"So let me understand: You want to save him?" Ernesto said.
"Yes," George said. "Please. I think I love him."
The object of their conversation Ð little old me Ð sat with my penis draped over my balls, distracting George, who kept looking away from Ernesto to my package, and then to the rest of me, long athletic legs, hairy chest, sweet, sensual face.
I sympathized with George. I wouldn't want to try and stare down Ernesto, either. And, well, of course, I never had. I was, after all, his slave.
I was naked, hands cuffed behind my back, legs pulled apart by a spreader bar at my ankles. A leather dog collar was all I wore. I couldn't have been more open. My entire posture was one big invitation to do things to me.
"He told me," George said, "what you do to him."
"Did he tell you that he liked it?" Ernesto said.
"How would anybody liked being pissed on? Being dragged around by their hair and whipped all the time?"
"You think he objects?"
"He told me you hurt him. That you can't get off unless you're hurting his balls or sticking something too big up inside him."
"Yes, I do all that and more to the little slut. Did he also tell you that he gets on a suit and tie and goes to work every day at the bank? He has plenty of chances to get away from me, if that's what you think you're doing here."
"You've got him brainwashed somehow."
I sat on the couch and listened, watching each of them. I was flattered at being the object of all this attention, and it showed. I was getting hard and there was, of course, no way to hide it. They both noticed it immediately.
"See?" Ernesto said. "You talk about hitting him, he gets hard."
"Because you've got him conditioned."
"You're damned right. And it took me a long time, because this guy, he doesn't always like to do what you tell him. He wasn't so docile when I first got him."
"What in the world have you done to him?"
"You think he's mistreated? Ask him. Ask him right now. See if he'll get up, put on his clothes and go with you."
I, of course, didn't have a say. I wasn't even supposed to speak, or I'd pay for it with a clip on my nipple or a hard slap in the face or a squeeze of my balls so hard that tears would spring to my eyes.
I'd been Ernesto's slave for a year; I still easily remembered every detail of him collaring me. I was in the dining room, just around the corner from this very couch I am splayed out on, hands cuffed behind my back and on my knees on a little pillow next to his chair while he ate the omelet I had made. He would occasionally feed me a piece of omelet (delicious, if I do say so myself) with his fingers, or put the goblet of red wine to my lips. I had to suck his fingers clean every time he fed me and, as usual, he would get the urge to be sucked off while eating, which I was doing when he spoke.
"You are," he had started the conversation, "still seeing other guys?"
Yes, I had nodded, not easy to do with his penis in my mouth.
"You like them?" he asked. "They fuck you good? They tie you up and beat you when you are bad?" He lifted my head off his penis so I could respond.
"I like them," I said in a little voice, still not looking at him, not daring to. "But I like you much better, sir. I might evenÉloveÉyou a little."
"That's good," he said, and he stretched and patted his stomach. "Because I don't like you with other guys. For meÉwell, I'm the master, I fuck who I want, when I want. But you. That's another thing. That's something I don't want. Ever again. Unless I tell you to do it."
"Oh, thank you master," I said, and I meant it. I was handcuffed, so I couldn't hug him, and it was forbidden for me to touch him unbidden anyway. But I kissed his thigh repeatedly, anyway, then put my cheek on his crotch. Something literally fluttered inside me. If he wanted to beat me for breaking the rules, it was worth it to be able to be so close to him right then.
He lifted my head gently with both hands and kissed me full on the lips. His tongue thrust into my open, yielding mouth and played with my tongue. I kissed him back hard and ardently. Then suddenly he pushed my head away, and I toppled over on the floor. He straightened up and began to eat again. I stayed where I was.
"Good, then," he said, not looking at me looking up adoringly at him. "Move in here tomorrow. Bring clothes. Put the rest of your junk in storage, or throw it away. I don't care."
And that is how I came to be owned, another man's property, no more rights than a pet, but lots more responsibilities. Yet it settled on me easily; I'd always known, somehow, that this is what I wanted. I was always, even as a child, fantasizing about being tied up and helpless, and somebody fondling me and sucking hard as someone put a finger in my mouth andÉelsewhere. I masturbated to that fantasy all through high school and college, but it wasn't until I'd been out in the world for years that I got up the courage to go online and discover there was an entire world of people like me out there; people who wanted me, because I would do the things they needed, some things cheerfully and some with revulsion and a little hard persuasion. But I did all those things, because that's what those men wanted, and that was what I was all about, at the dark secret core of me: I had to serve. Had to be humiliated. Had to be hurt.
By the time I'd met Ernesto on line, I'd been a slave and a slut for half a dozen years, two of them exclusively to a painter in Hong Kong when my career at the bank took me there. He was another man for whom it was as much about cruelty as sex. I became a party favor at his poker nights: For a night, the big winner got me, too. They left a lot of marks, and they didn't care Ð someone else's property, after all, and who cared whether a slut cried or screamed? That's what they are there for, after all.
But I'd never found anyone like Ernesto, for whom being a master came so easily. He was like a conquistador, with his soul patch and his sense of command and his willingness to try absolutely anything (on me, at least), even though all he actually commanded was a small Latino construction crew outside Atlanta.
He already had a slave when he met me, whom he let beat me so that the slave, who was quite upset about having another little slut alongside as we both worked on Ernesto, would not quit him. When Ernesto collared me and moved me in, too, the slave left. I was inordinately proud Ernesto would give up a slave for me.
I worked so hard for him as his slave. I wanted to show up the one who had just left. I cooked. I cleaned the house. I massaged him when he came home tired and sore. He usually got home before me, working construction and all, but when I got home a few hours later I was expected to strip just inside the door, hanging my suit on a hangar, crawl naked with a riding crop in my teeth to him in the big easy chair in the living room, where he would be watching Spanish-language news or sports on television, and kneel before him. He might want a drink; he might want me to take him in my mouth; he might just want to get up from the chair and beat me with the crop.
I had some principles left, despite giving myself wholeheartedly and unreservedly to him. (The formal slave contract he insisted I sign said he "owned" me forever, and I happily signed. We both meant it; I could tell when I looked in his eyes as he put the collar on me for the first time after we came home from dinner at the best restaurant in Atlanta.)
I didn't do blood or shit, and I had never been fist-fucked, and wasn't really interested. He did get the little tattoo on my ass that he insisted on ("Property of Ernesto") and the ring under my penis (no more going to the gym for me. I was happy to be naked for him in front of a bunch of men in some S&M club, and proudly stick out my ass to show the tattoo and affirm that yes, I was his property. But people I worked with frequented my gym, and I couldn't have them seeing my little private treasures.) Luckily, he had a workout room in the suburban house he owned.
But the fist fucking bothered him. Eventually it became a point of controversy. "If you loved me, really loved meÉ" he would say. Finally, one night in bed, me lying next to him, hand and feet bound as usual, as we cuddled (he would always gently help me out of bed to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed before he fell asleep; no soft bed for slaves), I told him I was ready. We had just finished a little game we played while making out. He would ask "Whose pussy is this?" and I would say "Yours, Sir" and we'd go through my penis and my mouth and hands. Somehow, affirming it formally like this turned us both on, and occasionally he would get so turned on, with me squirming against him and telling him what parts of me he owned, he would get up on his knees and stuff his cock in my mouth and it would take me very little time to bring him off, helped of course by the fact he was twisting my nipples or slapping my puffed out cheeks.
"Here is my recommendation," I said that night. "If you want to do it, then you want to tie my hands, and tie my feet spread wide apart. Use lots of grease, and also use lots of poppers on me. Drive me wild, so I won't spoil the fun by getting frightened and objecting in the middle of things. And if I start to say no, which I am likely to do, once I feel all those fingers trying to get inside me, gag me. I do not want a safe word, and I do not in fact want you to stop under any circumstances. That is why it is important to tie and gag me."
"God," he said, "I love you."
He didn't fist fuck me often. He much preferred having his penis in there. But he did occasionally, and as I feared, I got a little loose down there. Not a lot, but enough to notice. But I didn't care. It was all for him, and if he liked it, then I could deal with it. Of all the men in the world, I wanted only his hands on me, even though most of the time they were pulling and pinching and slapping and hurting, especially when he was mounting me and trying to come.
I went on the Internet and found other pussy boys for him, other slaves, other boy-cunts, and they came to the house and together we licked every inch of Ernesto, tasted every orifice, drank deeply and gratefully of every fluid, from his big, tea-spoon-sized drops of cum, to his piss kneeling together in the shower with our mouths tilted up to his spit ("Open that little pussy mouth") to the taste of his asshole. He liked two guys to butt each other with their heads (since their hands and feet were bound) to get their tongues in there, reaming him while he moaned, and the guy with the least time with tongue in his ass got a beating.)
And that's how we came to this. George I met in a chat room when he contacted me to say he might be interested in trying a slave; he'd never done anything so kinky before.
I started telling him about life as a slave, and what he might do with somebody like me, and he got increasingly incensed as I described what Ernesto typically did to me on an average night.
"He beats you?" George wrote. "He lets other guys fuck you while you're tied up?"
"What do you suppose a master does?" I wrote him back.
"Tie you up," he replied. "Spank you. I didn't realize there were guys who really hurt their slaves."
He insisted on coming over.
"Let him," Ernesto said, looking up from the television. "Maybe I'll beat you in front of him. You can watch the look of disgust on his face."
And so, the next afternoon, here was George at the door. He was cute. Not tall and angular and assertive and ever so macho like Ernesto, with his smooth, muscular body and his dick the size of a fat sausage (and as delicious), thick and uncut.
George was shorter, hairier, younger. He wore glasses. Had a beard. But underneath his geeky clothes, George was built like a little wrestler. When he came in, standing as he was at crotch-level with my eyes, I looked at him and wondered hungrily what he had down there. I was getting very interested in finding out, if Ernesto would let me.
"Here is my slave," Ernesto told him as they entered the living room to find me all opened up on the couch like a big unwrapped Christmas present. George's eyes went wide as they traveled all over my nakedness.
"He'd get up and shake your hand, but as you can see he's a little indisposed," Ernesto said. "Plus slaves don't get to meet people the normal way. They're always supposed to be naked." I looked up and smiled at him sweetly. I liked him immediately.
And now we were talking about Ernesto's beating me. "I'll do it for you right now," Ernesto told George. "You can watch him roll around and listen to him shriek. In fact, you can whip him yourself, if you like."
"All I'm concerned about is if he's alright, here with you."
"You don't have to worry. Tell him, slave. Tell him if you need rescuing. You have permission to speak."
"I don't need rescuing, Sir," I said to George
"You say that now, but what about later, when this guy is gone?" Ernesto asked.
"I love Ernesto," I said, looking directly at George, and I hated to say it to this man, who had been so sweet and so worried about me. But it had to be said. "I love what he does to me. And he does it in the spirit of love. I think you may have misunderstood me in the chatroom, Sir. If so, believe me, I am terribly sorry."
"What are you, nuts?" George asked. "This guy can't come unless he's hurting you so bad you cry."
"Yes," I said simply.
"Fuck this," George said. "You people are nuts. I'm getting out of here."
"Not so fast," Ernesto said. "You don't believe me, let me get outta here for a couple of hours. You can stay, talk to the slave; hell, get a blow job off him for your troubles, for all I care. I've got a whole dungeon in the basement, all kinds of stuff you can do to him down there. You'll see what I already know: He is a worthless piece of shit good for nothing but fucking and beating and pissing on."
It was decided that was how it would be. George would stay. Ernesto left to go to the mall.
The silky afternoon light lay between us as we regarded each other, he tight, clothed, tense, his eyes narrowed, not so much yearning like before; me naked and loose and, for the first time in a long time, a little sheepish being tied up naked in front of a man.
"You little slut," he said. "Where are the keys to the spreader?"
Once he had that off, he pulled my arms up behind me to an uncomfortable angle and frog-marched me down the hall to the cellar door. Down I went; the lights came on. He took the cuffs off, but quickly tied my wrists together over my head to a hook in the ceiling. Another spreader bar went between my ankles to keep me from jumping around and to hold open my groin. For a beginner, he seemed to take to the equipment like a natural.
He went to the hooks on the wall and selected a thick riding crop. He whooshed it through the air once or twice, so fast it sounded painful before it even touched me. He came back to me, facing me. I waited.
"You like pain?" he said.
"Yes," I said weakly.
"A lot of pain?"
"No," I said. "But I want what you want. What you want to do."
"Okay, then," he said. "I see the walls are sound-proofed."
"Yes," I said.
"Then I'm not going to gag you. I want to hear you shriek, you little pussy."
I nodded, not looking at him.
He went to the DVD player, selected a disc and put it in. Opera filled the room. He turned it up loud.
Whack. The first one, against my ass, wasn't that hard. He was getting his bearings. He tried again, harder. I jumped, moaned a little. The next one came very hard, so much pain, and I shrieked and jumped. More blows. I was bucking now as he came around to my front. I slumped, making little sobbing noises. He tapped my scrotum with the whip.
"Bet that would hurt," he said.
"Please," I said. The whip came up fast and I shrieked again. I was to not stop shrieking for fifteen minutes while Placido Domingo sobbed too as he sang the crying clown Pagliacci.
I was blubbering when he untied me, there were tears on my face and chest and my ass and balls and back and legs hurt as never before. I looked down and they were striped angry red.
He led me to a waist-level Y-shaped table, bent me over, strapped my arms along the Y's, then strapped my lower back and my ankles to the thing. He stepped between the Y's, still clothed, unzipped himself, reached in and pulled out ten inches of long, thin dick. My eyes shone and I smiled an inane little smile. My reward for all that pain. My mouth automatically opened wide. He fed it to me with his hands, and I began to suck immediately, and happily. I got more excited, and not a little proud at my skills, when after a few minutes he began to moan softly. I bathed his dick, and then his balls, in little kisses and then in broad, wet tongue strokes. I could taste soap and sweat and skin and it tasted good. Like caviar and vodka at the end of a long day, and you've missed lunch and everything tastes even better than it has before.
But then he stepped away. I made a little disappointed noise. I frowned. I began to whimper in frustration. I wanted him back inside me. He came back into my field of vision with another short whip. He hit me on the ass with it, and then again.
"I'm going to put my dick back in your mouth, and if you bite it, all that stuff before is going to seem like playing tag," he said.
"I won't," I tried to say, but my mouth was already full with him.
He fucked and beat me, and we soon had a rhythm. When he was fucking my mouth hard, he beat me hard, one stroke for one stroke. When he was quieter, enjoying being sucked, he hit me only occasionally, almost reflectively.
As for me, I was in the clouds. I loved the taste and the feel of him, the heft of his cock on my tongue and the little noises he made and the way he thrust into me. And he reminded me of Ernesto in the confident way he handled himself, despite the dorky first impression. All I knew was, I could do this all afternoon, and anything else he required of me too.
He stepped away from me, and I strained forward to get my mouth on him again. I opened and closed my mouth, licked my lips, anything to lure him back.
"Tell me what you like," he said.
"I like your cock," I said, and I meant it. "And I like sucking on it. I could suck on you all day."
"Do you like the whip?"
"Yes, Sir, if you like it, then of course I like it, Sir."
"Good," he said. "Do you want some more cock?"
"Very much, Sir. Please Sir. My mouth is yours, Sir. Please do what you want with it."
And he did. He fucked my mouth and whipped me for another half hour, alternating hard and soft. Then he put on a show for me. Stepping away, he opened his shirt and stripped it off to reveal a broad, hairy chest. His pants came off Ð a cloud of dark curly hair around his penis, which jutted like a lance. His shoes came off, and he was naked. I wanted him to lance me with that thing in the worst way.
He left my line of sight and I could hear him behind me. A hand smooshed my ass, and it had a cold, slick substance that he smeared around my hole and up inside me, his fingers busy. I felt a great rush of anticipation; he would take my most intimate, most private place, and put himself inside it, and do what he wanted. I felt at once a surge of pleasure and of contentment. I was lucky; I did not deserve this, I had been taught. I was being given a great gift, and I had better appreciate it to the utmost.
"Whose soft little cunt is this?" he said softly.
"Yours, Sir, oh God, all yours, Sir," I said. I wanted him inside me badly. "Fuck my little cunt for me, Sir. Please fuck me." I thrust my ass out as far as it would go with my waist strapped to the table. I wiggled it at him. I was shameless. I didn't care. I would do anything for this man.
"I will fuck you," he said. "And I'm going to reach under and squeeze your balls, and if you think you hurt beforeÉ"
"Yes, please, Sir. Do what you want. Just fuck me please. Fuck me so good. Stick your big dick inside me."
I was babbling, I was so horny, so ready for him. And then he entered me. He was considerate and careful, god bless him, easing in carefully, but soon all of him was inside me and I was feeling that lovely, lovely full feeling, the feeling of being impaled on his love muscle. I moved with him, catching his rhythm, staying with him, as his hands held my hips and he started to pick up speed. I pushed back, and he moved even faster, pushing all the way into me, faster and faster, and I was shouting at the top of my lungs, nonsense words and filth and words of love, until finally he grunted with one last mighty thrust and collapsed on my back. His juice, I knew, was all up inside me, and I knew I would keep it there as long as I could. I would be walking around with something of his inside me for days, and every time I would think of it I would smile.
"Oh, God," he said. "Holy Christ."
His cock stayed hard. He started to straighten up.
"Please," I whispered. "Please, stay a little while. Inside me. Please."
He did. His hands had stopped squeezing my balls and were now stroking them. He jerked my cock slowly. I started to breathe heavily and make little mewling noises. Suddenly he stopped, straightened up and said "You haven't earned that yet, you little slut."
He picked up his clothes and I could hear him getting dressed. From behind me, he said "Your master will be home in an hour. In the meantime, you remain here. I hope it gets uncomfortable."
I heard him walk up the stairs, then across the living room, and heard far away the front door close and a car start. I was alone. And, not for the first time, I wondered: I'm a banker. An executive. I wear a suit and tie to work. A banker who sucks a construction worker's cock. Who fucks whomever he tells me to. Who washes dishes and cooks and vacuums in nothing but a pussy little apron.
What the hell am I doing here?
When Ernesto came back, he was actually a little jealous, I think. He beat me hard and fucked me with no other lube but the cum drying inside me. We went upstairs, ate a quick dinner and he took me to the bedroom and fell asleep immediately while I lay on the floor naked and bound, waiting for sleep, my head still buzzing.
I had two men's cum inside me and I was sleeping naked on a construction worker's cheap shag carpet, my arms bound behind me. And I had never been happier. God help me.