Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmal.com

Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don't enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't look back!

Prologue

He touches my pumped tits and I go weak, a shiver running down my spine and terminating in my groin. My tits harden and reach for his hands. My caged dick throbs inside its confines. He squeezes my tits and twists them and I both whimper and groan deep in my throat, beyond words, for words are unavailable to me, a spider gag immobilizing my jaws. His other hand snakes down my crack to my hole and I push back against it, my ass wanting more. My chest pushes against his hand, begging for more. Pushing my ass back, my chest forward, bends me into an S curve; S for sex. I am a sex-curve waiting to be bent even further.

"Please, please," I whisper in my mind. "Please use my tits sir." But guttural moans and whimpers are all he hears.

He looks into my eyes and nods, smiling. "Yes, my tit-slave. I know what you want and need. I know because I created you as you are now: to want it and need it: my tit-slave."

How I want it; how I need it. How far I have come. My tits are like fingertips protruding from my pecs: long, swollen, hungry knobs of dark brown flesh, needing, wanting, begging for more.

"I'm your tit-slave," I whisper inarticulately, and he pinches the instruments of my slavery hard and laughs, knowing exactly what I was thinking and trying to voice.

"Yes, I know," he says. "You're exactly what I wanted; exactly what I made you. My tit-slave."

He holds up a bag, bulging with wooden clothes-pins. He has no need of fancy plastic pins sold at an inflated price by stores catering to fetishists. Just simple, wooden pins he picked up at the hardware store; scores of them. I know what they're for and my eyes begin to fill as I moan and beg, dreading and hungering for what is to come. He takes two out of the bag and holds one in each hand. My eyes are on them and he nods to me, forcing me to look into his shining eyes.

"Yes, for my tit-slave," he says in his deep, quiet voice; the voice that enslaved and enslaves me. "For you."

He pinches them open and fastens one onto each swollen nipple and I squeal in pain and arousal, knowing my cries are what he wants to hear; my cries of pain and desire. He hurts my tits and that brings him pleasure. His pleasure is my pleasure, even if purchased at the cost of my pain. My pain is nothing to him. It is nothing to me; his pleasure is what matters, now and always.

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Tit-Slave - Chapter 1

It had started innocently enough: One day, after work, I'd been browsing the web, my cock firming and longing for full erection and release. My balls were churning and heavy: it had been a busy couple of weeks with year-end reporting taking most of my time and energy so I hadn't really thought about sex. Or when I had, it had been fleeting but accentuated, such as today. One of my co-workers, Gregory, leaned over my desk to retrieve a report and had brushed my arm, which was resting on the desk, manipulating the mouse, with his crotch. I felt the stiff underside of his cock along my forearm and felt slightly dizzy and flushed. I'm sure he hadn't done it intentionally: it was simply one of those things that happen and I said nothing, but the heat I felt in my face told me I'd flushed deeply and I felt the blood flushing into my cock as well. Fortunately, he was already opening the report and searching for the information he needed, so I knew he hadn't witnessed my response.

That I wanted, no needed, cock was no surprise to me; I'd come out in college, twenty years ago, and had remained open ever since. But I'd always focused on my work, rising through the ranks from junior manager through middle management to the executive level. I was on the young side for a corporate CFO, but my singular focus and my intelligence, connections, and, frankly, good luck, had brought me to this position.

What I'd been missing was a someone in my life. Oh, I'd had the odd sexual encounter here and there (and some of them truly were odd, but that's for another story). Suffice it to say that some men have very interesting tastes and fetishes. One man, for instance, wanted me to put my tongue in his hole, which I did, though without much enthusiasm. The flavor was musky and earthy and that wasn't too bad. I began to get a little hard as my mind told me that what I was doing was strange but it felt good to do what he asked, even though I didn't much like it. But then I felt his sphincter open and got the first taste of turd as he started to defecate in my mouth. I pulled back, appalled, and threw him out of my apartment. I was polite enough to let him use the toilet and get dressed before I showed him the door but I was really disgusted by it. He even asked me if I'd let him piss on me while I laid in the tub, but I said I definitely wasn't interested. I'd heard of scat and watersports, of course, but it had no interest for me. I liked to suck cock and liked having mine sucked but that was about the limit of my experience and my interests. Why, I hadn't even been fucked. I guess I was a little old-fashioned and thought I should wait for someone special. All those quaint ideas I'd picked up in Sunday school had their effect, though they'd been unable to convince me that I didn't or shouldn't like men.

Anyway, I'd had a few of those interesting encounters over the years, interspersed with the somewhat more frequent suck session, although even those were none too frequent. It didn't seem at all odd to me that I was usually the one doing the sucking, either on my knees or lying on my back while the other guy fucked my mouth, but I just didn't think about it; it seemed right, even if I jacked off later while I fantasized about him.

I'm attractive enough, I suppose. I'm six foot one, medium brown hair, blue eyes, nice features, or so I'm told, and trim. I run five days a week to stay in shape and do enough calisthenics to maintain my muscle tone. I don't have a six-pack, but my belly's firm. There was a nice coating of fur on my chest and a modicum of hair on my belly. I think I'd look good on the beach if I ever took the time to go. The only problem would be that I'm not tanned because I stay out of the sun, but hey, you can't have everything. So, long story short, I'm a strictly vanilla guy. Or at least I used to be until that night, when everything started to change for me.

The reports were finished and ready to go for the next day's meetings and I left work to go home and rest up. The brush with my co-worker's cock was still in the back of my mind and still causing intermittent stirrings in my own equipment. So I went into my apartment, threw my jacket on the back of the couch and booted up my computer. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey (I had a sixteen year old Lagavulin I'd been savoring), added a dash of water and sat down at my PC. I opened my e-mail and lo and behold, there was a message from my co-worker, Gregory. The subject was "what you need now", which was intriguing. How did he know what I needed? Did he know something I didn't? There was a link to a website and it wasn't some site in Russia or other nonsense and since it had a subject other than "Hi beloved" or some other nonsense, I figured, he had definitely sent it to me, rather than it being some SPAM or phishing message, so I clicked on it and took a couple of sips of whiskey while the site loaded.

Tit slave - Chapter 2

The site was devoted to tits; no not women's tits - men's tits. It had galleries, messaging capabilities, forums and chat rooms. I'd never even considered that Gregory might be gay, but none of us in the office talked much about our private lives. I was intrigued, especially by some of the photos I saw on the banner page: Men with big, swollen tits, as big as the tips of my pinkies. I'd never thought this could be done! But here were photographs and I could tell by the consistency that they hadn't been photo-shopped. These were real men with real tits; huge tits. My dick began to stiffen in my pants and I began to feel a tingling in my chest. Now, I have a nice chest - firm pecs and nice round nipples with quarter-sized areolas, but they were nothing like these men's nips. And I began to wonder: what if I could get tits like this? What did I need to do? How could I make this happen?

After looking through several models' galleries, I decided to enter one of the chat rooms and see what I could learn. I watched some of the conversations going on, and there was one man named Ted, who seemed to be an expert on nips and also seemed to have an assertive way about him. I messaged him.

"Hi Ted."

"Hi Hanky," he responded.

I'd created my profile using my nick-name "Hank". My name is Henry, but my few friends call me "Hank" as do the members of my family. I was a little surprised by the "Hanky", but it didn't really bother me, so I went with it.

"Could I ask you a question?"

"Sure thing, my boy. Open an audio line so that we can talk. So what do you want to know?"

"My boy"? Really? Where was this guy coming from? And why did his voice sound familiar? But I really wanted my questions answered, so I ignored my alarms going off and plowed on.

"I'm new to this site. The pics of the guys with the big tits really get my motor revving. Can I ask you? Can men really make their tits that big?"

"Sure thing, my boy. No problem. It's just a matter of training 'em."

"Can you tell me how?"

"Sure thing, my boy. Let's start with checking your aptitude. First, start up your cam."

This guy, Ted, didn't seem to ever ask anything; he simply gave orders. But I did as he said.

"Nice shirt and tie. But take them off now."

I removed my tie and unbuttoned my shirt as instructed.

"Good boy. Now just follow my instructions. And since we're in the chatroom, all the other tit pigs can open your cam and follow my instructions too. Just do as I tell you. Ready, my boy?"

I wasn't sure I liked being referred to as a "tit pig". As I've already said, I was a pretty vanilla guy, but again, what the hell? Or maybe "what the fuck". He was calling me a pig, let me get into it.

"Yes sir," I responded, somehow feeling that it was appropriate to be respectful, especially since he was helping me out.

"Good boy. Now I want you to start by slowly and gently circling your areolas with the tips of your index fingers. Do you know what your areolas are boy?"

"I think so sir."

"Well, just to be clear, they're the circle of brown flesh surrounding your points. Circle them slowly, touching lightly."

I began to draw circles around my areolas with my fingertips. I'd never been touched there before. Remember, I'm pretty vanilla. I guess you could say that, aside from liking men, I'm pretty prudish. The sensation in my chest was amazing. I inhaled deeply and moaned slightly.

"Good," Ted said. "Now flick your points with your fingers. Start with your middle fingers."

I did and a shiver ran down my spine, causing me to arch my back and gasp.

"Now, curl your fingers and rub your knuckles across your points."

Another gasp.

"Good boy. Now grab hold of those points and pull. Hard!"

I pulled and bent double at the pleasure and the pain. Oh god, how had I missed this all these years? I'd never realized that tits could be so sensitive.

Good boy! Now, holding onto your tits, watch your screen."

As I sat there, holding onto my nubs, a kaleidoscopic pattern appeared on the screen, and Ted's quiet voice began to speak. It was very low and I had to concentrate to make out what he was saying amid other sounds that seemed to interfere with his voice. Along with the sound of Ted's voice, I heard what must've been the voices of the other "pigs" in the chatroom, saying "Thank you sir. Thank you master, thank you? I'm your slave master, I obey, I serve, I obey, I serve?"

When I came to, I saw that the clock read 11:35. I'd been out of it for two hours. There was no one in the chatroom at this point, so I logged off the site. I also found that my nipples were swollen and red and very, very sensitive. I realized that I wouldn't be able get to sleep with them burning like that, so I went to my bedroom and took some healing hand lotion on my fingers and rubbed it in. The touch of my lotion-coated fingers on my tits made my knees buckle and, collapsing onto my bed, I involuntarily moaned. I continued to rub the lotion into my points and areolas with pleasure until it was completely absorbed. Then I crawled under the covers. During the night, my nipples were still too sensitive to have the blankets on them, so I pushed the covers down, leaving my nips exposed. It was a question of warmth with pain or cold with less pain. I sacrificed warmth.

That night, I dreamt of bare-chested men with huge nipples. They stood above me, their finger-nipples above my mouth and I raised my head to suck milk from them. As I sucked, they grabbed my own tits and twisted and pulled them. In my dream, my own nipples are as big as theirs, like finger tips on my chest. As they twisted and pulled my tits, I groaned and squirmed. In my dream, I had an orgasm, pumping cum from my hard cock while the men encouraged me, calling me a tit pig and oinking at me.

When I awoke in the morning, I found my belly was crusted with cum. I hadn't had a wet dream since my early 20s, but now I'd had one, dreaming about tit men. I wanted nipples like that! I wanted man tits! I got up and went to my PC and went to a website that, for some reason, I just knew was there: www.supplenips.com. I ordered all four sizes. Then I got ready and headed to work. My entire train ride, my cock was hard, tenting my pants. Fortunately, I could fairly well cover it with my suit jacket, but once in a while I'd catch someone looking at my crotch and then quickly looking away. I, of course, did the same thing. There's nothing more embarrassing than a man almost 40 years old being caught with a 1st class hard-on. But it wouldn't go down. I tried to think of other things, like burnt food or dead puppies, but nothing worked: the erection persisted. As I walked up the stairs out of the subway, I held my brief case in front of me, as though I were trying to take up less space on the crowed stairs and sidewalk, but it kept getting jostled and every time, it bumped into my stiffness, only making matters worse.

I had a meeting with Gregory at 9:15 to continue working on the report we'd been working on the previous day. He knocked on the door and came in.

"Hey Hank, how's it going?" Gregory asked.

I was standing at the credenza searching through some papers and turned around to greet him. Only I'd forgotten my now chronic hard-on. If I'd taken Viagra, I'd have been calling the doctor. Suddenly, as his eyes fastened on my protruding crotch, I realized what he was looking at!

I quickly sat in my chair and slid under my desk.

"I-I-I'm sorry Greg. I don't know what the problem is," I mumbled, profoundly embarrassed and I could feel the heat rising up my neck all the way to my scalp. I was starting to sweat.

"It's alright Hank. No need to apologize. Hell, you look like a teenager with that thing. At your age, that's an accomplishment!"

This chagrined me; I'm not that old, and only a few years older than Greg. But I had to admit that it was unusual for a man in his late 30s to be springing a boner like this one. Unconsciously, I reached up and tweaked my nipples, which I'd had trouble keeping my hands off of all day.

"Not a problem," said Greg, quietly. "No problem at all, Hank."

Why did his voice seem to echo in my brain? Why was it making my erection harder? What the hell was going on here?

I concentrated fiercely on the work at hand, or, I was afraid, I'd lose all control. We beavered away at the report for nearly half-an-hour. Then, just like yesterday, I had my hand on my mouse and Gregory reached across my desk, brushing his crotch against my hand. It was like an electric shock. I momentarily lost it: the room seemed to go blank, my head was light and all sound disappeared. In a split-second I recovered, but I was rocked, having never experienced anything like that before.

"Hey man," Greg said quietly, putting his hand on my shoulder. "Hank, are you OK? You seem a little, uh, distracted today. Everything alright?"

"Yah," I responded. "I just had a really bad night last night."

"Bad dreams?" Greg asked, grinning.

"Yah, I guess you could say that."

"I understand. It's OK; we have some time to finish this report. Why don't you relax and we can work some more on this tomorrow. OK, Hanky?"

I heard him call me "Hanky" and my brain began to sound an alarm that something was wrong, but that alarm was immediately silenced as darkness and silence descended.

To be continued.