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 does not exist. Wanna change that? Or just wanna share comments/praise/criticism? Fine: Not_your_Typical_Master@yahoo.com
Copyright 2011
Whittling a Fucktube, Chapter 6
Shhh . . . relax there, buddy. It's good to have you back.
No, no, don't panic. I put the blindfold on you so you'd be able to sleep better. You've been out for about a day. You're fine. You're still at My place, nice and safe. You're resting on top of Me, your head atop My chest. I'm only whispering `cuz My mouth is right next to your ear the way you're lying down. I know, I know, you can't move your arms. We had to lock you down for a bit, but it's ok. I promise. Relax, man. Just relax. Here, let me take off your blindfold and you can see for yourself.
There ya' go. Yes, I've been here, letting you rest against Me for a couple of hours, just waiting for you to wake up. I guess somebody must have slipped something in your wine. Hmm? Oh, that somebody was probably Me, pal. Sorry about that.
You see that nice looking man in the doorway, leaning against the door with that warm and inviting smile? His name is Mr. Besst. He's commissioned Me to get him a fucktube just like Mine. Well, not exactly like Mine. Everybody's got their own preferences. But the more he described what he wanted, the more I knew you'd be perfect, buddy. I'd seen you at the gym. You were a fuckin' easy read. I knew if I said the right things at the right time, we'd become fast friends. And I knew as soon as we started talking, pal, that you were one of those clueless faggots who didn't even realize there's a fucktube inside you, so fucking hungry to be let out.
And Jesus, pal, when I started talking to you about the training process, you think I didn't realize just what was getting you off? Fuck, man, you didn't want a fucktube; you wanted to BE a fucktube. When I mentioned how I trained the bitch to breathe, you didn't think I'd notice you were trying out exactly what I said I trained it to do?
Yes, buddy, all this time, I was slowly, quietly, whittling away. And you didn't even fucking know it. That's what makes this such a fucking art, you see. And look at Mr. Besst over there. Nice, strong, muscular man. Fucking hot is what he is. Just look at him. Think of how much you want his pubes tickling your nose. Heh. Yeah, buddy, I know. He's a faggot's wet dream, isn't he?
He could have his pick of any bitch, boy or girl. But, you know, he's kinda particular. Gets into some kinda unusual stuff ... the kind that would scare most kids away. Probably would have scared you, too, if I hadn't been whittling away at you all this time.
Ah, don't worry. It's not like he's looking for blood sports or anything. No, he just likes his sex nice and anonymous. Kinda permanently anonymous, you know? See, now that he's seen your face today, he's never going to want to see it again. He gets into rubber in a big way, and you're going to be his rubbered fucktube. Head to toe, covered in shiny tight black rubber. Open at both holes, and semi-covered at the eyes so you can see out, but he won't see anything but a rubber fuckdoll to use any time he wants, any way he wants. Doesn't that sound hot, buddy?
Oh, don't worry. Mr. Besst is a smart man and knows how to take care of his toys. He knows you can't live in rubber non-stop. You'll be locked in the bathroom once in a while to shed your rubber skin and clean up. But you'll be back inside your latex cocoon before He ever lays His eyes on you again. Won't you, fuckdoll? Of course you will.
Hmm? What's that? Why? Why would you want to keep yourself covered in rubber? Well, see, I had to do some deep drilling in your head to figure that one out. I noticed how proudly you carry yourself. You carry your body around the gym like it's a trophy you've acquired. You like showing off your body, I know.
And then there's the idea of pain. I know you're not a masochist. I saw your hesitations when pulling the fucktube's tit-bar, even when you saw how much it responded to it. And people say, you know, the threat of pain is a powerful tool for etching into someone's brain. Probably more powerful than pain itself.
So it occurred to Me. You know what they say. "When you can't bring Mohammed to the mountain. . ." Yep, exactly. While you were, um, asleep, we brought the mountain to you. Mr. Besst here, he hired the whole body art shop to come over here and work on you while you were out. Here, let me reach around and pull away the sheet so you can see all the beautiful work they did.
Look down at your chest. I dunno how well you can see it, but around each nip they inked the image of a clamp, evil and sharp-toothed, held open by someone's fingers but aching to bite on each of your nips. Around the base of your cock and the top of your ballsack, they tattooed copper wires leading to an electrical unit drawn on your thigh. On your back, they inked a whip slicing into one of the half-dozen welts they drew there. And on your ass, an evil frat paddle hammering itself into your flesh.
On your left shoulder is your handsome face looking up at us as the head of a cock pisses in your open mouth. Man, your face is so beautiful there. And on your right shoulder, yep, right there, see it? A profile shot of you on your knees getting face-fucked. And on your lower back, you once again, on your back, legs spread wide open, looking at us so hungry to be fucked, your face in pure dick delirium.
But, you know, it didn't seem quite enough. So we also inked you with labels. All over. Arms. Legs. Sides. Cheeks. Yep, those cheeks, too. Nice bold print. "ASSWIPE" "COCKSUCKER" "SEWER-FACE" "FAGHOLE" "CUNTBOY" "CUMDUMP" . . . It's a damn complete list. Oh, and here at the very top, yeah, right where My hand is, here on your forehead, we saved the best for there.
"FUCKTUBE". Of course.
So I'm thinking, pal, the minute you see your skin, you're gonna want to keep it covered up. Either that or show the world what we all now call your "Instruction Manual." Permanently whittled on to your flesh. Poetic, huh? Yeah, I know. I know, pal. You're angry. Of course you are. But Jesus man, you do see your prick is rock hard and dripping like crazy, don't you? Don't you? Come on, `fess up. Deep inside, you fucking love this. More than that, you fucking need this. I know you do. There ya' go. I know, fucktube, it's a little overwhelming, feeling all these things at once. Don't worry; it's ok to cry.
Just close your eyes and imagine it, buddy. Completely encased in tight rubber. Your prick ringed, oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, we'll be taking care of that, too. But yeah, your prick chastity-ringed as Mr. Besst here slides a nice electro plug up your fuckhole, letting it tingle against your prostate for endless hours as you hump the floor, trying to get off without any chance of being able to. Then, when he's got you in just the right state of delirium, in come his buddies to put you to use. You'll be so fucking happy to see them, wanting them all to rape your holes. Begging each of them to scratch that unbearable itch inside you. You're going to make Mr. Besst here so fucking proud to own such a completely insatiable fucktube. Yeah, look at how your cock is throbbing at the thought. Rock fucking hard. Look at it. No, man, seriously, look at it. You won't be seeing that ever again after you get ringed next week, so
enjoy it while you can. That's it, fucktube, buddy. Good boy. Go ahead and cry. Let it all out while I hold you, caress you, nice and tight. There ya' go.
Yeah, buddy-boy. You feel yourself grinding your fuckhole against My crotch? It's only natural, fucktube; it's just your instinct. You know how much you fucking need it. I was watching you, back at the gym and while we've been talking, always trying to sneak glimpses at My thick meat. It's ok. It's just what a fucktube does. Go ahead, don't hold back. Show us all how much you need it. Yeah, fuckin' arch your back and grind your fuckhole against My cock. No need for subtlety here, whorehole. Beg for it. Oh, yeah, that's a good little bitch. Make Us proud.
Here, let Me slide My fingers over those sweet nips . . . yeah, that's it . . . what a hot moan. Fuck yeah, buddy, moan and sob for Me and Mr. Besst. Yeah, that's how a fucktube talks. Ever noticed how My fucktube never says a fucking word? Doesn't need to, fuckdoll. A fucktube says anything it needs to say with just moans and sobs. Fuck yeah, just like that. Oh, fucktube-pal, you're gonna make Us so fucking proud of you. Let it out. Let it all fucking out . . . .
So, Mr. Besst, I think we're all good here. If you've got no complaints, just leave the cash on the desk. Twenty-five grand, just like we discussed. The other half on delivery in six months. I'm going to need some time to keep whittling away until there's nothing here but total fucktube. OK, Mr. Besst, I'll give you a call . . . .
Fuck, buddy, did I ever tell you how much I love My job? I do, fucktube, I really do. I'm a fucking Michelangelo and you, fucktube, are about to become My "David".
Lucky fucking you.
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Gentlemen, fagwipes and others, thanks so much for the praise and encouragement during this series. I was asked, given the real-life tone of this work, how much of this was real; it was based on past and current real-life events; I have not, however, drugged or knocked out anyone, nor do I intend to. I thought about going further here by suggesting contact with the current whittling project I've undertaken, the one that inspired this story, but real-life has its disadvantages. Some will feel I have been too cruel to My current project; others will no doubt feel I haven't been cruel enough. So let's just leave fantasy as is; I look forward to new adventures, both fictional and real, soon.