The Surrogates
z119z
© by the author 2016
He will begin to tremble soon.
I order him to undress and kneel. "Put your hands behind your back and cross them at the wrists."
"Yes, Sir," he says. His voice oozes with fake submission. He is playing a game. He hasn't yet begun to suspect that I am not.
I straddle him, pinioning his torso between my thighs and squeezing it firmly. I make him feel my strength, my heat. I bend over and cuff his wrists with a plastic tie.
He wriggles his fingers against my calf and strokes the leather of the boot pressed against his back. I was waiting for that. So many subs try that out. It's an automatic response—an attempt to gain information about the environment they find themselves in and assert their place within it. It is also an opportunity to begin their training.
"Get your hands off me. No touching unless I order you." I strike the back of his head with an open palm—not hard, just enough to show him that I mean business. I grab him by the hair and pull his head back sharply, forcing him to look up at my face. I scowl at him. I slap his right cheek and then shove his head down, forcing him forward at the waist.
"Sorry, Sir," he says. He sounds startled. He didn't expect that response to what was after all an unconscious move. Perhaps he is beginning to be apprehensive about what will happen. If he isn't, he should be
The plastic tie binds his wrists securely, but in this context it is less charged with significance than cuffs would be, less erotic, less meaningful. It is quick, efficient, practical, but not sexy. It downplays what will happen over the next few hours. It promises nothing. It is more a token of restraint than a potent symbol of it. A plastic tie lacks the solid, hard, threatening weight of thick leather or heavy metal handcuffs. It does not click shut with the satisfying finality of a lock. It is deficient in visual and tactile gravity. No one will ever fetishize plastic ties.
Perhaps this initial move disappoints him. It is not what he expected. He can see several pairs of cuffs and other forms of restraints hanging on the walls of the dungeon. He looked around when he came in and took stock of all the gear. He even expressed admiration. "Wow, you've got everything," he said. He smiled with anticipation. His mind played with the idea that some of those objects would soon be attached to him. He decided he was going to enjoy this.
The plastic tie was his first lesson—his expectations are irrelevant here.
Nor do I pull the tie tight. He can still twist his arms about. The discomfort is minor. It is important to add restraints incrementally. Depriving him slowly of the illusion of freedom adds to the pleasure. He will realize too late that his ability to move is gradually being taken from him.
I am wearing only boots and a studded leather jock strap. He can see that I am bigger, stronger than he is. I let him look. I want him to be impressed. I want him to feel awe. I turn my back to him and walk over to the wall where some gear hangs from hooks. I know that he is watching me, examining my butt and back, evaluating them. I trust that he likes what he sees. Most men do.
I touch various objects on the wall, as if I am thinking about what I will do next. In truth, I know what I will use on him. But the play of muscles in my arms and shoulders as I reach out to fondle a wide, black leather collar, a flogger, a translucent, milky white plastic hood, makes him lick his lips in anticipation of my flesh. He wants my arms to crush him. He wants to be forced to worship my pecs, to run his tongue over their hard curves. He wants to feel my thighs pushing his legs apart, the force of my buttocks pounding my cock into him.
The object I want is right in front of me, suspended from a metal hook at chest height. He cannot see it. My body hides it from him. I lift it off the wall and turn around. I show him the muzzle and head restraint. I hold it up and turn it so that he can see it from all angles. I want him to anticipate, to imagine what this will feel like when his head is imprisoned in this cage.
I take my time. When I finally approach him, he eagerly lifts his head and thrusts out his chin.
The muzzle is a stiff leather cup that covers the mouth and jaw. A curved steel rod is hidden within the muzzle. It fits snugly under the jaw, and when the straps are cinched tightly behind the head, it digs into the flesh under the chin and keeps the mouth firmly shut. Leather strips on either side of the nose join into one strap at the forehead, which in turn is joined to the strap at the back of the skull. A heavy steel ring is fitted into the strap at the top of the skull. The nose straps obscure his vision. His eyes shift from side to side as he tries to see around them so that he can view himself in the mirror.
I grab him by his left bicep and lift him to his feet. I lead him over to the worktable and position him on it face down. When he rests his head against the table, the top edge of the muzzle pushes against his nose. It is the first moment of real discomfort, and he lifts his chin and tries to maneuver the muzzle lower on his head. I ignore him. In a few minutes, it won't matter. I stretch the leather belt across his back and upper arms and feed it through the clasp. I pull it until it is tight, and then I pull it even harder before I thread the prong through the hole and secure the end. I do the same with a belt across the back of his thighs. Both belts are three inches wide, and they bite into his flesh, forcing it to swell up and over the belts on both sides.
I snap the blindfold into place and pull the straps tight around his ears and buckle them together. If he reacts as I do to this blindfold, he won't notice the pressure on his ears at first. Later the straps will create a strip of pain where they cross his ears, another small agony to accept and endure. For now he is too caught up in the thrill of the moment, the thrill of being denied the privilege of speaking, the privilege of seeing. He turns his head from side to side and moves it up and down. He is trying to discover if he can see around the blindfold, whether he can see a small ray of light entering around the edges. He can't.
Now that he cannot see, Master enters silently. The man on the table doesn't realize that Master has joined us. He will be restrained and blindfolded the entire time Master is in the room. He will never know that Master exists.
I kneel, my hands clasped behind my back, and press my forehead against the floor. Master steps in front of me. I lick his boots, first the right one and then the left. I polished them earlier in preparation for this occasion. I can see a distorted image of my face in them, my tongue eagerly reaching out to express my submission. As I lick the left one, he lifts his right boot and places the sole against the back of my neck. He pushes down until I can feel the tread on my skull. It is a gesture of affection, a reward for this sacrifice I have brought him. Master knows that I savor these rituals, these small demonstrations of his ownership. After all, he was the one who trained me to appreciate them, to look forward to them, to need them. After a few seconds, he reaches down, grasps me by the hair, and pulls me up to a sitting position so that I can watch. He turns away from me and strokes the man's head for a few seconds. Master's touch surprises the man. He jerks away. He says something. His voice is muffled. If anyone cared about what he has to say, it would be possible to decipher his mumblings, to attach some meaning to them. But whatever he is trying to say is immaterial.
Master steps back, and together we watch the man test the limits of the restraints. He shifts his body back and forth to see how much he can move beneath the belts. He raises his calves and flexes his fingers. He lifts his shoulder and then his head. He tries to move his jaw. He tries to speak. He can't open his mouth, of course, and all he can manage is an inarticulate sound.
Master told me once that he likes these noises. "It is an attempt to attract attention and assert some control over a situation that they are beginning to suspect may be beyond their control. Remember your first time. Didn't you experience a moment at the beginning when you wondered if you had gotten in over your head? Well, you had, of course, whether you knew it or not. You tried to tell me to stop. But it was too late for you then, and once the men are on the table and restrained, it's too late for them. But I like to know they are worried, that they are having second thoughts. I like to know that they want to leave, and I like to deny them that privilege. They have lost their right to privileges. They will learn that I am in control, that I am the one who decides when they can leave. So I want to hear the sound of begging through the muzzle, but I don't need to hear their actual words. I want them to experience desperation. I want them to experience terror. I want them to understand that they have lost the right to express their fears in words."
The man tries to keep his head raised off the table. The table isn't padded, and its hard wooden surface is rough and unyielding. He doesn't want to press his nose against the table—that would really hurt—but if he rests one of his cheeks on the table, the leather and metal fittings of the muzzle quickly begin to bruise his flesh. A few seconds in any position is enough to bring pain. But he is finding it hard to keep his head up off the table—the neck tires quickly, and the shoulders begin to ache. By now the straps of the blindfold are beginning to hurt his ears. The man is learning that cumulatively minor discomforts can be as distressing as the blows of a whip. More noises from him. He is complaining. I wonder how long it will take this one to realize that Master will ignore his complaints.
Master watches him struggle for several minutes. Master never hurries. "Time is one of my tools," he says. "Let them tire themselves out with struggling. The more they try to find a comfortable position, the sooner they will exhaust themselves."
As Master attaches the ankle cuffs, the man flails and kicks out. He is being foolish. Master laughs at him. He grabs the man's right foot and slaps the sole hard with a riding crop. It is as if a bolt of electricity is passing through the man. His body churns violently. If he were not held fast to the table with the belts, he would probably have rolled off the table. More noises and thrashing about. But he doesn't resist when Master finishes fastening the ankle cuffs or when Master puts the wrists cuffs on him. This one is learning quickly.
Master links the wrist cuffs together with a short fastener before he cuts off the plastic tie. He attaches another fastener to bind the ankle cuffs together. He bends the man's calves back at the knee and connects the two pairs of cuffs with a snap buckle. The man will not be free to move his arms or legs for a while. Master loops a length of rope around the metal ring on top of the head restraint and draws it back to the wrist cuffs. Master quickly pulls the rope taut, forcing the man to lift his head. Master grabs the ring and jerks the man's head even further back before tying the rope off.
The man's throat is exposed. His Adam's apple juts out and bobs up and down as he struggles to swallow. Swallowing is difficult in that position. I remember when Master did that to me. My mouth quickly filled with saliva. I thought I would drown. I panicked. Many of the men do at this point.
Perhaps the man thinks that he can relax his neck muscles and let the rope hold his head up. But it isn't that easy. His head is pulled back so far that his neck is compressed in back. He cannot reduce the strain on his neck. And the rope is so tight that it yanks his wrists and ankles forward. He cannot relax. His muscles are held in an unnatural position.
Master sits down and motions me to crawl over to him. I sit between my legs and rest my head on his thigh. He pets my head while he watches. Master likes to watch. It will not take long. It never takes long.
On the table the man tries to shift his body into a more comfortable position. His efforts are futile. Any relief he gains from moving is temporary. Within a few seconds, the relief dissipates, and new aches and pains assail his body. The table grows harder and harder. The way in which he is tied concentrates the pressure on his groin and stomach. His cock is squashed uncomfortably between his body and the table, and the belts across his back and upper arms and his upper thighs prevent him from lifting his hips and reducing the pressure.
His pains have only just begun, however. Soon the muscles will start to cramp. Usually the smaller muscles in the head that are under the most strain—the neck muscles, the jaw muscles—are the first. But once the shaking starts, it spreads throughout the body. Even those muscles that are not severely tensed—the muscles of the feet, for example, will quiver and try to stretch themselves into new shapes. At least they will feel like new shapes to the man.
Master will let the cramps continue for a half-hour, sometimes an hour. The man will scream—his screams will be audible through the muzzle. Master likes to hear screams. The man may even start to cry—many of them do. The screaming and the crying will reach a peak and then subside into whimpers. The man will resign himself to his fate. His mind will consist of pain. He won't know anything else.
Master pulls me around so that my face is pressed against his cock and balls. I begin licking and tonguing him. Not vigorously. Master doesn't want to cum. He just wants me to stimulate him, to add to the pleasure he is experiencing from watching the man squirm. His cock grows hard, filling my mouth. I love Master's cock. I suck it slowly and gently. I worship it with my lips and my tongue. I take it deep in my throat. It is hard to breathe, but that is unimportant. I focus on Master's cock. I am a cock toy, a living cock toy intent on pleasuring Master. Nothing else matters at this point. Times passes. I am conscious only of the feeling of the ridge at the base of the head of Master's cock as it passes up and down my throat, of the veins in the shaft as they rub against my tongue, of the humid sticky hair pricks of his balls against my chin. It is a glorious privilege to serve Master. I demonstrate my gratitude to Master through my devotion to his cock.
"Relax your mind," Master says as he pets my head. "Relax. Float."
Those are the trigger words Master has implanted in me. He spent months training me to release my mind from my body. It was difficult at first. But I have done this many times now. My mind floats free from my body. I see the man on the table. He is trussed. He is ready for Master. My mind joins with his. My mind is inside his body. I feel what he feels. I become him. We are ready for Master.
I cannot see. I am isolated within this body. The man's mind is churning. He wants the pain to stop. He is so frightened. This isn't what he thought would happen when he approached me at the bar, when he agreed to come with me. I could calm him. His mind is so distracted that I could easily take it over and dampen the pain. But Master doesn't want that, at least not yet. Master wants us to experience the pain
The man will learn. He will learn to love the pain. He will learn to want the pain to flash through his body and raise him up. He will want to become an object defined by pain.
We tremble. The cramps are terrible. There is so much pain, so much agony. The man's mind hates it. His mind is filled with fear. It wants Master to stop. I don't. I love to serve Master. I joyfully offer myself to Master for his pleasure.
I will teach the other to cease to resist, to accept, to welcome. I will teach it to glory in serving Master. Together we will recognize and acknowledge Master's superiority. We will realize that we exist only because Master allows us to. We will be what Master makes of us, nothing more. We are Master's property, his creations, his tools, his subjects, his worshippers. His. The other will learn this. The rebirth is difficult and painful, but a few hours from now he will offer himself completely to Master and rejoice in serving Master.
When Master releases the ropes and the fasteners and lets our body flop loose, our muscles screech with the pain. The pain paralyzes our body. Movement, even the slightest, brings fresh agony.
I know what will happen next, but the man is so relieved at being released that he doesn't notice that Master has quickly attached the wrist and cuffs to steel wires at the four corners of the table. It will only be when Master turns the wheel that pulls those wires taut and spread-eagles the arms and legs that the man will realize that Master has substituted one mode of imprisonment for another. Master will reach between our legs and roughly pull our cock and balls down so that they are available in the V of our legs. He will let us contemplate what will happen next.
When Master is ready, he will begin beating our ass and back. He will orchestrate a crescendo of pain, beginning with a riding crop and progressing through paddles and floggers to a cane. The first blows will be no more than tap, sharp little moments of pain that flash through our mind. The blows will grow stronger and stronger. The pain from one will still be circulating through us when the next strike hits us. Soon we will not even be able to distinguish the individual blows. Our ass and back will quickly grow red. The cane will leave red and purple streaks. The skin will break, and blood will ooze out.
The assault on our ass will continue with plugs and dildos, each one larger than the previous one. Some of them will be ribbed, sharp edges that cause more pain. The dildos will plunge into our body, stretching us, until it feels as if we are pinioned on a tree trunk.
When Master has finished with our backside, he will turn us over and begin assaulting our nipples and our genitals. Clamps, weights, blows, electricity—Master is inventive and his art is infinite. He racks our body and our mind.
We will scream and beg. Master will ignore us. He will wait for the screams to stop, for the shouts and the moans and the groans to die away, for us to cease protesting and to begin to accept our fate, to find joy in whatever he chooses to do to us, to surrender completely to him. He will teach us to moan with pleasure when he hurts us, to become aroused, to beg for more, to cry when he stops.
When we fully embrace the pain, Master will summon the mindless body that usually holds my mind. He will position it astride our body. He will stroke its cock until the hot cum splatters over our body. When he has squeezed the last drop out, Master will leave. My mind will return to my body. I will clean myself up and get dressed in street clothes. I will release the man from the restraints and remove the blindfold. Most of the men just remain lying there on the table. It takes them a while to realize that they are free to go. Some of them are stunned and confused, almost comatose, and I have to wake them up. All of them need help getting off the table. I make them get dressed. They are so far gone they do not realize that the cum has dried on their bodies. I wonder what they think when they find it later. Another reminder of what they endured for four or five hours, in addition to the aches and pains, the bruises, the cuts?
I do not hear from them for a week or so. Then the messages requesting another session will begin to arrive. Sometimes Master will bring one of the men back after a few months. But never more than once. "I don't want them to think this will become a regular thing," he says. "You're my only real boy."
Master calls the men my "surrogates."
Master supervises my work-outs and my mental training. When he harvested me, he had an ideal in mind. He told me once that he chose me because I had "promise—I knew that I could build on your physical and mental foundations and create what I wanted." He broke me and made me desire that ideal for myself, as an offering to him and an acknowledgment of his ownership of me. Now that I meet his ideal standards, he does not want to injure me. He likes to look at me, to touch me, to derive pleasure from me, to fuck me. That is my purpose in life.
Master enjoys hurting others. I would gladly offer my body up to his desires. He knows that. That is how he has trained me. But the physical body, even one as well developed as mine, can only take so much abuse before it breaks. So Master has devised this method of torturing me. He has taught me to transfer my mind into another man's body. When Master tortures them, I experience what they experience. Master tortures me through them, but my body, the body he has created, remains unbruised, unharmed.
Master uses me to attract them. My body ensnares the men. They want this body so badly that they agree to come with me. They know that there will be games. I always make sure that they know that. Even so they agree. They may resist the games at first, but on the table they learn to want them. Master is a great teacher.