Date: Wed, 30 Mar 2016 22:11:30 +0000
From: white collar <white_collar@hotmail.com>
Subject: Converted-to-cocksucker - Installment 23

Please remember that Nifty is a free site, but still requires funds ta
continue operating. Please provide a donation at
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ta keep these great stories coming.

I need to say this: Note that this is fantasy, not real life.  If you are a
sub, you still have dignity and you should have a voice.  If you are
involved in a BDSM scene, the sub has the right to set limits and to have a
safe-word to immediately put a stop to the proceedings if it turns out to
be too much.  If the dom/sado won't recognize your rights as a sub, my
suggestion is to say "thanks for your time sir," and walk away.  This is
sexual role-play and is supposed to be consensual.  Non-consensual is
assault and is a criminal act.

Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmail.com


Chapter 40

Alex:

"So, you're a faggot, huh?" Greg asked.

"Yes sir," I answered, my head down.

How long had I known this?  Probably all my life.  I'd always known I liked
to look at men, but I couldn't admit that I wanted men.  I couldn't admit
that I got hard when I dreamed of men dominating me; making me do what they
ordered me to do; making me do what I wanted to do; what I wanted them to
"make" me do.  Oh, yah, I wanted it bad.  Standing here in front of Greg
and confessing it made my cock stand up.  I guess I'm not big, but my
dick's alright.  And right now, it was tenting my pants and a wet spot was
beginning to appear where the tip of my dick pressed against the fabric.

Greg walked around me.  I glanced up to see him examining me with his eyes.
Then he put his hands on me, stroking my butt, my flanks, my thighs.  He
stopped in front of me and reached inside my suit jacket, grabbing my pecs.
He squeezed them in his fists and lifted, making me rise up on my toes,
holding me there as he looked into his face.

"Look at me faggot!"  he ordered.

I raised my head, gasping in pain and hunger.

"Good," he said softly, "very good.  I can see how much you want it.  I can
also see how well-suited you are to being turned into a slave."

"Faggot!" he whispered, grabbing my crotch.

He squeezed hard, crushing my hard cock and my balls, making me double over
and try to pull away from him.  But when a man has hold of your balls,
you're going nowhere without his say-so.

"Faggot," he said again, louder.

"Yes sir," I answered.

He released me and I went down on one knees, rubbing my aching balls.

"OK, faggot.  Here's my address," he said, writing on his business card.
"Go back to work and see if you can get anything done today.  You'll be at
my place at 7:00.  The doorman will be expecting you.  You might want to go
home and change before you come because whatever you're wearing when you
arrive is going to end up on the floor.  Understand faggot?"

"Yes sir," I said.  "Thank you sir."

"Good faggot.  I'll see you at 7:00.  Now get outta here."

I returned to my office, and closed and locked the door.  My head was
spinning.  What the hell was I doing?  I'd just confessed to my boss that
I'm a faggot and he naturally concluded that I wanted, no needed to be
turned into a sex slave.  What the fuck?  Maybe I should just go home, pack
a bag and get out of town and never come back.  But my dick, my cock, my
penis was saying otherwise.  It was making all the decisions for me right
now.  I'd realized what Greg had done to Wayne and Paul and the guy from
maintenance, what was his name?  Steve?  Yeah, that was it; Steve.  Greg
had ensnared all of them and turned them into faggots.  But I wanted it; or
at least part of me did; the part between my legs and some part between my
ears.  I'd always loved TV shows where some guy is partially stripped and
cuffed or tied up and then worked over.  Always made me hard; made me leak.
And now I was asking my boss of all people to do this to me.  This wasn't
going to be just role-play; he was going to fuck my mind and turn me into
one of his slaves.  Part of me wanted to run from the building screaming,
but the weaker part, or maybe it was the stronger part said "no, stay, and
get what you've always wanted.  This is yours!"  Ultimately, that was the
part that made my decision for me; I'm a submissive faggot even to myself.
I couldn't have stopped myself if a river had been between me and my decent
into faggothood.

I left early; I couldn't stand being around the office anymore, knowing
that tonight would be my fulfillment, probably quite literally.  I went
home, made a sandwich and had a glass of whiskey to calm myself.  Then I
changed into khakis, a polo shirt and sneakers.  I figured there was no
point in putting on underwear, since Greg had told me that I would, in all
likelihood, be naked in very short order once I'd walked through his door.
I left my apartment at 6:30 and caught a train uptown to Hell's Kitchen.  I
guess that was an appropriate place for Greg to live, given his tendencies
for domination and subjugation.  As I rode the train, I did feel that I was
selling my soul to Satan.  But my soul was content to be sold; in fact, it
wanted this badly, very badly.

I came up to street level and walked the couple of blocks to the address
Greg had given me.  There was the doorman.  I approached him.

"I'm here for Mr. Stanfield."

"Got it.  Take the elevator on the right.  Mr. Stanfield has instructed me
to tell you to remove all your clothes once the doors close."

The doorman's eyes were glinting as he motioned me to the elevator.  It was
obvious that he had some idea of what went on in the penthouse.

The doors closed and I began to strip, starting with my sneakers.  I put my
clothes in a neat stack, shoes on the bottom, then pants and shirt.  It was
then that I noticed the small camera up in the corner and realized I was
probably being watched.  Not sure what to do, I decided to take a
submissive pose, having seen enough photos in bondage mags and on websites.
I clasped my hands behind my back, backed up against the wall, spread my
legs and waited as the elevator ascended.  Time seemed to slow and the ride
seemed interminable.  But eventually, the doors opened into Greg's
apartment, where he waited 10 paces from the doors.

"Good faggot.  I'm pleased that you've followed orders so far.  Pick up
your clothes and step out of the elevator."

I did as ordered.

"Understand faggot that, up to this point, we've been on a first name
basis.  That stops as of now.  From here on out, I'm either "master" or
"sir" to you, unless I decide that I want you to call me "lord" or "god".
And yes, I'm going to completely bend you to my will.  You may have picked
up on the irony of my living in this part of town; that's one of the
reasons I chose this place.  Before the night is over, you'll realize that
you've made a pact with Satan and that Satan is me!  You belong to me now.
If you thought you were going to get a chance to reconsider, that chance
has passed.  When you got into the elevator and took your clothes off, you
surrendered.  Now, faggot, put your clothes on the floor and do me proper
obeisance."

Realizing what he was saying, I fell to my knees on the cold marble,
prostrated myself before him and slithered forward, my dick pulling against
the stone as I inched forward.  Master put one foot under my face and the
other on my head.

"Worship!" he ordered.

I kissed and licked his foot.  God, how I needed this.  I licked as though
my life depended on it, or at least as much as I could manage with one foot
holding my head down.  When his foot was wet with my saliva, he lifted the
foot off my head.

"Hands and knees," he ordered.

When I got to my hands and knees, he put a leather collar around my neck
and, as he moved it around and pulled up on it, I heard a lock snap into
place.  Then he snapped a leash into it.

"Heel," he said and walked down the hall.  Fortunately, the marble soon
gave way to carpet and it was much less painful crawling.  I followed him,
doing my best to keep up.  He turned right through a door and we entered a
large room.  I looked around and saw that it was kitted out with all kinds
of equipment and accoutrements, from mirrors to chains hanging from the
ceiling and a tiled area with what appeared to be an open shower.  There
were also cabinets against the wall, some tables and several large closets.
What caught my attention the most were four cages that resembled mummy
coffins.  They were somewhat form-fitting and it was plain that they were
designed to hold a man, or perhaps I should say, a faggot, since a man
would have to have become a faggot to get into one of them.  These cages
were hung from the ceiling by cables on pulleys so that faggots could be
imprisoned and suspended in them.  I was pretty sure I would be confined
inside one of them in the very near future.  Then, I saw down at one end of
the room, Wayne and Paul and Steve.  They were all wearing leather
harnesses over their heads and their mouths were held open with O rings.
Their wrists were shackled and the shackles were clipped to collars around
their necks.  They crouched there on the floor, eyes down and seemingly
oblivious to me and Master.

"In case you're wondering, fag, you used to know them by the names they
used to have.  Now they're "fag 1", "fag 2", and "fag 3".  You are "fag 4".
I may simply call you "fag" or call your number.  If you don't respond
immediately, you will be punished.  Clear fag?"

"Yes sir, that's clear."

I heard and then felt the slap against my cheek, knocking my head to the
side.

"No more words than are necessary fag!  I don't hold conversations with
faggots!  All that's necessary is 'yes sir' or 'no sir.'  Or, 'yes lord' or
'no lord.'  Clear now faggot?"

"Yes lord," I answered and said no more.  My face still burned from the
blow.

Master pulled me over to a rim seat.

"Lie down under it, ass wipe," he ordered.

I laid down and scooched myself up under the seat.  Master dropped his
pants and sat.

"Worship my ass," he ordered.

This was too much!  I'd never been into scat and this just repelled me!

"No, no, no," I cried out, trying to get up.  "No, I can't do that!"  I got
to my knees, forgetting that I was collared and leashed.  There as a yank
against my throat, choking me and pulling me over backwards.

"I didn't ask you, faggot; I ordered you.  I'm God to you now.  I don't
ask; I order.  And in case you were thinking of reneging on your worship, I
have everything you've done today, including your begging to be turned into
a faggot in my office, recorded on video.  So don't even imagine that
you're getting out of here.  When I told you that you'd made a contract
with Satan, I wasn't kidding.  You're mine now, body and soul.  Now get
under here and kiss my ass!"

With tears in my eyes, my humiliation and degradation bitter in my mouth, I
lifted my head, opened my mouth and kissed his ass.

"Use your tongue, faggot.  Worship my hole!"

I pushed my tongue into his pucker.  The taste was as bitter as the gall
burning the back of my throat, the bitterness of my abasement.  I was a
faggot now; there was no going back.  From the corner of my eye, I saw the
other faggots, squatting there against the wall, rocking back and forth
from their toes to their heels, their tongues darting out of their ring
gags, seemingly in hunger for the taste of our Lord's hole.  And then I
realized that my own little dick was pointing at the ceiling and pre-cum
was dripping from the tip.

"More Lord," I whispered and went back to tongue-fucking his ass.

To be continued.