There is no better way to wake up than with somebody's balls draped across your mouth and nose.
"Look alive, chico," a voice says. My eyes flutter open. I inhale the familiar smell and smile contentedly. My tongue reaches out and flicks softly at his scrotum.
"Good, you're awake," he says.
"Yes, Sir," I say meekly.
"I have good news for you," he says while I lick busily at his balls. Otherwise I do nothing. I wait, expectant. I know better than to speak without being bidden. There is a price for that.
"First, I'm going to let you blow me right now," he says. "Second, I decided tonight's the night."
I shudder a little.
"What do you say?"
"Thank you, Sir, for these two great gifts. I don't deserve them."
"No, but they amuse me. And that's all that matters."
He eases his cock into my mouth and I accept him gladly. I sigh with happiness. He begins to move in and out. I am untied, and I clasp his hips with both hands. He thrusts harder and faster, and within a minute or two he sighs loudly and comes. It fills my mouth and dribbles down my chin. I try to swallow as much as I can, chugging thirstily.
He must have been playing with himself, I think, to come so soon, perhaps while watching me, naked, asleep, unaware, helpless. The thought makes me, inexplicably, hot.
I have belonged to Ernesto for six months, and I wear a leather collar that has his name embossed on a little metal plate and a tattoo on my left ass cheek that says "Property of Ernesto" and which means I can no longer shower at my club.
Ernesto runs a crew for a big construction company that builds houses out in the suburbs; he is tall, rakish, with stubble and a little soul patch under his mouth, an earring that makes him look a little piratical, white teeth and curly dark hair. He's the kind of guy quiet little men like me fall for big. In fact, he is catnip to all kinds of men, and women, too, my Master. How many times have I felt like throwing my arms around him while he flirts with some cocktail waitress, although I dare not.
I, on the other hand, am a very straight-looking -- indeed, straitlaced, or at least I once was -- short, middle-aged Anglo professional, a banker who wears expensive suits to work and stops by the shoeshine man at Union Station every morning. The Master likes my hair close-cropped, so that is how I wear it.
Even though I am an executive, in charge of dozens of people, and even though I have only been with him six months, it is a little mouse he has already made of me, a timid little creature who scuttles about the house naked and fearful, cooking and cleaning and trying to anticipate his needs and desires. I flinch when I make a mistake -- dropping a glass or running his bath too hot -- for he often hits me, usually a slap but sometimes with his closed fist. I have to explain the bruise the next day at work.
I also flinch often when he has men in, starting at their sudden movements, their loud voices as they eye my nakedness like a sizzling piece of meat and make jokes about me, my eyes averted from their faces, anxious -- no, desperate -- to please, ready to take a strange cock in my mouth without hesitation and suck like it was a delicious piece of fruit because the alternative is indeed a painful one.
Tonight would be the next step down this road I am taking. To embrace the fear, to overcome it, to own it. To let my motivation be instead to be the best slave for him; to keep nothing for myself. I dither all day, working myself into a state, trying to vacuum the rugs and scrub the floors, after he went out, not telling me where.
I have reason to be nervous. I had never done for anyone the thing he wants. I have never been fist-fucked before. Not ever. And now he will take my virginity.
I have always wanted to give him the things he wanted, and I had, most of them. But not this. Not yet. Still, it was time, I had been thinking. I sensed I hadn't yet crossed a line I knew to be out there, a line beyond which one loses one's self completely, a place where you well and truly abandon yourself to being fucked and degraded and performing whatever act your man wants you to do and wants to do to you, so that you then truly become capable of giving up control of everything that is you, so that you come to him naked and without pretense and ready to give him everything. To never, ever be able to think of yourself the same way, to know that the dark thing that was once safely inside you now owns you.
Yes, you will be owned utterly, an abject, pitiful thing. Yet there is power in being owned, too. You might be a possession, after all, but you could be a prized possession, like a Picasso or a prize-winning thoroughbred dog or a Faberge egg. That is all you can ever aspire to, once you cross the line.
So: getting fist-fucked. Doing this hard thing (hard for me, at least, who feared damage down there and who also prided myself on being a lovely fuck because of the tight clutch of my pussy) simply meant you had to let go of the old ways in which you thought of yourself and become something new. Something dar. Something bad.
"But," I had said, lying nude in his arms a few nights after he had mentioned his desire to fist me, "you had better tie me down, Sir, because I'm likely to try and fight you if it hurts too much, and you better gag me too. And lots of poppers, and lots and lots of lube. I want to be oily as the Ceasar Salad at the Three Arches, please, Sir."
"So that it won't hurt so much?"
"No," I said as I snuggled in his arms, "so your foolish little mouse doesn't spoil it for you."
He returns about three in the afternoon, flush from the brisk fall weather. He does not tell me where he has been, and I have learned not to ask. Once he cracked me hard across the face, and the second time he told me: Out fucking another slave who was, in fact, he said contemptuously, a far sweeter fuck.
But now he simply kisses me on the lips, something he rarely does. He puts an opera on the CD player and pours a glass of wine. While I kneel obediently on the rug next to his big leather chair, he tilts the wineglass so I can sip and he strokes my hair absently. Placido Domingo hits a high note and the late afternoon sun slants into the living room and drenches everything in butter and I wish this moment could last and last.
"Alright," he says suddenly. "Let's do it."
I jump up as he has taught me and follow him, naked and trembling, to the basement, where he keeps a gynecologist's exam chair. He motions and I climb in.
"Remember, please tie me tightly," I say, knowing I risk a smack on the cheek for speaking out of turn. "I don't want to spoil this for you with my foolishness."
He says nothing, and ties me so tightly I can't move anything but my head when he finishes twenty minutes later. My ass feels hot and sticky on the fake leather of the chair. I am having a little trouble catching my breath, and it's not just the ropes and straps taut around my chest.
He flips a switch, and the opera comes over two speakers in the corner of the basement. He regards me for a minute, so handsome and powerful in his black silk shirt and his tight jeans and construction boots. I look through the V of my spread legs at his crotch. He doesn't seem hard yet, but I know him, and he will soon. He gets off on pain; it makes him hard; helps him cum. And here is a new way to hurt me, if he wants to.
He opens the bottle of poppers, holds it under my nose as I sniff the fumes greedily. The first wave of heat rushes through me. I am all ablaze. I try to wriggle my ass, and can't. I look up at him in adoration through a poppers-fueled haze. He watches me closely as he pushes up his sleeves, tugs on rubber gloves, picks up a plastic bottle and pours lube over his hands and fingers. He holds up a lubed middle finger and watches my eyes widen as he inserts it all the way inside my ass.
One finger, wriggles it, pushes it in, pulls it out. Thrusts it hard. Then soft and slow. Then two fingers. Our eyes meet. We watch each other, as if trying to remember everything. I am so thankful he has set up a video camera on a tripod just to my side. I fantasize about holding him tight while we watch this video every anniversary of my collaring.
Three fingers inside, and now I groan. Out, and now the little finger too. And he starts to push them all in at once, his big, knobby construction worker's hand in my little hole.
I freak, and try to fight back, try to turn and protect my tight little ass, even though he is gentle, as he said he would be. But I can only move a little. No no no no no no no I scream through the gag. I cannot do this. I cannot give him this. I am a failure. I start to sob.
"Calm down, slave," he says in his calm voice, like he is gentling an animal, and I try to. But he pushes again, and again I try to twist my ass away from him or get one of my legs loose. No good. I am jerking hard against the restraints, but hardly moving, in danger of hurting myself if I struggle so hard again. And I suspect he is getting angry.
He stops, and just watches me for a while, all four fingers partly in my hole. Then, slowly, calm comes to me. I feel myself making a decision and crossing that line. He watches my expression change, gives me another hit of the poppers, and I relax more and he twists his hand a little and his fist suddenly slides in, like a just-christened ship slipping down the skids into the harbor. My eyes go wide.
"Damn," he says, admiring his handiwork.
I have never been so full, so...completed. All I know, as I look worshipfully up at him, is that if I can do this for him, I can and would do anything. Anything he wants or needs, each and very secret thing, no matter what it is. No matter how much it frightens me. I can do it.
"Look," he says, nodding at where I am impaled on his arm, trying to writhe under the tight straps, like a little whore dancing to entice a customer. "A boy on a stick."
Never have I felt so profoundly invaded, so completely overwhelmed. I want to hold him so close now, but I can't move my arms. I sob with frustration around the penis-shaped gag in my mouth, I lunge against the ropes and straps trying to reach him, to throw my arms around him. I cry out his name over and over in angry muffled frustration at these damned ropes. Master.
But he has tied me down tight like Odysseus in Greek myth, lashed to the mast while the three Sirens sang, unable to tear himself loose to jump over the side and swim to them. I always picture Odysseus like this: wild and naked, olive-skinned, muscular, pointed beard and curly hair blowing in the wind and white teeth bared in ecstasy, his thick uncut cock erect and proud as he listens to the singing of the three beautiful naked boys on shore, arms and legs and bodies entwined, hands roaming pink flesh, and he thrusts his cock into the wind toward them, his arms pinned behind him, and he is too beautiful in his passion and his helplessness.
I stop trying to reach up to him. Another feeling washes over me, a more familiar one. Now I start to thrust shamelessly on his fist, completely abandoned. Suddenly I am nothing in this world but a giant cunt with no purpose other than to take pleasure, a terribly wrong and selfish and foolish thought that I suspect my master would beat me for thinking. But I am a good slave and I make a mental note to tell him when he ungags me.
He can't hear me shriek "Deeper!" at the top of my lungs, or he doesn't understand, or doesn't care, for his fist stays steady and he studies me impassively while I realize I have never before been so horny, and try to work myself further onto his wrist.
All of me wants him, from my hair to my toes, like I have never wanted anyone. Right now. And, I realize as I lie here, pierced like a worm on a hook, wriggling and crazy with lust and desire, that I want him forever. He may in the future tell me to fuck dozens of cocks, or take a strange man's fist inside me, or open my mouth to some stranger's piss, but as of right now there is only one man I will ever willingly give myself to this way. Him.
Some slaves have told me it comes easy to them, the first time you have to do something you find really distasteful -- or even fear. Lying, for instance, on a cold tile floor or in a tub, and a man has taken out his penis and is pissing on you while you finger-fuck yourself for his amusement. He tells you to open your mouth wide, and pisses inside, and you grimace and turn your head and wince from the heat and the acrid taste of him.
And some slaves, when he is done, and he tells them to lick their lips and their arms and hands, like a cat, well, they make themselves do it and find the taste is not so bad, and it seems to be pleasing to the master. And then he tells them to get on all fours and lick the tiles, and some will grimace with distaste as they look at the cold pee glistening on those tiles but they have learned the lesson and they will bend humbly and open their mouths and extend their tongues and drink.
And soon they like the piss -- wait for it with anticipation, gladly, watching, twitching, eager, like dogs, as he begins to unzip his fly and tells them how full is his bladder. For it is him, they tell me, just him, after all. Hot and sharp. The taste of him. Why would it not be delicious?
And I used to look at them with incredulity -- piss was sticky and turned cold immediately and groveling in it was unpleasant and messy. But after a while I learned, and they were right. It was just the taste of him, like his ass and his beautiful white ropes of cum and the tang of his armpits and the garlic on his breath after he'd taken me, huge butt plug buried so deep in my ass, to Orsini's for veal and made me blow him, crouched under the checkered tablecloth. It was all him, it was his gift, his cock, his cum and his balls, and therefore it was beautiful, like everything else about him. He taught me that. I began not to care if anyone saw me under a restaurant tablecloth for him.
Then he let others grope me and piss on me, and I learned to like, or at least tolerate, that too. For him. One Superbowl five of his construction worker buddies came, and they pissed on the accommodating gringo one by one as I lay sprawled in the shower, mouth open and legs cocked in the air, as he had commanded. All but one. He looked down at me and said in a loud voice "I don't want to piss on him. I want to hurt this little maricon."
"Whatever," I heard my master say absently from down the hall. And the man did. I was afraid of him after that. I would find him looking at me across a room with a very strange look in his eyes, yet I recognized it. And, naked and vulnerable and dragging a chain or handcuffed or suspended from the ceiling, in a room full of naked men, like a mouse in a room full of cats, I could see only him. I shivered.
Finally, like the first rumblings of a mighty earthquake, Ernesto's fist moves inside me. It is what I have been whining about behind my gag and squirming like a puppy for. It is what I want more than anything. And I rock with it, in time, as much as I can. He poppers me again, and then himself, and his other hand reaches down and unzips himself and unfurls his cock. He begins to pump furiously. He smiles a smile of pleasure and triumph and pride all at once, and I love him for it.
And then he comes, long streams of cum across my thigh, and he falls forward across my twitching penis and stomach. He lies there for a minute and I am in heaven with him so close. I listen to his ragged breath. Then he rises, withdraws his hand roughly -- I cry out at my sudden emptiness, my pussy now just another hole, and I break wind uncontrollably -- and he walks around the chair to my mouth and unbuckles the gag and as I sniffle from the loss he lets me suck and lick the stickiness from his penis.
"You did well, chico," he says as my cheek fills with him. When he has done, he steps back, zips his jeans and regards me again for a moment, as if seeing the difference inside me.
What have you done to me, I lie there wondering? What have you turned me into?
Then he turns out the light and goes upstairs without another word, leaving me there. There will be no release for me tonight. I am lonely in the dark. And empty.
I wish he had at least put a big dildo inside me.
A few days later I am serving him the omelet I have cooked just the way he likes before squatting at his side naked at the kitchen table while he eats and reads the newspaper and gives me little sips of coffee before I lace up his work boots for him and he goes to work. I am still completely smitten. Every time I think about that night, I want to hug myself or reach for his cock, which is, of course, forbidden without permission. Now I allow myself just one small kiss on his jean-covered calf. He does not reach down and strike me.
"You're going to do something else new for me this weekend," he says instead. I say nothing.
"We're going to borrow your friend's house. The one in horse country," he says. "The weather's cool, and there'll be nobody around on the other farms, and besides your little pal has a lot of land. And I am going to tie you to a tree and beat the shit out of you so you scream and scream, with no gag, because nobody can hear you. You will sing your greatest hits to me. Loud."
I shudder. The cat rubs against my thigh, as if in sympathy. I summon all my courage. And my trust. I can do it, and I will do it, I think. For him. The man who owns me. Thinking of him, of what he will do to me, starts to make me hard.
Friday night. We are on the Interstate. It is dark and chilly. He is driving my car, and without looking at me, he says "Take off your clothes."
I do what he says, shivering in the car, the leather seat cold.
"Throw them out the window," he says.
"My shoes, too?" I say. I am wearing Ralph Lauren, and Italian loafers.
Like lightning, his hand snaps across and slaps me hard. I see stars. I push the window button and throw the clothes out flapping into the night.
"Don't fuck with me again," he says as I roll up the window. "Remember what we're about to do. Now get the towel that's on the backseat and put it under your skanky whore ass. Move!" I do.
He reaches for the back of my head, pulls me down. "Now put your soft little mouth on my dick, you little fuckface. I'm already leaking like a motherfucker. I want to be good and hard the rest of the ride. And if I feel teeth, I'm going to give you to that big dog they keep there."
It's a huge house hulking in the moonlight, big lawn and a big apple tree, bare of branches, to one side.
He gets a bag from the trunk. It is, I will learn, filled with sex toys and quirts and his clothes. No clothes for me. "Come on," he says.
The gravel walk hurts my bare feet so that I stumble. Under the tree, the bare earth is cold against my feet. He puts leather cuffs on my wrists, locks them together. My arms and manacled wrists go up over my head as he throws a chain over a tree limb and hauls. Then he attaches leather ankle bracelets and a spreader bar that has me wobbling as I try to balance. Completely open and vulnerable, I look up at the cold stars through the branches. The wind is cold. I am so proud of myself. I don't beg. I simply wait.
I scream. He's hit me hard with a riding crop, harder than he has ever hit me before. It's like a burn, like I imagine a cigarette might feel. This is not right. I shriek involuntarily, like an animal.
"Please don't. No. Oh god, please," I whimper. I do an awkward dance with the spreader bar holding my ankles apart. He starts to hit me over and over on my bare ass, putting his body into it, and I start screaming nonsense words. I have never hurt like this, and I really don't think I can stand it. I piss myself; I can't help it, lurching in all directions, legs spread and useless, I spray piss all over.
"You piss on me, you little cunt," he growls, "and this will seem like a spa treatment."
I remember what the slaves told me, and I remember the fist-fucking, and I think not only can I do this, but I will do this, and learn to like it if that's what he wants me to do. After all, it is his gift. I must be grateful that he even pays attention to this little mouse he has captured.
Finally, after perhaps two dozen strokes on my ass, my thighs front and back, and my breasts, he stops. I sob quietly. I sound so sad, I think. But I am really so very happy. I have come through again. I have passed a test. I have taken another big step. I have given up another part of me.
He takes me down and, with an arm around my limp shoulders, helps me up the stairs into the foyer and up again to the bedrooms on the second floor. He lays me down gently on my stomach on a big plump four-poster bed with a frilly cover. I lie there, naked and sobbing, watching him shrug off his clothes. Naked now too, he starts a fire in the fireplace. Soon it is crackling busily. I look at his bare ass as he bends over tending the fire, the little pucker I have kissed so many times and explored with my tongue, the backs of his shapely hairy legs, his bare feet, and despite the pain I am in I feel my penis shift restlessly beneath me.
"I brought some salve," he says, crossing the room to me, his penis swaying gently. He opens the leather overnight case, takes out a white tube and spreads the cool smooth cream across my ass and the back of my thighs, rubbing it in very gently. I sigh. The room starts to warm up. A clock bongs somewhere in this big empty house. Suddenly his fingers are down around my hole, playfully twisting the little hairs he has let me keep down there, light, tickling touches, like little kisses.
I groan. I open my legs like the accommodating little whore I am and his fingers explore me down there. Then in a daring act, not being told to do so first, I turn over on my back and reach up for him like a baby. When he surprises me and climbs on top of me without a word, I wrap my legs around his waist and hold him tight. He kisses me on the lips, and I taste the Scotch he drank earlier. I nibble on his ear and, even bolder now, I whisper that I love him and I am never going to leave him and I will always do whatever he wants and be his timid little mouse that he will own always and that he may have other slaves but he'll never have one like this one, so worshipful and loyal and in love with every part of him, from his toes to his cock to his chest to his lush mouth. I sound a little crazy, even to myself, but I don't care any more.
He says nothing, merely reaches around and pries open my legs from around his waist. He kneels up, me spread wide before him, my penis starting to stand up, my little hole winking at him. He regards my pussy for a moment, and I feel a surge of pride. He rubs the lube on himself and then in my ass and slides into me easily and begins to move gently and before long I laugh, I cry, I babble to myself, my eyes go slightly out of focus. He smiles down at me. Soon my pussy will be full of his beautiful cum; he will leave part of himself in me, and I will not douche and will keep him in me all day tomorrow while I serve him, knowing there is part of him up inside me and feeling so proud.
Again, like the night of the fisting, I realize what I have become. The knowledge flows over me, liberating, bracing. It makes me whole. I understand what I am not in terms of words or silly girlish fantasies, where the ropes are loose and the pain is pretend and the fear and adoration are mostly acting, but deep down and big and visceral, like a fist in my pussy or a black man's cock in my mouth, the size of a cucumber. And I embrace it with all my heart as I listen to his breathing come faster and his moment approaches.
Before, I was mumbling words in a play; You own me and I am yours completely and oh Master so good! Now I don't have to say them. I feel them.
No, I am them.
I wouldn't change anything. And soon, it's entirely possible that I may not be able to.