Beloved Scraps by sbmssvbttm
Copyright 2011. This work is copyright and remains the intellectual property of the author. Any reproduction, either in part or in whole, without the express, written permission of the author is strictly forbidden.
Feedback: sbmssvbttm@gmail.com
Disclaimers:
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This a work of sexual fantasy. In real life, I advocate safer, consensual sex.
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If you are underage, object to gay erotic fiction, or it's illegal where you are, do not read this story.
Other stories by sbmssvbttm:
-- Uprooted -- [more to come]
Master sits in his leather recliner, still in his office attire, except for shoes and socks. He brought me up from the basement dungeon shortly after he got home, I assume. I hadn't been out of the basement in a week, also an assumption. The basement dungeon is sound proof and receives no natural light whatsoever. I helped design it and did most of the labor to build it, so I know how well it held me, his only gay male slave.
I kneel, naked except for the locked leather collar that I almost always wore and except for the manacles and shackles that he'd locked onto me before entering my holding cell and unchaining the collar. I shake with anxiety, worse than when I'd been alone and lonely in the dungeon, shaking because I was afraid that he'd withhold his affection and praise. He knows that I need it, that I need reassurance like a nervous thoroughbred horse needs to be petted and praised.
Soon after Master found me, we talked so much about me, what I need beyond food and shelter, how a Master would see those needs as part of an owner's responsibilities. He knew that I needed to believe that he understood it and that he would be a responsible owner of me. I had to believe that before taking the final step. Had to. Otherwise, it wouldn't be of my own free will that I became his slave. That's what we both wanted: the moment when, after months of training and smaller, easier steps towards my enslavement, he became my owner and I became a slave.
Or as close to a slave as is possible these days. He did his homework and formulated a series of contracts for me to sign, again of my own free will, in the presence of a lawyer who was also a notary public. Durable medical power of attorney. Durable financial power of attorney. Contracts indebting me to him for literally millions of dollars, when my net worth had been less than $100,000 and my annual gross income had been around $90,000. Unless he agrees to release me, he owns me and I wrote many pages freely about my life during the transformation and after, about how it is what I want, concluding just before he began this change in how he treated me, after it was too late for me to do a thing about it.
For several weeks now, he's had minimal contact with me. He ensures that I had food and water. He inspects my cell daily, to check that I did the small number of daily chores: making the bed, scrubbing the toilet and sink, scrubbing the concrete floor. He inspects me daily, ensuring that I clean myself, too.
He's punished me when I've slipped up. The punishments, hard paddlings, has left welts, has been done with me restrained and gagged, and has involved no sex whatsoever.
That is the most baffling part of this new treatment. He isn't using me for his sexual pleasure. This means that I'm not cumming either, although about once a week, he ensures that I shoot a load due to prostate massage. It isn't particularly rewarding, not meant to make me feel good, just intended to do minimal maintenance on my sex organs.
The rest of the time, I am locked in a steel chastity device, unable to get hard. This cessation of sex disturbs me. Is he already bored with me? Despite everything he's said, was it the processing of enslaving me that has aroused him such that I, for months, took up to five loads a day from his cock? Or is he denying himself the use of me so that he can train me?
After just the first week, I was jumpy and nervous when he brought me up to the family room, to kneel at his bare feet and do as I do now: lick them thoroughly, tops, bottoms, and suck his toes. In the steel tube of the chastity device, my cock hurts as it fights to be hard. Precum oozes out its end, stringing from the PA ring at the end of the tube. The PA made the device unremovable unless he unlocked me.
This is the fifth time that he's ordered me to clean his feet. I do as thorough and committed a job of it as I can. My tongue is tired and my mouth tastes of his feet. I think I know what he is doing. I've had so much time to think about it, to chase my tail for hours and hours locked in my cell. He is denying me the reassurance of interacting with him, replacing it with nothing, with loneliness, solitude, boredom, fear, pain. Licking his feet is like scraps to a starving dog.
I want to cry. I am dreading that, any moment now, he will order me to stand and then he will return me to my cell with only the words necessary to order me. If I do anything to delay him securing me to the collar chain in the cell and closing the cell door, he'll punish me. He's begun carrying a riding crop and will strike me hard enough to raise the skin, sometimes to break it.
Now I am dallying and shaking worse than when I started. I don't want him to take away this one intimate chore. Another week before I get even this little bit of affection, this one chance to show him just how much I. . . fuck. Tears start. I love my Master. I want to puke, too, so strong this realization is. I love this man for what he's done to me.
Unable to hold it back, I am crying hard now and sputtering, trying not to full-on blubber. Almost at once, he lifts the foot that I wasn't licking, places it on my shoulder, and pushes me up and back so that I am on my haunches, eyes down, my tears and now snotty nose visible.
"What is it, boy?"
"Sir, I'm so sorry, Sir. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you, Master. I l-l-love you, Sir." I start bawling after that last admission. "Whatever I've done, please please give me a chance to make amends, Sir. Please."
I am a pathetic piece of shit, certainly. A tall, muscled man, buzz-cut hair, all body hair removed by laser during the transformation period, pierced nipples, PA dangling at the end of the curved steel chastity tube, slave registration number, bar code, and my slave name tattooed on the back of my neck. I gave up a career to be owned by Master.
He says nothing but he stands up abruptly. I cringe, expecting him to hit me. I hear him unbuckle his belt and fear that he will beat me. Master is 13 years younger than me, a few inches shorter in height than me. He's slimmer than me, too. But there is no doubt who is the Master and who is his slave. I hear his zipper and feel surprising hope.
There is a rustle of clothing and then he grabs my head with both hands. He pushes my head back and I see that his cock is out, is as hard as he ever can get, and Master is leaking precum himself. Here, he is bigger than me. He is eight real inches when hard whereas I am just over six, and that seems fitting since he is clearly more virile than I, his possession, his boy, his caged slave.
"Open," he says.
I open my mouth and he shoves his cock in. His need is urgent and he facefucks me hard, growling orders for me to keep my teeth off his cock or he'll thrash me. He won't last long, I can tell. Never when he is like this can he keep from shooting for more than a few minutes.
Grunting loudly, he is nearing orgasm. He makes deep, hard thrusts that make me gag, holds the head of his cock pushed into the back of my mouth while my abs spasm. And then he shouts as he floods my mouth with cum. I cannot swallow with his cock pushed so hard into me, so my mouth fills with an enormous load, even for him. I tighten my lips around his shaft so that I lose none of it. It would anger him and I want it all anyway.
He eases off slightly and I manage to begin swallowing his load carefully. He is panting, catching his breath, still holding my head tightly. His cock still spasms but skipping a beat now and then, and then more often, as his overpowering to use me recedes, is sated for now.
I have stopped crying. I am overwhelmed by the taste and feel of him, his cum, his cock, his hair tickling my nose. And I am happy, because I know that he'd been very horny while I'd been licking his feet. He'd been hard and desperate to use me for one of the purposes that I knew he'd placed very high value on. Maybe he was just training me, just ensuring my obedience by denying me till I was starving for him, his presence, his control, his sex.
He slips his cock from my mouth. I want to look up, to read the expression on his beautiful face. It would anger him, though, for me to look at him directly. I can only do so now when I can catch quick, sidelong glances or when he orders me to look him in the eye, which is almost never these days.
He tucks his softening cock back inside his briefs and zips up his slacks.
"Up, boy. On your feet."
I obey him, grunting a little because I'd been on my knees for nearly an hour licking. He steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. Between my legs, my cock aches in its tube. The broad, locking steel cock ring also has made me sore, as it does when my groin engorges but cannot defeat the steel. A glob of precum, probably forced out by the action of standing, now dangles from the PA ring. My hands hang impotent, too, manacled, the chain grazing my hairless, pale thighs.
"Let's go. Downstairs, boy."
Despite the strong measure of reassurance that I'd gained from servicing him, I feel jarred by this order, jerked back to the reality of how he has been using me lately. I move forward, out the family room door, down the carpeted steps to the first floor, near the kitchen, the garage door, and short hallways towards the guest bedroom, his den, and the living room.
"Go on, down."
I hear it an instant before the crop strikes my right buttock. I try to stifle a yelp as I go to the basement door and wait.
He opens the door, pausing to double-check that he has his keys, and then he orders me through. I move down the stairs somewhat carefully. The shackles have enough slack to allow me to climb stairs but just enough.
I hear the door close behind Master as he follows me. The door requires his key to open from the inside.
I reach the utility room at the bottom of the stairs. It is dimly lit. The water heater runs but not the furnace. The washer and dryer are also quiet. I move to the next door and wait.
Master comes along, just a few paces behind, and opens the second door. I shuffle through when ordered. In the next room is the gym, full of good- quality weightlifting equipment. Free weights mostly, a treadmill, an exer-cycle, a few other station exercises. Master flips on the overhead lights but light from the short basement windows on either side of the house provide ample lighting despite their privacy film and bars.
The far wall, like the gym room, spans the whole basement. It is built of recycled red brick that I loaded into the rented truck and down to the basement while Master supervised. The wall is thick.
In a corner of the gym room is a steel door in that brick wall. I wait by it. Master unlocks it. Its inside is padded, its edges covered in cloth. The inside of the door way is also padded, right up to the inner door, another steel door, its inside also padded. Master unlocks the inner door and orders me into the dungeon.
The shackle chain dragging on concrete, I shuffle past the sunken portion of the dungeon, where I excavated a section the floor to have greater floor-to-ceiling height. Master wanted a whipping post and additional space for other ways of stringing up his slave that would stretch my long body without ceiling height limitations.
Beyond the pit, a corner of the dungeon is chopped off by two more brick walls and another steel door. It is the isolation cell and I already know to do anything to avoid time in it.
As usual, Master turns on only the dimmest light, some recessed LED lights. They are all he will leave on when I am locked up in my cage. I still feel conflicted. I am relieved that Master fucked my mouth and the lingering flavor of his cum reassures me. But I do not want to be locked away, not again. Not another week. Memories of sleeping on the floor of his bedroom come to me and my jaw clenches.
The holding cell door hangs open. The cell is set against the far wall of the basement. The other three walls of the cell are bars, floor-to- ceiling galvanized steel pipe, welded to cross-bars, painted black. The sink and toilet are bolted to the concrete exterior wall of the basement. The bed is a cot mattress on the floor. A simple cotton sheet covers it. Two blankets lay folded at the foot of the mattress.
Also lying on the floor is the collar chain. One end is connected to a heavy eye-bolt that is secured to the floor near the center of the back wall. The chain is long enough to allow me to move anywhere in the cell.
Master orders me in. I obey. I can feel the dampness of precum on my thighs and knees as I enter the cell. He slams the door behind me and turns the key, which is on a jailer's ring. He removes the key and steps to a nearby wooden post, one of the thick wooden posts that support the dungeon ceiling. He hangs the key there, well out of my reach.
I follow the protocol for this moment. I pick up the end of the collar chain and pull it to the cell door with me. There, I kneel and wait. He returns to the cell door and reaches through to pick up the chain. He has carried the lock in his pocket and now he uses it to secure the chain to a ring in my collar.
"Stand," he says. I do as told and hold my hands forward. He unlocks the manacles and withdraws them from the cell. He squats and does the same with the shackles. He steps away and hangs these on hooks on the same post.
He doesn't look back but walks on, to the door. He pulls it shut behind himself and I hear the lock latch. I can barely hear the outer door close. And then I hear nothing but the noises I make, my breathing mostly. The clink of the collar chain when I move. Nothing more.
I grip the bars with my hands. The loneliness begins to rise. It won't be that bad, I tell myself, not believing my own lie. Remember, he fucked your mouth. Remember how badly he wanted you. Remember how good it felt to lick his feet. It's all I have for now, a short hour of pleasing him. As the anxiety presses in on me, I focus on the memories of that hour, beginning the obsessing over those moments and all their sensations. Holding on to how I felt as I realized that I love my Master, that I love him for this existence.