I felt butterflies in my stomach as I wrote the profile. I described myself and my basest desires, honestly for the first time. Well, not honestly. I hadn't cum in a week. My hormones were charging. All those things I'd toyed with doing in the deepest, darkest, most perverted corners of my mind spilled out onto the profile as I wrote in desperation in the early hours between Friday night and Saturday morning.
I said I wanted to be owned. To be kept in a kennel cage when not used by my master for his own pleasure. To be publicly humiliated. To be permanently modified to bear my master's marks of ownership. To be owned forever, or until my master grew tired of me, but to have no right of release. That I had no limits.
At 28, I was not the best catch to be a slave. Not for the kind of master I wanted. Younger, fit, attractive, hung, dominant. Most of the "masters" on the site were fake, or old, or fake, or ugly, or fake, or fat. And then, sitting quietly in the chat room, teasing my painfully hard cock but never giving into the strong desire to cum (which I should have, I know now), I got a private message. The profile picture was perfect. Lightly tanned white skin. Brown hair. 21. Toned. Smiling. Goatee. Plenty of pics, obviously not lifted from another website.
He told me he'd read my profile. He asked if I was serious, and I told him I was. He asked if I really meant all I'd written, and I lied and told him I did. He asked if I had any pics. I lied and told him no. He asked for my ZIP code. An innocuous question. You can't stalk someone based just on a ZIP code, right? So I gave it to him. Minutes later, he replied, telling me the location of a Walmart about 15 minutes away and ordering me, if I was really serious, to drive there, buy a webcam, and be back in front of the computer in 30 minutes. I started shaking, confronted for the first time with my bluff. Not only that I'd be seen, but that my image would be associated with the profile I'd created. My body shook like I was naked outside on a January day. But I told him I would obey, threw on some clothes, and tore out of the apartment.
I raced against traffic to get to the Walmart, and scoured the aisles with growing panic as the seconds ticked away. Sweating, I grabbed the first employee I could find, demanding to be shown the webcams. Too many to count. Too many to compare prices or features. I grabbed the first one my hand touched and ran down to the cashier, only to stand in line for five precious minutes as the incompetent whore delighted in calling for managers and price checks and delaying me from completing my mission as ordered.
Back in the car, I counted each little flash of the digital clock on my stereo at every red light. I wasn't going to make it.
I literally sprinted into the apartment, not bothering to lock my car in the lot or even close the front door. I slid in front of the laptop and breathlessly pecked out that I'd returned. If I'd had to speak the words, I'd have failed. My heart was pounding too fast and my breath, after the nerves and the run upstairs, simply wouldn't allow it. He told me I was late, but that he might let it go depending on how I looked. He ordered me to install the camera and message him when it was working. I took the time as the software loaded to close the front door and returned.
His first order on seeing me was that I strip and display myself to him. I obeyed. I could tell he wasn't impressed, but he said he was willing to give it a try. Attitude was the most important thing, he told me. I'd have to prove my obedience.
I told him I understood and was ready to prove myself in whatever way he wanted. He asked me what toys I had. I explained I had a few things from playing but that I had no long-term BDSM experience. I listed what I had: a dildo, a dildo harness (sort of a chastity belt for the ass, designed to lock in the dildo with leather straps, metal buckles, and padlocks), clothespins, a CB3000, a metal collar (of the chain variety one might have for a dog), a metal ball stretcher with crusher attachment, and real police-issue handcuffs (from a former roommate who'd been a cop).
He ordered me to move the laptop and camera to the floor, and to get shaving cream, razor, and a bowl of hot water. He ordered me to shave my pubes and ass while he watched. I obeyed, naturally. The he ordered me into all of my gear, step by step. First, the dildo in the harness. Then the dildo in my ass. Then the harness strapped on. Then the padlocks locking the harness. Then the metal ball stretcher, which bolted on with an Allen wrench. Then the CB3000. Then the clothespins, first on my nipples, then on what skin of my nutsack I could attach them to through all the equipment obstructing my genitals. Then and only then the collar. And finally, the handcuffs.
I knelt in front of him patiently as he watched. In my heightened state of arousal, I felt him growing distant in the silence. I began to wonder if he was even paying attention to me anymore, or whether he'd moved on to message someone else. I asked if there was anything I could do to entertain him. He asked what I had in mind. I replied that I didn't know.
That opened the door to a barrage of questions. Was I out? As a slave, or just as gay? What did I do for a living? What was my living situation--alone or roommate? What possessions did I own, and what did I think he would want for his own? What would I do with the rest of them if he claimed me? What was my family situation? What was my education? How did I know I wanted to be a slave?
That last question became my downfall, because it was the segue into a detailed world exploring my experience and desires. Had I ever been owned before?
How long was my longest role play? What had happened? How had I met that dom? What turned me on most? Could I take pain? I answered everything, my lust renewed and growing, typing as fast as my cuffed wrists would allow, as I sat virtually naked--except for the gear I wore at his command--and freshly shaved in my living room in front of my laptop and brand new webcam.
I loved CBT, I told him. I'd once paid a college kid to hurt my balls and make me service him. He'd made me lick mud off his black leather boots, then suck his filthy, sweaty toes. He'd made me deep throat him until I puked, then made me lick it up. He'd cuffed my hands and kicked and slapped and squeezed my nuts until I cried like a girl. He'd made me rim him. Then he'd fucked me. Not gently, but hard, with only enough lube to make sure the condom wouldn't rip. I'd always demanded a condom. To protect the value of my future master's property, I justified to myself and the doms I played with. I poured out my heart to this young master I'd only just met.
I had fantasies of bestiality. Sucking dogs and being fucked by them. Rimming them, maybe. Sucking horses, and maybe more. He quickly followed up by asking if I had toilet experience. I told him the college kid had made me drink his piss, and I'd done it a few times and even drunk my own before. He ordered me to get a cup and piss in it, immediately. I hadn't gone in a while, but I was so nervous it took ages to get a flow started. He ordered me to set the cup aside.
We continued chatting. Had I done scat? I hadn't, but in my lust-filled desperation I told him I would. I would have told him anything. I did tell him anything. I told him everything. And at the time, in my cock-crazed, cum-deprived world, it was all true.
He asked me how I pictured my life as his slave. Of course, the decisions would be up to him, but if I had my darkest fantasy come true, what would it be? I told him. I wanted to be shaved from head to toe. To be tattooed with the Chinese symbol for slave on the back of my shorn scalp, on my sternum, on my ass, even the soles of my feet. I wanted the marks to be in his view however I served him--with my face buried in his crotch or while he fucked me in any position. I told him I wanted to be caged, but would work a job if he demanded it or if he thought it would humiliate me more. He loved all my suggestions.
He asked if I'd been fisted. I told him I hadn't, because I was sure my master would want a tight hole so I didn't want it ruined before I was owned. He told me he wanted a loose, sloppy cunt hole. A hole that could take his arm to the elbow. Or even the shoulder. Or maybe his foot. And we'd definitely get a dog, he promised, because he wanted me to indulge my bestiality fetish. He lived in the Southwest--he told me precisely where--and said horses wouldn't be hard to manage either.
He told me he would never bathe again. My tongue would be his washcloth. He told me he'd never buy toilet paper again. My tongue would suffice for that, too. He told me I would drink every drop of piss that squirted out of his cock, and eat every turd he squeezed from his ass. Eat every turd he didn't make me smear all over my pathetic slave self, anyway. Then, and only then, did he order me to drink the tall glass of piss, now acrid and cold. He watched on the cam as I grimaced at the taste but swallowed it all.
He called me a good boy and asked if I had any Ben Gay. When I told him I did, he sent me for it, then watched as I carefully removed the CB3000. He made me jerk off with it, making me rub it into my piss hole. He allowed me to take off all the clothespins, but mainly those on my sack to cover it with the burning cream--as much of the flesh as I could get to around the metal stretcher I'd bolted on. He didn't let me cum, ordering me to take my hand away each time I got close. He made me take off the dildo harness and smear the stuff into my hole. He made me finger fuck it first, then fuck it with the dildo, also coated thoroughly with Ben Gay for lube. And then the harness went back on. And the CB3000. He watched as I took the laptop to the kitchen and dropped the keys to the CB3000 lock, the harness padlocks, and the padlock I'd fixed to the collar, into an ice tray to be frozen.
He then began to ask about my availability to relocate. I told him a few months, until my lease ran out. He told me I was a faker, that the lease didn't matter if I was a slave. What's a credit rating to a slave? I agreed and told him a couple weeks, so I could give notice at work. Again, he asked me what good was notice? I'd never be back. Any job he made me work would be cash under the table. He wasn't paying taxes for me. I told him I would leave as quickly as I could get rid of my stuff, but didn't he want a trial run--a week or so to test me out? He asked if he was what I wanted, or if I was just playing games. I swore I was serious. Then he told me he believed my profile, so if I wasn't lying, he didn't need a trial. And if I was lying, he'd just kick me out. It was up to me. I'd have given up my job, and given all my possessions to charity except what he claimed, so if I wasn't serious, I'd be the one with nothing to go back to. And he told me that the next afternoon, I'd be displaying all my possessions to him over the webcam so he could decide what the items he was going to claim were. He rattled off a number of charities that would gladly send trucks and removal men to take away the rest. He told me I'd call them the next day and set up an appointment.
I told him that in that case, I could be there by the end of the coming week. I would drive my car--soon to be his car--the 14 hours to where he lived. And he said he was pleased at my eagerness, so I beamed. And then he told me he wanted insurance. Insurance that I was who I said I was, that I would stay in my gear over night, especially that I wouldn't cum, and that I wasn't playing around. I asked what he wanted for insurance, a scan of my driver's license, anything. We pondered that together, but he wasn't satisfied. Having just turned 21, he knew all about fake IDs. Eventually, I foolishly offered to export my Outlook contact list. Then he'd know who I was for sure. And everyone I knew, too, family, friends, coworkers. If I did it immediately, he'd know I hadn't had time to fake it. He liked that idea, and, so, quickly, it was done. The file was exported and emailed to him.
And then he ordered me back to the kitchen. I poured out the remaining contents of a half gallon plastic jug of milk in the fridge, then filled it to the brim with water before recapping it. He had me take ties from my closet and tie the water to my metal stretcher, stretching my balls to their limit. I was to drape this contraption over the foot of the bed, sleeping with my knees--and balls and jug--hanging over the footboard as he watched. He'd hang around just long enough to make sure I obeyed while the ice froze around the keys, and to make sure I didn't disturb the jug. He said he was glad I liked CBT; he wanted to stretch my balls until they passed my knees. Until he could make me crawl and they would get rug burn from the carpet. He told me he'd seen pictures of it online, so he knew it could be done. And I thanked him.
I went to bed, but I could not sleep, the overhead light shining brightly to illuminate my eager, hormone-driven compliance with his orders, the ache burning in my balls and gut, the unsatisfied lust oozing out of my pores.
I must have dozed off, because I awoke with daylight filling my room in addition to the overhead light. My legs were sore, but nothing compared to my poor balls.
He'd ordered me not to undo any of my gear, but I needed to piss and shit. And I really wanted to jack off. Really, really wanted to jack off. But I didn't dare. For the first time I'd found someone who seemed real, who was exactly the hot, dominant master I wanted. At least that I wanted in these fits of cum-deprived horniness. If I melted the ice to get the keys, who knew if I'd have time to refreeze them before he came back? So I moved to the desk chair. My webcam counter informed me I had no viewers, so waited impatiently, holding my bladder and bowels. I had no idea when he would awake.
I surfed the web. I often read the paper online, but never before while horny and geared up. I sat there for hours. And around noon, my buddy list came alive.
I instantly messaged him. He chided me for my impatience and ordered me to share my cam. I did. He saw my get up. He ordered me to bring the ice cubes, as expected. There were the keys, encased in their solid prison. Just like my cock and the dildo in my ass. He asked how I felt. I told him sore and horny.
I told him I needed to shit and piss. He allowed me to piss in my cup and drink it warm.
He then set me about the household inventory. He kept it short, not least because most of my stuff was crappy and outdated, but also to keep everything to a minimum to fit in my car. I wouldn't need clothes, he told me. After all, I was going to be his cage slave.
Only my computer equipment, my CDs (he'd go through them later), and some random kitchen stuff. Everything else was to go. He watched on the cam as I called a charity from the list he'd suggested and ordered a truck. Their first free day was the coming Tuesday. He'd let me keep clothes for work through Friday, and I could sleep on the floor. But I couldn't take off my gear or bathe (the harness was leather and would shrink). I reminded him I had to shit, and that I couldn't locked in the harness.
He said he'd let me shit if I ate it in front of him. Instantly, my cock swelled to painfully fill the CB3000. And suddenly, for the first time, I became skeptical. What did I know of this guy? How did I know he was what he said he was? This was one of those deep, dark, perverted fantasies, true, and I was horny enough--at least in my mind--to do it. But who was this guy? I delicately shared my skepticism with him, and he laughed. That I had come this far without questioning. That I was truly a desperate fag. But he would indulge me.
He turned on his cam, and there he was. Just as he was in his pictures. He asked if it was what I wanted, and my cock throbbed and drooled and I told him it was. He told me to stick the ice cubes in my mouth to melt them, and I did. I watched as he slipped off his t-shirt to reveal a lean, lightly hairy chest. Then he stood and I could see the hard cock forming part of the huge package in his threadbare jeans. He groped himself lewdly as I sat, drooling ice water and drool. And my cock drooled. And he unbuttoned the button and unzipped the fly to let me see he was freeballing, as the trail of medium brown hair descended from his navel to join the thick, untamed bush of his pubes just above his cock, which remained painfully out of view.
I begged to see him, and to watch him jerk off so I could know my obedience pleased him. He laughed--not just a LOL this time, a laugh I could see. He told me I could watch him jerk off as I chewed my fresh, steaming shit. I sucked those cubes hard and crunched the ice with my teeth. Finally, the keys were free and I spat them out on the desk. He ordered me first to take off the CB3000 and play with myself again. Tuning myself up, he called it, because he said I wasn't going to cum. In fact, I might never cum again. He might even have my balls removed, but maybe not because he liked hurting my balls as much as I liked having them hurt. He talked trash to me as I eagerly tormented my tender flesh with Ben Gay, masturbating feverishly with it again. He warned me against cumming. He told me if I ever did, I wouldn't be surgically castrated. He'd pop one of my balls. Just one, to leave the other to play with but still to punish me and give me a reminder of the lesson. And if I ever made him pop the other, he'd kick me out, marked and used up and unable to find any master to take my spent, disgusting body, and unable to rejoin the community of decent people anywhere.
I ate it up. And then, after I'd had to pull my hand away a dozen times just that afternoon, he told me he was ready. We went into the kitchen for a plate, the returned to the bedroom. He had me slide out the dildo. Creamy brown shit clung to it. The smell made my stomach turn and I began, for the first time, to have second thoughts. I was beginning to suspect I couldn't do this. Not after the fantasy came face to face with me. With reality. He ordered me to squat over the plate, and I did. It took some time to relax in that position, in that context, but eventually I felt my sphincter loosen. And out slid two long, smelly, foul brown logs.
I was horrified. And it showed on my face as I saw it in the webcam preview pane. But my eyes were instantly turned from the preview pane to the window of his webcam session. He stood and dropped his jeans, revealing a thick, 9" cock. It looked like a sawed off broom handle, it was so perfectly round, straight, and thick. And he wrapped one hand around it and leaned forward to type with the other.
"lick it," he wrote.
I scrunched up my nose and stared at the plate in my hand as I knelt on the carpet. The IM chime again.
"lick it now," he repeated.
I took a deep breath, bent my face forward, and stuck out my tongue, making sure everything would be in view as I barely grazed the shorter log with my tastebuds. As the bitter taste exploded in my mouth, the nastiness of my act exploded in my brain. But my cock throbbed painfully. I looked up to see his hand slowly sliding up and down his cock shaft.
"does ur cam take pics?" he wrote.
"yes, Sir" I answered.
"good. take pics of this so i can jerk off to them later."
At his instruction, I took a pic of my tongue pressed firmly into my own excrement. And then he wanted me to jam my finger into my shitty hole for the cam. I took a pic of that. And then to wipe the shit on my finger under my nose and over my lips. More pics. Then shove the finger up my nostril. Pic. Then eat. Chew. Pic. Another bite. Pic. Chew. Open mouth for the cam, revealing shitty teeth, gums, tongue. Pic. He stroked all the way through it. I was gagging between bites, but I was so horny. So fucking horny. I wanted to cum so bad. I did it all. I pressed my face into the turds, smearing the smelly, creamy stuff on my cheekbones, chin, nose, and forehead. Pic. I couldn't really smell it anymore. Or, I couldn't smell anything except for it anymore. Either way I was becoming numb to it. The shit in the nostril did it, I guess.
I smiled with one turd now safely in my stomach and the remainder spread all over the plate and my face. He had me scoop some up and massage it into my hair, like I was shampooing with it. Pic. The keyboard had shit smears on the keys now. I didn't care when he told me to email him the pics. Not that I'd get more shit on computer. Fuck, I'd lick it clean if he wanted me to.
And then he stopped jerking off and sat down, glaring into camera.
"i own u now bitch," he typed. "all those pics u sent. there all going right to ur email contacts if u dont do as u said u sick fuck. ur going to leave as soon as the truck picks up all ur junk and ur going to drive to me. ur going to stop at a barber shop on the way and have ur head shaved. all of it. ur eyebrows too so u look like a freak every where u stop for gas.
and ur going to get a marker and write slaveboy on ur forehead. and ur going to drive just like that. and if ur not here by wed morning i'm sending out some emails. ur mine bitch. i own u. u might have been faking b4 but u sure as fuck aint nemore"
And as I realized what had happened, with shit clinging to my face, with the pictures already sent, with the Outlook export file I'd completely forgotten from the night before, I was awash with horror. I had been bluffing. I had just wanted some intense play to get off on. But it was over now. My life. It was all over. He had me either way. I was either his, or he ruined me so my life would be meaningless. My friends. My coworkers. Even my family. They would all see what I had done.
And as the tears welled up, I realized too that my cock was soft now. And I still hadn't cum.