(This is a work of adult fiction that includes scenes that involve BDSM and sex between consenting males. Do not read if you are under legal age or if you are offended.)
COCK HUNGRY, pt 2
By Scott Weatherby
He put down the camera and walked away while I remained bent over, fucking myself with the butt plug. When he returned, he held what looked like a Baby Ruth candy bar. I was confused. He didn't eat candy. I didn't eat candy. What was this? He took the plug and handed the candy bar to me; it was cold, like it had been in the refrigerator. "Shove this up your cunt, boy," he said.
I bent over, took the chilled candy bar and pushed it past my stretched and greased ass-lips and into my cunt. "Don't stop," he said. "Push all the way in, all the way inside you." When I did, I stood up and he stepped forward, put his finger under my chin, tilted my head back and kissed me in the way that only he could kiss. It never quite felt like rape -- the way his tongue would fuck my mouth while I sucked on it -- but it was damned close, and it never failed to make my knees weak. I loved the way his tongue forced its way into my mouth and then pushed and pulled like a hard cock fucking a warm, wet hole.
By the time he at last backed away, I was breathless. And hopelessly hot. But I couldn't think about that - he called for me to go into the bathroom next and to wait for him on my knees.
When he walked in, he reached into the linen closet and pulled out a towel and water bucket. He put the bucket under the spigot in the bathroom, turned on the hot water and filled it. He sat it on the floor next to me, then pulled out a plastic razor and shaving cream. After he dried his hands, he picked up the digital recorder and I saw the red light come on again.
"I will have many signs of your slavery," my Master said. "But this will be one of the most obvious. I want your crotch shaved bare. Balls, too. Anyone who happens to see you naked will know. It could be someone standing next to you at a urinal, who happens to glance over. It could be the entire locker room at the tennis club, after I've told you to walk across the room naked and take a shower."
He let that sink in for a moment. "What do you think they'd think, boy?" he said. "They'd have know immediately that you're some kind of faggot, wouldn't they? It'd be impossible to miss. And imagine the talk! Anyone who sees you naked going to know one simple truth: That you aren't man enough to have pubic hair. Get up, sit on the toilet and shave yourself. Now, boy!"
I could feel the Baby Ruth, still ice cold, inside me when I got up and again when I sat down on the toilet seat. The camera bore down on me as I splashed water from the bucket onto my crotch. I picked up the Barbasol he'd placed on the counter beside me. I leaned back, because it was easier to get to my crotch but also because I knew it gave him a better view. Which only reminded me again of how far he was taking me. I spread the lather and, without giving it much thought, began to shave my crotch. I hadn't been bare down there since I was a little boy.
No longer.
"That's right, boy," he said as he panned the camera down to watch my razor strokes. "Makes you feel 12 years old, doesn't it? You're marked now, boy. And you'll stay clean down there. Which means you'll never have sex with a woman again, unless I make you fuck some 400-pound bitch who can't get anything better. I mean, what woman would fuck a guy who doesn't have his hair down there? Maybe I'll get you tattooed too. The word 'slut' would look very cute across your pubes. Or the word 'slave.' Although both are probably self-evident the moment someone sees you like that."
By then, I had shaved my pubic area completely bare. It was the strangest feeling to run my hands over it when I rinsed off, to feel bare skin there rather than hair. And he was right; I felt as if I'd just shaven off my manhood.
"Look at me, boy," he snarled.
I looked up directly at the camera.
"You are so fucked up, boy," he said, as his free hand softly stroked my checks and chin.
"To let some man do this to you. Do you realize what I have on this camera?" He brushed his fingers against my lips, then dipped his index finger into my mouth. I immediately began to suck it as he slowly fucked my newly-named pussy. And he never stopped talking to me. "Do you realize what this makes you? Do you realize what a fucking absolute slut this makes you? Do you realize how completely you now belong to me? And look at you. How do you react to that? You have a fuckin' hard-on about it."
He looked at me with disdain and spit on my face. I could feel it dribbling down my nose and cheeks. He let the camera linger until it slowly dribbled down my chin onto my chest. "Get down on your knees, bitch," he said. "You'll take my spit and more." Even without knowing, I implicitly understood what was about to happen when he ordered me to unzip his pants and take out his cock. I waited until he told me to open wide and he rested the head of his cock over my lower lip. It was obvious: He was going to film me drinking his piss. Not just that, he was going to film me begging him for it, begging loudly with my eyes focused on the camera lenses.
It just no longer mattered. I'd given in so completely to it. Surrendered to it. To him. And so I begged him to feed me his hot piss. I begged him as if I'd just crossed the desert with no water. He had robbed me of all shame. I couldn't begin to imagine who might see me doing this - it could be anyone, and everyone. But every time that thought crept into my mind, I dismissed it. Because I knew what I was at heart. Because the need to be used like this consumed me. Because I simply no longer cared. It no longer mattered. I needed this. I belonged to him. That's what mattered. Because with him, came that cock. And his cock was what mattered now. Keeping it hard. Keeping it satisfied. Pleasing it. Pleasing him.
So when he told me to open up and placed his half-hard cock on my tongue and started to piss, I swallowed. It was that simple. I worshipped his cock. Even if it meant he'd turned me into his toilet. I should have died of embarrassment. Instead, I stared straight at the camera as I drank.
I managed to swallow most of it, although some of his piss had dripped down both sides of my mouth. When he pulled his cock out, it was hard and he slapped my wet face with it. "You fucking pig," he said. "You are an absolute pig. On your hands and knees, boy. I'm going to show exactly what kind of fucking pig you really are."
Once I was in position, he told me to rise up and cup my hand under my cunt. "Push it out, boy," he said. "Push it out and catch it in your hand."
The cold candy bar had reached my body temperature long ago and the chocolate was melting inside me. I now knew exactly what was about to happen, what this was about. He was going to make me eat something that had rested inside my cock-hungry cunt so long that it had melted.
"Come on, boy, shit for me," he snarled. I pushed that Baby Ruth bar out of my asshole, caught it with my fingers. "Now, turn around," he snarled. I turned on my knees until I was facing the camera, holding the messy candy bar in my hand. "Okay, now eat it. Slowly. I want to watch you enjoy what just came out of your asshole, your cock-hungry pig."
The candy bar had been inside me, sure, but that tunnel was clean except for lube, and I'd grown accustomed to eating his cock after he'd fucked me. So ass was not foreign territory for my palate. Besides, the sex had left me hungry. I slowly chewed the Baby Ruth bar while he filmed. It made a terrible mess; my hands were covered with chocolate and when I finished with the bar, he directed me to lick my fingers clean.
"Go sit at my computer, boy," he said, once I'd licked away all the chocolate. "I want the names and addresses and phone numbers of the five people you most DON'T want to see this tape. And then the five that you wish WILL see it. I want to know your relationship to them and why you do or don't want them to see you enslave yourself to me."
I scampered over and sat down. My hands went up to the keyboard as though I no longer had control over them. I simply typed in my father's phone number and address. And my boss's. And my ex-girlfriend's. And my best friend's. And my sister's. The five people I never, ever under any circumstances would want to see me like this.
Then the five I wish could see it. I typed in the name and number of a Master that I'd especially enjoyed submitting to. I typed in Fred, an acquaintance whom I knew was gay and suspected was into BDSM. I typed in the name Henry, a black man who worked at the tennis club who turned me on. I typed in the name and phone number of Doxey, a college professor who was the first to explore my submissive nature but never got to really use me because I'd freaked out and bolted, then avoided him the rest of my time in college.
I read over the list and realized that I'd just given my Master everything he needed to ruin me, completely and totally ruin me. Even just a one-minute slip from the video he now held over me would seal the deal. I had confessed everything. In full, vivid digital splendor. Knowing the full implications. How sick was that? How low had I just gone?
Not as low as I would go. I wasn't even close yet.