'm using it."
"What, Josh, you just have to stand there and pull out your dick. You gonna get cooties or something?"
"No, man, I wanted to dump. Those stalls are filthy and rank, man."
Zach smiled. "Hey, fag. My buddy's gotta use the john. Go clean it up for him."
What?? "Um, Lord Zachary, I don't have any cleaning supplies here."
"Fag, you got a good shirt there that you can use. Jeans too, if needed. Just scrub everything nice and clean for my pal. Get to work."
"Yes, Lord Zachary." The boys' jaws were wide open with disbelief as I excused myself and went to clean up the men's john.
Josh wasn't kidding. It was vile. Probably hadn't been cleaned in over a month. And now I was the cleaner. I got down on my knees, took off my shirt, and started scrubbing away at the inside of the bowl. There was a thick, disgusting mess at the bottom. I had to reach in and pull it all up, throwing what I could into the trash can. And then back to scrubbing unknown filth into the only clothes I had in the world. The words I had been seeing on screen in my cell displayed in my mind.
I CRAVE FILTH
I AM A DIRTY ANIMAL
I AM EMPTY WITHOUT A MASTER
I EXIST FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF MEN
Yes, Lord Zachary. Yes, indeed. I returned about a half-hour later and spoke to His friend Josh. "Sir, the rest room is now clean for Your use."
"Thanks." He went to the john and immediately came back with a fat grin on his face, looking straight at Lord Zachary as he spoke to me. "Hey, um, fag? I wanted to use the other stall."
I really should have seen that one coming. "Yes, Sir. I'll get right on it." The boys were all doubled over in laughter as I went back to the men's room. I could feel the shame melting into my face.
When I returned after cleaning the second stall, My shirt was fucking filthy. I had tried running it under the water, cleaning it with the hand soap as much as I could, but there was no way to get all that grime out. I would be living in this shirt for years, always reminding me of my place. A filthy animal in service to two God-like Masters.
"Go wait in the lobby, fag. You stink."
"Yes, Lord Zachary." I felt uncomfortable sitting in a chair, so I sat on the floor against the wall, watching for the movie to end and the theater doors to open. I was frozen at the sight of one of my old clients, there with his son, taking a break from the film to grab some snacks. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice that the filthy lowlife sitting on the floor was once his database designer. When the boys left the auditorium about an hour later, they found me still on the floor, back against the wall, awaiting them. Lord Zachary drove everyone to His home. I knew They weren't done with me.
"Fag, get in the backyard. You need a shower." I wouldn't have disagreed, even if I could. I was prepared to be washed down with the garden hose in front of Lord Zachary's friends. I'm such a stupid idiot. The four of them circled around me and each unleashed their pricks. Of course. None of them stopped at the men's room when they left. Four full bladders, all helping me with my "shower".
"Now, fag, I know you're supposed to pay five bucks for being allowed to drink piss," Lord Zachary said while the boys just shook their heads in disbelief. "And you won't exactly be drinking our piss here today. But still, we're helping you clean up your filthy self and that deserves payment too. So go inside and get twenty bucks. Five for each of us." I crawled into the house from the garage, got the bills, and came back. I paid each Boy five dollars and thanked Him for His generosity in allowing me to get clean with His piss. I sat back on the grass in the center of Them.
Lord Zachary's stream started first, and then They all joined in. "Scrub it hard into your skin, fag. This is the only shower you'll be getting for awhile." I puddled Their piss in my hands and tried to wash myself as best I could. The Kids were hysterical at my desperation.
One aimed His stream at the top of my head. "Here's some shampoo, fag."
Another pissed right into my face. "Wash your face, fag."
The third just aimed on my t-shirt. "Looks like you missed a spot here, fag."
I'd never experienced such extreme humiliation. Being used by young Boys was not erotic for me in any way. It was terrifying. I was nothing but a playtoy, a fagtoy, for these Boys to be the cruel little bullies all kids are inside. I was trying to keep strong, but it was no use. I started to sob.
Lord Zachary saw it first. "What, our little fag is a crybaby? Are me and my friends being too cruel to our filthy little fag?"
"No, Lord Zachary. Thank You all so much for Your piss."
"I don't think you mean it, fag. Go around to each of us, kiss our dickheads, look us in the eyes, and thank each of us individually."
I shivered in fear, and maybe a little in anticipation. "Yes, Lord Zachary." I crawled to His Friend to His left, put my lips against His teenage cock, and looked Him in he eye. "Thank You, Josh, Sir, for Your piss." He hawked something up from his throat and spit a heavy load on my face. "Thank You, Sir." The Boys were, once again, falling over each other in laughter. I was now also Their spittoon. By the time They finished, I was soaked in boypiss and boyspit. Lumps of phlegm were drip-drying on my face. I must have looked pathetic. I felt pathetic. And as Lord Zachary eventually drove Them all home, I had to sit, once again, in the front passenger seat listening to Them relive the afternoon. "Hey, Josh, how about when your loogie started dripping off the tip of his nose?"
"Its nose, Alan. Its nose, not his nose."
"Oh, yeah, right, Zachary." I thought it would never end.