Date: Sun, 11 Oct 2015 08:59:21 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Even The First - PART ONE

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Even The First - PART ONE

THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE.

CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com IF YOU LIKE.

SEARCH NIFTY FOR sharper@inorbit.com TO READ OTHER TALES BY ME.
REMEMBER TO MAKE YOUR DONATION TO WWW.NIFTY.ORG !!
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

START
Even The First - PART ONE


[quote]

Even the first interview importantly establishes the fact of
objectification in the slave mind. To be interrogated, to be inspected, to
be candidly assessed is a humiliation which widens a vulnerability in its
sense of self. Its sense of autonomy and self-regarding confidence is
gradually reduced and shackled. Such willpower as it has is dilated, loses
precision and location in order to be re-focused inside the will of the
Owner.

The candidate makes its attributes available upon enslavement in a process
of surrender that is controlled by the attributes of suggestibility,
vulnerability and other mental weakness. It is motivated by a hormonally
generated desire for and insatiable identification with its own sexual
objectification.

The consciousness of the slave is like a hive - each mental function a cell
independently accessed and manipulated by the Owner. In a way that the
slave is unaware of, it has surrendered even the unitary aspect of its own
identity. It is no longer a sum of its parts, it is merely a collection of
parts unified under the canopy of ownership.

[end quote]

When I first read this I was shocked. I had realised something: This had
happened. This had actually happened to me!

I'll never forget that feeling of cold horror flowing like a vicious stream
throughout my quivering body. Let me tell you this: The sage says, 'Know
thyself', but the moment you realise who and what you truly are can be one
of the most horrible experiences of your entire life, exceeded only, I
imagine, by the feeling of realisation you get in the final seconds
immediately prior to your being dead, this feeling of dumb unvarnished
stupidity, of the waste of time, of the missed opportunities, of that vast
unconquerable territory of the past unvisited, unexplored except through
long marching hours of aching regret.

"I am not the person I thought I was." In all those years I was not even a
person at all. I was a property. I was a... a thing, an object like a
table, like a washing machine like a carpet like a sofa like a ... nothing
at all.

----

I closed the book and replaced it carefully in the drawer beside Paul's
bed. He mustn't know, obviously. I had to keep this secret. I didn't feel
liberated; I felt trapped. I didn't feel energised to do something; I
wanted to go to bed, to sleep, forever. I couldn't tell Paul how I felt; he
was the one who had done it to me, but he was the one I always turned to,
but he was the one who had stolen my life with restraint, and all the time
he had calculated my needs in terms of his own completely personal
satisfaction, and all the time I had trusted him to let me know what was
best. I yearned for the comfort of his touch but that yearning was
something he had deliberately bred onto me. Could I ever again feel
anything other than disgusted?

"Foundations of Enslavement", the gold letters of the title of the book
glimmered into darkness as I closed the drawer upon them. I knelt for a
while like that, my naked hairless body hot from emotion and my heart
beating fast like I had been chased by wild animals across a field. My skin
pricked with sweat but my frozen muscles hardened in cold tension. My face
was dripping as if from exertion but my core shivered as if I was kneeling
in the rain. As these conflicting temperatures swept in waves through the
parts of my body I recalled how he had used each for his own satisfaction.

Staring at that closed drawer, fixating on that manual shut inside,
visualising its sordid recommendations, the uses to which I had been put:
time passed, for, scorching my muscular shoulders, neck, and across my
spine; the sun had moved - but I had not.

He had never thought about me at all, only the use he might make of me and
extending the limits of that use, eating always into me, like a maggot
eating into my soul! And, at his insistence, used by other men - I thought
it must be right - and how he must have bragged and always how utterly,
bovinely unaware had I been, happy to... not exist!

=========

Unable to resist and hard in one fist, though I knew not to, I reached
forward and once more, removing the book from its place, opened it at
random:

[quote]

Chapter Title : "Don't you trust me?" and "You have to be punished."

Punishment and Trust are but two sides of the same coin.

By assuming the right to administer punishment you are announcing your
moral and practical superiority. Simultaneously, the more punishment you
enforce against the man you are enslaving the greater the establishment of
trust, because by submitting to escalating punishment your slave is
manoeuvred into increasing assent to the proposition that his owner has the
right and ability to decide what is best in all possible
situations. Punishment removes a slaves trust in its own decisions and
transfers it to the owner. Trust is not "earned" by the owner proving his
trustworthiness! Rather it is a natural outcome arising out of constant
punishment. Punishment builds trust in the slave who then craves increased
punishment and humiliation as evidence of safety.

For this reason you must impose some form of light punishment, typically in
the form of an admonishment, or rough handling, from the very
outset. Obviously you must appear friendly, but the candidate will respond
to assertiveness with respect and immediately his consciousness of his own
dignity will begin draining.

[end quote]

This is what had happened to me precisely, upon our first meeting! Paul had
stood. He had grabbed my hand and held it tight and in a firm voice, said,
"Stand up straight." Now I remembered with horror that I even attempted to
stand up straighter than I was already, I tensed and allowed his grip on my
palm to grow painfully whilst he grabbed my shoulder hard and shook it with
his other hand. Then he said the words I have craved to hear ever since in
everything I have ever done: "Good boy." He said it with a gentle
understated smile and immediately I felt a relief and a blessed sense like
an enormous weight had been lifted from me, and a desire to please him
occupied my thoughts from then on. To be a good boy and to merit that
accolade became the motivation of my soul.

I was an idiot.

I was not a child but I was engaged by his infantilising treatment of me.

It had happened at a train station.

There was a café and I had gone in with my bag, a heavy military
canvas carry-all which I slung over my arm with misleading ease, its weight
felt good on my flexed arm. I was wearing a khaki sports singlet, the kind
I liked because it showed off my development: The neck scooped low enough
to display the jagged taut line between my pecs; they pressed the fabric
ostentatiously, poking my nipples out sharply. I loved the feeling that I
was displaying my body and the effect it had on people: they stole glances
at me; they got out of my way; they apologised unnecessarily; they froze in
speech or laughed without reason. I liked to be admired and make an
impression. I was so well developed and fit - I still am; the narrowness of
my waist emphasised the way I could twist my upper body, still supporting
my heavy bag. I could feel my buttocks rotate slightly within my pants
whilst keeping my legs locked straight and my feet stationary in their
boots on the shiny black and lemony Lino tiles of the restaurant floor. I
was searching for a seat, over a crowd of chattering heads towards one lone
chair vacant at a table-share with one other man, large and
dark-bearded. That would be Paul.

"Seat free, Sir?" I asked (I'm ex-army and use 'Sir' with anybody I don't
know).

I had practically stepped over the rows of bobbing heads and brushed my
bulging trews against the hair of unsuspecting diners to get to him. I was
wading leg deep in the other seated customers, like a giant in the ocean.

I noticed the chest hair growing from beneath the collar of his check shirt
which stretched with his ribcage. I saw from the movement of his boots that
he spread his legs, crotch unseen beneath the pale Formica top, and smiled
like he was expecting me. I waited for an answer but he didn't speak. Just
as I was about to throw my bag on the floor and squeeze myself down between
the backs of neighbouring chairs, lifting a broad leg doglike to bridge the
nearest plywood stool, he held up his palm to stop me; stood, impressing me
both with his size - he was somehow bigger, seated, bulging against the
furniture - and his charm. He smiled without showing his teeth. His eyes
looked into mine directly, seeming to summon me from the distractions of
the moment into a clearing between us where his mind was the only thing
that mattered. His eyes communicated something concentrated on his own
desires; the assumption - I recognise it now - of my immediate
subordination.

That's when he stood. He took my hand in his own and, equally unexpected,
pulled it, squeezed it so hard it crushed. Surprised, I winced. He put his
other hand roughly on my shoulder and pushed it saying, "Stand up
straight." I let my bag fall from my back, bending only a little to rest it
beside my chair, and stood stock upright like a soldier and he said, "Good
boy," and he was looking into my eyes, locking them.

And I felt good, and I said, "Do you mind if I sit here, please Sir?" And
he said, "Sure. Feel free!" and I did feel free. As if I ever would be free
again from that moment until this! And I said, Thanks!

That was the way he was with me: I never felt less than free. In chains I
felt free. Trapped, naked, cleaning his house I felt free. Locked in the
cage in the basement I felt free. Pigslut to his cum I felt free, most free
of all in blind cowering obedience to his humiliating demands. Though he
punished me daily to maintain my attitude, I never felt anything other than
free to accept his correction and guidance and orders. And always it was my
will to resist that he had shackled and my desire to please him that he had
by a leash!

"That's a good boy. Come for your reward," and he would let me suck him
off, kneeling, banging the shaft of his nob against the back of my throat
until he came in thick jets pushed down into my neck, my red face staring
up at his over the broad mound of his abdomen, the look of orgasm in his
eyes and his hand on the back of my head holding me suffocating onto it,
stretched over his cock flesh, struggling to contain his massive flood
until, spent, I was released and sank coughing to the ground, to lick his
feet and toes which I did, in gratitude.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

END OF Even The First - PART ONE