It's been a little over a month, the excitement has started to even out. The small, regular drains continue and my total tribute to Him is in the thousands, but even with the dildo, it is less dizzying. I start to think about stopping this, coming to my senses again as I have so many times before. I'm certain he doesn't intend to do anything with the information he's gathered; it's just play after all, there are laws against blackmail. My boyfriend has stood by me for so many years, even when I've been depressed and he deserves my love and I'm wasting our cash on this... what seems like silliness. The phase of regret begins, as it always does and I start thinking about how to pull away, how to let Him down gently and not hurt His feelings.
I write Him a short email before heading to work, telling Him I need to stop this, that I'm sorry for letting Him down, that I hope we can be friends. I thank Him for the intense ride and all the effort He has put in. It's a nice email, I'm very kind and gentle. I'm sure this will be fine. I hit "send" and go to work.
It's my boyfriend's birthday at the end of the week and I need to organise a dinner, so at lunch time I call a few friends to book them for that evening. It's one of those days where everyone seems busy, I keep hitting voicemail. Frustrated, I decide to leave it and try again later. I call my boyfriend, he picks up, then hangs up. I try again – voicemail. Weird.
Back at the office, just as I arrive at my desk, a courier delivers a document envelope. I open it and take out several printed emails, all sent from my home computer that morning, from my email account. One to my boyfriend explaining that I'm leaving him, that I've drained half of our joint account and taken all my stuff, that I've despised him for years now and I can't take it any longer; I need a Man who can use me like the slut I am. More emails to friends, to family, to the head of my church and key people in the church community, all telling versions of the same story, but with explicit, filthy details of how my life really is. There are pictures attached of me on the dildos – my eyes wide, my mouth agape. Through the growing, black fog closing over my mind, I notice how truly happy I look, mounted on that dildo.
I sit there, cock so hard it hurts, unable to move or really think, just breathing deeply and feeling the darkness overwhelm my body, my heart, my mind, my soul.
My phone dings and I rouse a little. I realize my mouth is hanging open and there's a trail of drool falling to pool in the crotch of my pants, right next to the spreading stain of fagslime from my pathetic cocklet which has soaked through my underwear and my business pants.
I see I have a Kik message from Him. It's short, "Faggot. Read your email". I have emails from a few people, but all I can see is the one from Him. It tells me the extent of what he has done, how he has ruined every connection that matters to me, every relationship that gives me comfort or solace – I have (apparently) sent emails or letters betraying confidences and long-held secrets, confessed wrong-doings to those most wounded by them with malicious glee, revealed my disgusting perversions to those who hold me in the highest esteem and in every case, expressed my disdain and long-held hatred for each person. He has been careful, never revealing anything criminal, doing everything from my own computer through TeamViewer.
The one sphere of my life He has let be is my job. He describes His excitement and arousal at discovering such a high-earning faggot, with such marketable skills. He can see how my IT skills are of benefit to Him, but also the value of my job – the cash it can produce to be tributed to Him. He tells me I can make more, rise higher and that this is His wish.
I feel nauseous, I think I can actually taste vomit in my mouth. My head is dizzy, my vision closes in so I'm nearly blacking out. My faggot dicklet has never been harder and it feels like a hard nugget sits in my lower belly, maybe about where my prostate is, like a calcified orgasm, hardened over weeks of disuse.
His closing paragraph, "If you honestly don't want this then get up now and go home, beg for forgiveness, tell your boyfriend what has really happened, how you let it get out of control. Ask him to help you get your friends back. If you're honest, you can still recover most of your life. But be honest, you've never felt more alive than right now. Your ridiculous faggot cocklet betrays the blackness of your soul. You know you are lost to Me. If you understand the truth, look for the key in the courier envelope and go to the address on the tag."
I read it twice and the second time was too much, that hard nut in my belly burst like an over-wound spring, fagslime spraying down my leg, I fell from the chair on to all fours on the floor of my office, losing consciousness as I fell, the darkness closing in as my body jerked with its final spasms of the hardest, most profound orgasm of my life, the juice of my destruction soaking through my pants, into the carpet, as my life ended. Blackness.
I woke after a few minutes and eased myself to my feet. As he suggested, there was a key at the bottom of the envelope with an address on the tag. I gathered my things to leave.
In my fantasy, I would walk from the office proudly betraying the juice staining my pants and confess my faggotry to my coworkers and boss as I quit and began my new life serving my Master. His wishes, however, were crystal clear, so I used my briefcase to hide the stain, excused myself as unwell and slunk out of the office.
The address on the tag was in an unfashionable, cheap bedroom community close to the same train line as my office. Floor after floor of tiny apartments occupied mostly by single, male labourers, recently arrived migrants, service workers. No elevator, so I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor to find the apartment the key would unlock.
I hesitated at the door, realising I had no idea what lay inside. A gang of men? Master Himself? More horrifying surprises? I let out the breath I was holding and opened the door.
Inside, a single room – a mattress on the floor, a clothes rack with some of the clothes from my old house, a small desk with a straight-backed chair, an internet modem plugged into the wall and turned on. A small kitchenette stocked with simple food. In one corner of the room, a modest weight set, in the other a device I didn't recognise. The desk had nothing on it, but a note with some instructions and the wireless password.
Reading through the instructions twice to make sure I had it right, I took my laptop from my bag and connected it to the power and the network positioning it in front of the unfamiliar machine. I took off my stained pants and the rest of my clothes, folding them neatly in a pile on the mattress. Getting down on all fours in front of the machine, I located what the note described as "Master's cock" – a dildo attached to an arm at the front. Wiping whatever slime hadn't dried on my pants over it and adding saliva from my mouth and throat by deep-throating it a little, I lubricated the cock as the instructions demanded. Still on all fours, I turned to place the cock against my cunthole, so I was facing the laptop.
I logged into my bank account discovering, with a little surprise, my full salary and some previous money still there. His final instructions became suddenly clearer. I scanned the corners of the ceiling to find the dropcams He has positioned, red lights blinking. I am under His gaze whenever he wishes.
I eased myself backward onto the cock, relishing the burning entry into my under-prepared cunthole – further use from Him, letting Him ever deeper into my being. I dragged the laptop toward me so I could still type and found the control box for the machine. I gingerly turned the machine on and dialed up the speed until it began to move, plunging the cock deep into my cunt. I gasp-screamed at the sudden violation, then wiggled further onto it. The machine eased the cock out, then plunged it in again. My cunt quickly adapted to the rhythm of "Master's cock" hammering me into deeper submission.
Once I grew accustomed to the machine, I turned my attention to the laptop and began to follow His final instructions and began the ritual which I was to follow every payday. The balance read "$6598.35" and so I began gently, by setting up a transfer for $100 as His cock plunged deep into me once more. I had a sudden flash of memory – the first time I ever drained $100 in one go, the ecstasy of it, how stupid and wonderful I felt, not merely to have the money taken by a Superior Alpha, but to tribute it, unable to stop myself from simply giving it when he asks, to choose to give this much in one go.
I submit the transfer as the cock plunges once again and the ecstasy of the drain washes through me. I set up the next transfer for $200, slowly, methodically, relishing the new life I have begun.
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