Date: Sat, 7 Nov 2015 12:30:12 +0100
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Story : Even The First - PART FIVE

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Even The First - PART FIVE

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Even The First - PART FIVE


Paul switched the telly on and flicked the channels.

[quote]
Chapter Title : Slave as servant.

Slavery is not a choice. Slavery is a function; the function of the slave
is to serve. Thus, servant functions are slave functions. The slave
performs what tasks you wish - this applies to sex acts and depravities as
well as to homemaking. The slave is naked at all times in order to
reinforce humiliation and control, and so that the slave presents
continuous sexual availability, even in the owner's absence.

As your personal servant, the slave will cook, vacuum, dust, wash, clean
the bathroom and toilet - cleaning the toilet is particularly useful since
it graphically reinforces the menial condition of the slave as well as
accomplishing one of the most unpleasant tasks in the household. The toilet
is to be kept clean at all times. The slave should wait in a kneeling
position close by whilst you are shitting to immediately cleanse the area
after use. Do not give the slave any assistance - even the minimum will be
taken as a sign of your weakness; it is a slave and needs to be dependent
on you but reliant on itself.  [unquote]

It's difficult to remember those first few moments, those first few hours,
those first few years, without amazement at how Paul fucked me up into
being both his debauched cum slut and his dutiful household servant.

It was in the seconds that followed his first penetration that I became his
property, his ejaculation flowing deep up into my arsecunt - 'his' arsecunt
now - infecting me with an undeflectable desire to serve him and be used.

I knelt beneath him. I looked at his face, conscious of his beautiful
flaccid bloated penis hanging between his legs, arsecunt smelling,
picturing how I wanted to be fucked by it and how I could please him and
how I could be fucked by it if I pleased him, and I waited for him to do
something; to touch me, to speak to me, to give me something, some order or
instruction.

I was his property. He was my owner. He stared at the television.

"Right. You can cook," he said at last, assuming that I did cook. Get in
the kitchen. Fix us an omelette. You'll find everything. Make it big; I'm
hungry."

I climbed to my feet. Paul produced a key and unlocked the cuff from my
left hand, leaving the other fixed so that it dangled.

"Bring it me here. And a cup of tea - Well what are you waiting for?"  I
turned round, eager to show him I would, and could, do as I was told.

I made a large omelette with peas and ham, onions and some cold cooked
potatoes I found in the fridge and when it was done I put it on a large
plate on a tray with some tomato ketchup and a large cup of tea (on a large
saucer) and brought it into the TV room where Paul was sitting on the edge
of the sofa: he had pushed it up into a seat again. He was staring fixedly
at a programme. He had pulled his trousers back up over his buttocks but
the fly was still open and his cock was still hanging out and I could see
it move when he moved his hand thoughtlessly and stroked it, or cupped it
in his hand and scratched his balls.

I put the tray down next to him on the vinyl sofa.

"Right, get that saucer." He indicated the saucer under his tea. I handed
it to him. He cut a piece of the omelette and put it on the saucer, and put
the saucer on the carpet next to his feet and said, "That's yours." He
squirted a little ketchup over it. Then he re-cuffed me.

He ate, watching the telly, and I ate like his pet, struggling with my
hands behind my back, absurdly. When he finished he offered me a little of
his tea to drink by splashing a little of it into the saucer.

"Not bad," he said. "Right. Now look at me. You've got ketchup all over
your face. Leave it. Now... What's your situation, as of today?"

I didn't know what he meant.

"Right. Do you have a place, a place to stay? You don't do you?"

I shook my head. "...I haven't sorted it out yet, Sir."

I'd only left the army a day or so.

"Right. Thought as much. Sleeping on floors; that's how it would end
up. Those friends of yours got a spare space, I bet. That what you want?
You can stay here. You can cook and clean up, in return."

Before I could respond, Paul stood up, like we had both agreed. He tucked
in his trousers and his fly, and I followed him back to the door which led
to the basement. I followed him in. This time he flicked a switch. The room
was a makeshift living space.

"Right, there's your bucket, shower, somewhere to sleep."

He went to a wall and took a piece of leather. It was a large wide metal
collar which he put round my neck and locked with a small padlock. It cut
into me where it rested and restricted my jaw. I had become aroused.

"Right. Deal."

My penis nodded. Paul hit it, apparently unconsciously.

He looked somewhere else and produced some leg shackles - ankle cuffs
connected by a chain about a metre and a half long.

After he had fixed me to them, he said, "Right. I'll be back shortly," and,
to my surprise, he turned and climbed the stair. He flicked the switch and
opened the door at the top - so that a gash of light illuminated him - and
he was gone.  I was in darkness.

The door closed, and there was a click. Had he locked me in?

I could hear him in the house above moving about, those incomprehensible
padding steps and floorboard squeaks that, if they could be read, would
reveal his activity, and his intentions - though I believed he had to
return. I waited in mindless arousal for the door to open.

At first I knelt upright, in a kind of depraved state of feral nudity,
staring up at the door through which Paul had just disappeared, listening,
all of my senses alert to his movements and the potential for each to
signal his return.

At last I could feel it in my knees and upper legs and slumped back to sit
on my heels. My arms rested in my thighs and my hands fell between then,
touching me. I still waited for his return. The house had fallen silent.

Eventually I rested my buttocks on the tiles. Judging by the reduced light
getting in from outside, it was getting dark.

Now I was getting cold and my anxiety was beginning to build. I started to
wonder if I had made a mistake. I knew we were playing sex games but was
Paul regretting having me to his house? Then all I wanted was him to come
back and let me try to get it right. I just needed a second chance.

I heard a noise. That was the TV. Then I was relieved cs I knew he hadn't
gone out; even if he was punishing me, he was still around.

I'm not sure how long it had been, but then there was a click and the door
opened, the crack of light blinding me.

"Right, get up here," said Paul.

I scramble on my knees, crawled over to the foot of the stair. Paul watched
me clamber up towards him. My leg chains tinkled behind me over the steps.

"Take your time," he said, impatiently.

"I'm sorry Sir. I..."

I was shaking.

Paul didn't speak. When I got to the top he stepped back and I followed him
into the kitchen. He had changed his clothes. He was wearing bed-shorts and
a loose tee for lounging around. He took a dishcloth and wiped the ketchup
off my face.

"Mucky pup. Right." He unlocked my left hand. "You can clean the kitchen
and wash up. Look at this mess."

I looked.

"If this carries on..." but he didn't finish. He left me to it.

---

When I had finished my jobs I went to the room where Paul lay sprawled in
front of the tv and stood to attention, facing him. For a long time he
ignored me. Then he flicked off the tv and cast his eyes in my direction,
apparently deep in thought.


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END OF Even The First - PART FIVE