Date: Sat, 19 Nov 2005 11:20:07 -0800 (PST)
From: Scott <va_faggot_slave@yahoo.com>
Subject: continuing story - Becoming a Slave Parts 2 & 3

Becoming a Slave, Part 2

My heart pounded like I'd die of a heart attack as I
stood over the kitchen sink and sprayed the shit out
of my hair and off my face with the hose attachment
and some dish soap.  My master, which is what he
undeniably had become, watched through the webcam
perched above the laptop LCD monitor resting a safe
distance away on the kitchen counter.  He even let me
rinse my shitty mouth, although I had to use dish soap
to do it.  I took deep breaths trying to get myself
under control.  I might have welcomed death as an
escape, except that I figured he'd send my pics out
Wednesday morning anyway.

Once I had all the gear locked back on--I'd had to
lick the dildo clean before replacing it and the
harness, along with the collar and CB3000, just to
refresh the taste and smell of feces in my mouth, but
at least nothing needed to be chewed so it wasn't
mashed into my teeth and around my gums--there were
more instructions to come.  There was the question of
how to ensure I would obey him about leaving the gear
on until I arrived Wednesday since he couldn't watch
me 24/7 until then.  The solution turned out to be
simple.  I held a few dollar bills up to the webcam so
he could write down the serial numbers.  Then, as he
watched, I glued the keys inside them to make a little
envelope.  This envelope would go into a padded
envelope I'd buy at the post office that afternoon and
mail to him.  If the serial numbers on the bills
didn't match, he'd know I'd made a switch.

We then examined my wardrobe.  I tried on all my jeans
for him, and he selected the tightest fitting pair.  I
then cut off the legs one inch below the crotch.  He
also selected an old, threadbare white undershirt.  I
ripped off both sleeves, leaving tattered seams that
would expose my arms from the shoulders down.
Finally, he selected an old pair of hiking boots I
hadn't worn in years.  They still fit, albeit
uncomfortably.  That was my new wardrobe.  Everything
else was to be abandoned to the charity movers, and I
was to wear nothing else from that moment on--when I
was allowed to wear clothes at all.  I asked what I
would wear to work on Monday, and he said to fuck work
on Monday.  I'd have to be home Tuesday for the movers
anyway and I'd be out of there as soon as they left,
so what the fuck was the point of one more day?  To
drive home the point, he countermanded the order to
donate the clothes and ordered me instead to destroy
them.  Immediately.  Using kitchen knives and utility
shears as he watched, I slit every pair of pants,
shorts, and boxers from crotch to each hem.  Every
shirt from the collar down each sleeve.  Before long,
all that remained--aside from my pre-selected uniform
cutoffs, shirt, and boots--were my shoes and a large
pile of rags.

With my ZIP code from the previous night--and he had
my full address and phone number now, too, of
course--he confirmed that my local post office was
open for another thirty minutes--the inside window
only; they wouldn't collect from the outside drop box
until Monday.  I was to make sure that the padded
envelope I'd be sending the currency-wrapped keys in
was postmarked today from that post office.  I'd have
to go in and mail them in my new uniform.  In broad
daylight.  In the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
Most of the gear I wore would be covered, except the
chain collar and the small padlock that locked it into
place.  I'd be humiliated, especially as I left my
apartment and returned and people whom I knew could
see me.  But he wasn't done.

I was to begin draining my credit cards by taking the
maximum daily withdrawal from each and putting the
cash aside to bring to him.  I was also to return to
Walmart.  He wanted me to buy an electric razor with
trimmer attachment.  And I was to obtain boxes so I
could spend some time packing my stuff--one box for
all the things he'd picked out for himself and the
rest to be given to the charity movers.  And he wanted
me to buy a set of permanent markers.  The kind that
don't wash off skin.  Black and some different colors.
 Then he told me he would be back online at midnight
and not to eat, drink, or piss until then.  Obviously,
I couldn't bathe, shit, or jerk off.

Those hours were undoubtedly the most dreadful.  Not
because I went out into public dressed like a rent
boy.  Not because of the stares of curiosity and
disgust that followed me.  Fortunately, no one I knew
saw me.  Some people I recognized around the
apartment, sure, but no one I was on a name basis
with.  Not my actual neighbors.  But people who knew I
was normally a straight-laced, preppy, bookish sort of
guy who was now wearing next to nothing with hiking
boots, a bulging crotch (from the CB3000 and the
erection inside it), and a metal collar locked on my
neck.

No, those hours were dreadful because I didn't have
him, even his virtual presence, to distract me from
the reality of my situation.  There was no way out.
I'd made sure of that.  I'd volunteered everything he
needed.  I did think about it, though.  Ways to back
out.  There weren't any.  I'd agreed to it all.
Everything he had on me he had because I gave it to
him.  It wasn't black mail.  The only black mail was
to ensure I didn't pussy out.  He hadn't extorted me
into anything, not really.  I was fucked because I'd
fucked myself.

I did everything he said.  I got the trimmer, the
markers, the boxes.  I started packing because I had
about 8 hours until he'd be online again.  It was in
my bedroom, as I started stripping the bed, that I saw
myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the
bedroom door.  I gawked.  I looked like what I was.  A
fucking sex slave.  My dick had apparently not just
been hard, but had been leaking at some point, because
the jeans cutoffs bore the tell-tale dark splotch of
precum just below the bulge in the crotch made by the
chastity device.

I got hungry and thirsty and even had to piss again,
but put it all off.  He wouldn't know if I ate or
drank, or even pissed, but I obeyed.  I might as well
start getting used to it.  In a few days when I was
with him, he'd be able to tell whether I ate or drank
or pissed, and I wouldn't be able to do it behind his
back, and who knew how often he would let me do
anything?  He might make me go without for days at a
time.  So I had to start adjusting.

By midnight, I was getting tired.  Packing and
cleaning house to move isn't easy.  I heard the IM
chime on the laptop.  He was pleased I'd started
working but he was pissed off that I still had my
uniform on.  He expected a slave to know clothes were
not worn indoors.  I'd have to be punished, but that
would come later.  First, he wanted me to use the
electric trimmer to buzz my hair.  Not to shave my
head, he corrected when I asked if he wanted me to do
it now.  Oh no, he wanted me to suffer the
embarrassment of asking a barber in a public shop to
shave it.  And my eyebrows.  I wasn't getting out of
that.  But he wanted my scalp down to stubble now.
And so I leaned over a trashcan and watched as the
locks fell, obliterating my own respectably stylish
haircut.

He then had me stand in front of the cam and take more
pictures.  First, a wide shot, showing my cropped head
and my uniform.  Then with the uniform off, showing
off all the gear.  Then a close up of my face.  Then I
was to get the black Sharpie and write "toilet" on my
forehead, with a line beginning between my eyebrows,
down my nose, and ending with an arrow on my upper lip
that pointed to my mouth.  Another pic, this one with
my mouth stretched wide and tongue stuck out.  Then he
told me to sign back onto the website where we'd met
less than 24 hours before.  But not under that
profile.  Not the slave profile he'd already seen.
No, he knew I had another.  He knew I had a "normal"
profile, one that didn't reveal my sick, perverted
side.  The profile that had my hobbies and my face
pic--what I used to look like--the profile I used to
chat and hang out with people.

I told him the screen name.  He made me upload the new
pics, the ones I'd just taken, not the one's I'd taken
of my scat experience earlier in the day, thank God.
And then he ordered me into my chat room.  Not the
fetish room I'd met him in.  My chat room, the one for
my town, the one where people knew me.  He followed me
in, but didn't type anything there.  Instead, he just
typed to me in the IM window.

"beg to service them," he ordered.  "u cant eat ur
shit nemore so i want u 2 beg them 4 theres."  Holy
fuck.  The tears welled up again.  My body started
shaking again.  He saw it all on cam.  "and drink
there piss.  tell them u want 2 do there dogs to if
they have ne.  and u want to do it all on cam if ne1
wants 2 watch."

These were guys who recognized my screen name.  Who
thought I was a normal, vanilla guy.  I'd met some of
them.  Some for hook ups.  Some just to hang out.  And
I did as I was ordered anyway.  I typed exactly what
he told me to type, while he watched on the cam and
read it as it printed out in the room.  My new pics,
side by side with the old ones, the ones from my
former life, confirmed it.  No one had hacked my
account.  It was me behind the keyboard.  And guys
messaged me.  The ones I knew asking what the fuck was
up with me.  The ones I didn't know calling me a sick
fuck.  He told me not to answer anyone who wasn't into
what I was asking for, so I didn't.  I was too ashamed
to message the ones I knew anyway.  What could I say?
They hadn't even known I was a sub, let alone into
what I was now begging for.

It didn't take long.  None of the guys who answered my
pleas were guys I was into.  They were all fat, old,
bald, or ugly.  Or all of the above.  More than a few
were guys who'd messaged me to hook up before, could
tell someone else was now in control, and were ready
to get a piece of me.  Some were guys I'd been rude
to, who were keen on getting some grudge use out of
me.  Each guy who seemed serious was given my master's
screen name, and they messaged each other behind my
back.  I didn't know what they said or whether he was
sharing the rest of my pics with the interested guys.
I lost track of how many guys I directed my master's
way.  I think some of the ones from the room were
calling or IMing their kinky acquaintances from other
rooms, because screen names I'd never seen before
started messaging me.

After a couple hours of this, of my anxious waiting to
be told I'd been pimped out, my master finally IMed
me.

"i got u some dates 4 tomorrow boy," he typed.  "but
now u need 2 go 2 bed & get some rest.  going 2 be
busy tomorrow."

He proceeded to tell me he'd made appointments for me,
giving my address out to some of the men he'd talked
to.  I'd be entertaining him all day, over the webcam,
as I serviced each of the men he'd arranged.  I was
then told to get the half-gallon milk jug, still
filled with water from the night before, told to retie
it, and to assume the same sleep position as before.
And I obeyed, lying on my back under the overhead
light, my knees and balls and jug hanging off the edge
of the footboard towards the dresser, where the laptop
and cam sat running.

And my first day as a slave ended.

Becoming a Slave, Part 3

The ringing phone woke me.  I jolted upright in bed,
only to feel the painful yank of the water bottle tied
to my nuts.  I rose gingerly.  My balls felt like
they'd been beaten with a 2-by-4.  I reached for the
cordless headset on the dresser.

"Rise and shine, fuckface," I heard.  It was the first
time I'd heard my master's voice and my dick instantly
filled the CB3000.  His voice was perfect.  Firm
timbre, deep, masculine, a touch of Southwestern
drawl, commanding tone, and that unmistakable quality
of youth.  "Get in front of your cam.  I want to see
you."

"Good morning, Master.  Yes, Master," I replied and
moved in front of the laptop and cam, still on and
running from the previous evening.

"Your balls are starting to look real good," he said.
I looked down to see how red, swollen, and low they
now hung.  They were at least an inch lower than they
had been before I'd met him less than 36 hours
earlier.  I guess sleeping two nights with them
tethered to 4-5 pounds of dead weight does that.

"Thank you, Master, I want to please you, Master."

He laughed.  "Yeah, you're gonna please me real good
today, too, boy.  Go unlock your front door.  And
leave those balls alone."  I waddled from the bedroom
to the front door, walking bowlegged to keep the
swinging milk jug from slamming into my knees.  "I've
got a bunch of guys coming over for you to serve.
They're going to get an hour each, and you're going to
do whatever they say, just like they were me.  I
already set the rules with them last night, so they
know what they can and can't do.  And it's all gonna
be on cam for me to watch, if I feel like it."

"Yes, Master, thank you, Master," I mechanically
replied.  But I trembled with fear.

It took only minutes for the litany to begin.  He had
told the men that the door would be unlocked.  The
first one didn't knock.  Rather, his presence was
announced by the thundering, "Hey, cockslut, where the
fuck are you?"  My master had told me to set up my mic
with the webcam, and my master heard him through it;
through the webcam, he saw my eyes widen in surprise
and terror.  He told me to call out to him, and I did.
 I quickly rose from the laptop and knelt on the
floor.  The first thing the guy--a tall, burly, ugly,
trucker type--did was cuff my wrists behind my back.
I recognized him as a troll I'd often told to fuck off
in the chat room.  The second thing he did was slap my
face so hard I fell sideways.  He reached between my
legs under the CB3000 and seized my balls.  Squeezing
hard enough to make me squeal, he quickly untied the
milk jug.  Wrapping one hand around the loose scrotum
to force my orbs to the bottom of my sack, he made a
fist with the other hand and began punching my already
sore balls.

"Not so stuck up now, are you, cunt?!" he yelled.

I screamed, begging him to stop, defenseless and
unable to protect myself.

"Yeah, you beg real good!  Now beg to eat my shit!"
And I did, while flailing my legs, twisting my head
from side to side in agony, and wretching.  And after
a couple minutes of begging and nut punching, he
released me.  I curled up into a ball, gagging and
spluttering.  He roughly kicked me onto my back and
dropped his jeans to reveal the nastiest pair of
briefs I'd ever seen.  They were torn in places and
mottled with crusty yellow and brown stains.  He
shucked them off too and turned, straddling my head
and facing my feet.  He lowered himself and all I
could see was the fat, hairy, foul-smelling cleft
rapidly approaching my face.  And as he settled onto
his knees, he let rip the most pungent fart I'd ever
smelt.  And then his asshole rested on my mouth.

"Rim me, pig!"  He shouted, slammed his fist into my
nuts yet again.  I screamed again, muffled into the
cavernous butt, but immediately started stroking his
sphincter with my tongue.  As the tip tentatively
broached the ring of muscle, I feared what would lay
within.  And rightly.  Instantly, I encountered a
firm, disgusting mass.  I withdrew my tongue, but the
opening I left was filled with the turd, which emerged
unseen and following my retreat into my mouth.  "Fuck
yeah," my abuser yelled, grinding his ass on my face.
"Eat my fucking shit, you arrogant, preppy fuck."  And
with no other option, I did.  He must have been saving
up since yesterday, because he fed me log after
repugnant log, until I felt bloated with shit.  And
then he made me continue rimming him long after his
hole was sparkling clean.

But he wasn't done.  With the plug locked in my
ass--perhaps the first time I was happy to have it
there--he couldn't fuck me.  So instead, he swiveled
on my face and rammed his throbbing 4" cock into my
shit-stained mouth.  He only took a couple seconds
before he unleashed another treat for me to relish.  I
don't know what that guy ate, but his shit and cum
both tasted like they'd been scraped off the bottom of
a hotel dumpster.  When, panting and sweating and
heaving in his morbid obesity, he withdrew his stub of
a dick from my mouth, he announced that I was going to
take his piss, too.  But he wasn't going to wash away
the taste of his shit, which he wanted to linger on as
a memory of him.  So he pressed his dickhole into my
left nostril and squeezed the right side closed.
Before I could even react, he sent his burning waste
cascading through my sinuses and down the back of my
throat.  My eyes watered and I nearly puked, but,
gasping to breathe through my mouth, I swallowed what
I could.

He rose as I lay snorting and choking on the floor.
"Yeah, now you sound like a real pig, pig," he
snickered as he dressed.  And then he was gone.  I lay
in a puddle of spilt urine, my face covered in spit,
piss, tears, cum and shit.  I was too worn out to
rise, but I heard the IM chime from the laptop.  I
crawled over to it and saw my beaming master.  With my
hands still cuffed behind me, I couldn't type.

"he thru the handcuff key on ur bed," he typed.  "but
i want u to stay like that.  u have 3 minutes before
the next hour starts and u get ur next customer."

"Thank you, Master," I sobbed, and sat down in pain
and revulsion.

I served a dozen guys in all.  A dozen meals of shit.
A dozen piss cocktails.  A dozen cum desserts.  One
guy blew his nose on my tongue.  More than half
spanked my ass, some with their belts, until I could
feel the searing blisters and deep bruises left
behind.  They slapped me, leaving their hand prints on
my face.  One guy brought a riding crop to use on my
balls while I served him.  He left it behind and two
more had the same idea.  The worst though was the guy
who spent at least ten minutes beating the soles of my
feet with it.  By the end, I was so exhausted not even
the echoing pain could keep me awake.  Before I
drifted off into delirium, my master let me uncuff
myself and tie the milk jug back onto my balls, which
I again draped over the end of the mattress before
falling asleep.