Date: Sat, 17 Oct 2015 12:13:36 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Story : Even The First - PART TWO

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Even The First - PART TWO

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START
Even The First - PART TWO

[quote]
Chapter Title : Control.

A slave has to be broken. This is the process by which a slave is initiated
into total ownership. Do not be intimidated should a slave become
hysterical during this process. It a necessary for the slave to experience
terror and mindlessness before being completely owned.

Once broken, punishment should be administered in an ad hoc fashion at the
owner's pleasure.

Prior to punishment the slave should be restrained. This is for its own
safety, and so that its thresholds can be exceeded without undue
difficulty.

Punishment should be deployed as a reward by the owner, modifying
behaviours positively by associating it with good behaviours. Your slave
will soon become excited by violent physical or mental abuse, in an almost
Pavlovian manner reacting positively even to the sight or smell of places,
situations, tools or patterns it associates with pain and the rewards of
pain.

Once subdued the slave can be comforted, reinforcing its degradation and
powerlessness. Kissing, hugging, stroking, and the giving of praise are all
appropriate means to comfort the broken slave, imprinting the connection
between hurt and reward.

After punishment has been administered your slave will be uncontrollably
grateful and can be enlisted in any scenario. Control reasserts the slave's
non-existence as an individual and refocuses the slave on pleasing its
owner.

[unquote]

That's true. I remember being broken, though I didn't realise it was
happening at the time. Paul began by weakening and undermining and then, in
a sudden flash, removed my autonomy completely (akin to castration) and
substituted it with a complete fixation on his sexual and material
requirements. I was changed in a single instant of blindness.

I remember it clearly, and now I understand what he did to me.

Henceforth from that day, how I begged to be hurt; trusting pain;
suspicious of unearned caresses - though I loved them - "Good boy" sounded
most true when it followed discipline; I rated kind praise as undeserved.

But at our first encounter, I had no idea. Had I thought, I would have said
he was an ordinary, good-looking man (like Squidger, my mate in the army),
the sort of man you might encounter any day walking down the street; you
might turn and look, you might catch his eye, even, but that would be all;
a regular type, well put together; he just happened to be sitting at the
only table with a free seat.

"You look lost," he had said, no sooner than I asked if I could join him.

"No... I'm just ... looking..."

That's when he stood.

He smiled at me, holding my hand of friendship in the cramp of his, and
said, "Looking for what?" like it was a difficult question.

"Looking for somewhere to sit, Sir."

I was thinking that, while I waited for my train, I'd dump my bag and get a
cup of tea or something. Maybe something to eat. I wasn't sure.

But I think I also found him dazzlingly attractive, steady, darkly
sexual. I felt the need to meet his eyes with my own, and I thoughtlessly
let him lance my mind with his stare.

He reached forward and put three fingers behind the strap of my tight
athletic vest.

"Like that..."

He stroked a fingernail over the smooth curved surface of my tit, to the
nipple - where he stopped for a moment, applying to it a minute bending
pressure, before removing his fingers and placing them on my shoulder as
though steadying a rocking boat. I was rigid with excitement and
surprise. I had the sudden hope that he would lean forward and put his
tongue in my mouth and let me suck the saliva off it. Despite all the
crowd. I would have given anything for that.

But he did not.

In retrospect I guess I wanted to be owned by him from that moment. But I
did not know that then, and now, kneeling by his bed, in the suburban
sunlight of his own home, the hardest part was accepting that I had got, in
the intervening years, everything I had wanted. I was disgusted.

He ran his fingers through the short rough of my crew-cut and gripped the
nape of my neck, squeezing the muscles so that their tension fled. I
flexed, relishing the contact of his touch, like a cat responding in
pleasure prior to being fed.

----

Kneeling thus beside my owner's bed (on my left), with the cabinet before
me like the altar-reliquary of his book, I thought of my nakedness and
turned to the tall mirror on my right - it partially blocked a large bay
window which, through nets, looked out onto the bend of a quiet suburban
road. I saw my smooth skin shiny in the bright sunlight with the gloss of
my sweat. I saw the blood throb in my veins and the tremor of my
heartbeat. I looked at my face; I didn't recognise myself.

----

"You don't need to sit," he had said, releasing both my clothing and my
hand.

I didn't understand.

He wasn't smiling.

"Better to stand."

I still didn't understand.

"Or kneel."

He was serious, but he said it with a smile.

I said, "I... I don't follow."

"Oh yes you do. I think you always follow. You like that. You feel more
comfortable. Keep standing. Let me look at you."

So I stood.

How did he know?

Naturally I put my hands behind my back and stood up straight, 'at ease',
legs about shoulder width apart. That's how I stood, with him watching me
stand in front of him. A smile played on his lips, a look of satisfaction,
and I was no less his than a suitcase or newspaper might have been in that
travellers' waiting room.

"Like that.....'Sir'," he said. "I like that. Military are you?"

I told him

He smirked. "Where?"

I told him where I had served.

"Cool," he responded with a smile. "So that explains the physique. Good
working order. I like that. Are you a good soldier?"

"...I guess."

"Bet you are. Bet you're the best. Do you do as you are told?"

I was lost.

"Do you obey your orders?"

"Well, yes," I said, hesitantly, and then with more confidence, "I'm
trained to obey orders."

"...'trained'... You enjoyed your training."

"Yes, I did."

----

Mainly cs I am handcuffed at night and because Paul has never let me, I
never touch myself. Even to pee I have to get it out with the bare minimum
of contact and then let it hang as best I can, pushing it forward so all my
urine hits the toilet.

It's become a habit you might say, since Paul came into the toilet with me
that day and told me to do it that way, though he didn't do it that way
himself. When I said, Why? he asked me if needed to learn to do as I was
told? Then he told me to touch his penis in order to understand. That
sounded ridiculous, but I took the heavy throb of meat and just held it
like that for some time until Paul took my hand away and said, "I want you
to think about it." From that moment it was as if my own penis just
disappeared.

And every time I thought about his thick hard wood, I wanted it.

Before that time I had been used to touching myself. I had been used to sex
with others: fun friendly, lighthearted or raucous, sometimes deeply
passionate. Sex that left you exhausted and satisfied or hungry for more.

So I wouldn't say I was inexperienced, but I never had a boyfriend; I never
found anyone I felt that attached to, so I guess you could say I was lonely
- lonely for that feeling of there always being this someone else, someone
who knew you and wouldn't go away. I suppose I was looking for that.

I'd been in the army so I was trained for combat, but I hadn't done much
firing live; I was assigned to the quartermaster from early on. They could
tell I didn't want to kill: Some men don't - though we all trained hard and
would go built, agile and heavy to deal with real survival in real
situations. No one knew when they might be the one bloke everyone else was
depending on.

No, I was used to serving slops. The boys would get their own back; they
called me Sally, or Cuntface, or simply Face, and made me the bitch of the
company. I was their go-to shag when we were on the long nights. Some of
the boys held my hand like their girlfriend and put their hand round my
waist lovingly like they believed it. Some of them wanted to fuck me like
they fucked their girlfriend, curled round me in the bivouac, stroking my
pecs like breasts and touching my nipples. Sometimes they wanted me to play
that part and in the morning it was all, "Hey, mate, where's that coffee!"
Some of them wanted to treat me like that and some of them wanted me to
treat them especially better than the others cs they thought they were
treating me special. Some of them were. But all of them wanted me to go
down and one time or another I had everyone of them between my lips, cuming
- cs I have beautiful lips like a vagina, they said, and called me
Cuntface. But there was no one special.

Well, Squidger, maybe; But there was no one special to take his place, I
guess. He used to get me most often it seems and he seemed to know me and
he used to say how my red cunt lips, 'Face', hugged his prong like the real
thing and he used to ... well ... say how I'd be his bitch and he used to
... well... he caught it, didn't he? ...and... was that when I decided not
to renew? I guess so.

Paul seemed to know me from the first moment we met, assuming at once I'd
be his bitch. He also mentioned my lips.

I felt as if he could see right into me; I felt as if he could read
everything that was in my soul, things I was myself unaware of. I needed
that, I think.

But if you ask me, Did I know what I was doing? well then I'd have say, No,
I did not know what I was doing. He said it for me, "You're a good looking
boy; well developed and masculine, but you have a lost look about you. Do
you feel lost?"

Then he asked me if I wanted to go to the toilet.

I said yes, and lifted my legs awkwardly, like they had become rooted, out
of the restricted space to get to the toilet door nearby. Paul stood too as
I did so and I looked at him. He was quite a guy. He saw me look and said,
"You need it. Right."

I didn't know what he meant.

He touched my backside, less than a squeeze but more than a glance. I like
it when men do that. It was like a promise.

When he said, Do you want to go to the toilet? and followed me in, I
thought it was innocent enough.

I went first. He followed me and locked the door when he was sure there was
nobody else. Frankly, I really wasn't expecting him to do that, but, just
then, I knew what he expected.

I went over to the urinal as you're supposed to, though it was hard in my
pants, and he did as well.

And when his big cock was outside his trousers hanging down semi and in a
crowd of bush his big balls outside his trousers for me to see... I turned
to him and he pulled my face towards his and when his tongue opened my
mouth I felt his beard on my bristle and his arms around me holding me and
mine clinging him. Two men.

"Touch it. Hold it," he said - he must've been thinking even then of how he
would break me.

I grabbed it; now it was a mast. Then it grew in my hand. It was a massive
solid wood and I wanted it. Jesus.

He must've had it in his mind to make me into his property in the fullness
of time, trained, obedient, craving to please him.

I moaned, with his face on my face, pressing my lips, beards rubbing, wet
soft tongues parting our teeth, the fire hold of his hand on the back of
me, and it a burning heat wrapped in my palm.

Jesus.

"I'd like to take you home tonight. Where's your train to?"

I told him.

"What's there?"

"Just some mates."

"They'll understand. Give them a call. Tell'em something came up."

I grinned.

"I'm serious," he said. "You need to do this."

I wanted to.

"I just need to phone them."

"Do it quick."

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END OF Even The First - PART TWO