aDate: Wed, 27 Apr 2016 09:03:52 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Even The First - PART EIGHT

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Even The First - PART EIGHT

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Even The First - PART EIGHT

[quote]
Keep it busy. It is important for training purposes.

It is also important to keep your slave in a state of advanced physical
perfection. A fit slave is capable of fulfilling greater demands, can
respond effectively to harsher punishment and more enthusiastically to your
sexual requirements. Constant activity maintains its energy, stamina and
morale and sustains a strong and sexually receptive, better, deeper, more
satisfying fuck.

Take the time to observe your slave at work. One of the greatest pleasures
of owning a slave is watching it engaged in menial labour, using all of its
body's muscular possibilities to degrade itself before you; the feeling
that its humiliating labours are being monitored and assessed is a great
motivator for your slave, because it craves your attention and has been
trained to please you.

Meaningless futile labour is the life force of a slave; it enjoys being
exercised, like a horse or a dog, and gets enormous sexual enervation from
performing before the audience of its master and its master's penis.

[unquote]

Paul liked to keep me strong and maintain the super-fitness I had developed
in the military. He created a strict regime of exercise for me. It filled
most of each day, so that when I was not housekeeping or preparing meals or
servicing Paul's endless sexual appetite, I was doing activities to improve
my army physique.

The basement where I lived was very cold due to several large windy
damp-proofing air-bricks. Paul said he liked it well ventilated cs that way
the smell of my piss and my shit did not accumulate. I had to exercise just
to keep warm. Sometime I did squats, just to generate heat. There was only
cold water, so when I showered, or washed my hole, I was completely
freezing and had to exercise vigorously to fight the chill.

I did muscle-rotations using the large choice of installed equipment - free
weights, wall bars, benches and grips.

Paul made me undertake a cardio regime which involved running round the
streets and going down to the river to swim - which I did in all weathers.

I like to be exercised. I do. I like to be naked, or near naked, and feel
my gear swinging against me. Yeah, I am like a horse or a dog. Yeah. I
am. I am like an animal.

And come to think of it, yeah, he did like to just sit in his underpants
stroking his thick meat whilst I went about the house or worked the
garden. There's a large garden that needs a lot of stuff doing.

----

Due to all this activity, I was always trim, and my tough muscularity was
evident to the arousal of envious onlookers when I was out and about. Some
of them attempted to attract my interest or acquire my sexual services by
befriending either Paul, which he enjoyed somewhat contemptuously, or
myself, which he forbade absolutely. If he found out I had been talking he
had ways to discourage me, as you can imagine. This influenced the kind of
interaction I became involved in. I was alright saying hello to
people. Anything more made me nervous. Occasionally someone came on to me
strongly, and I had to avoid this.

When Rodder came round to Paul's house and introduced himself it was after
a long period when he used to talk to me when I was out jogging on the
estate. I had found it impossible to deflect his attentions.

He had started deliberately meeting me where I stretched out in the
municipal space at the bottom of our road. I used to go there towards the
end of a run to cool down and do some press ups and use the frames to do
chin-ups, press-ups, sit-ups, and such general muscle-extending
exercises. Rodder would come along and watch me. He made it clear, by
staring at me and attempting to engage me in conversation, that he was
impressed by my strength and fuckability. I'd be red, hot, and sweating
from exertion, breathing heavily, my tight sweaty running costume filled
out, muscle pump and cock expanding the skimpy nylon.

Rodder used to stand there watching me, and once or twice he offered to
help - though I'm not sure what help he meant. I think he only wanted to
touch. He was full of questions. I tried to answer fully and truthfully. I
was always polite. I always called him Sir. Rodder was getting more and
more excited and horney to have me service him. Once when I was doing
chin-ups he came and stood so close behind me that my buttocks brushed his
face and I had to manipulate my crossed ankles carefully so as not to
strike him in the balls; as I finished he grabbed my waist, presumably to
help me drop to the ground. As I landed I turned and found myself face to
face with him and had to wriggle quickly to get out of him embracing me and
pushing his erection into my groin. I did feel it brush.

I laughed, as if it were nothing. I was embarrassed. He laughed. "That's
nice."

I'm not sure what he meant.

"I'd like to meet your boyfriend," he said. "Perhaps we can arrange
something."

He must've followed me home and found out my address. Later, one evening,
after Paul had returned and after I had been fucked and made Paul his
evening meal and now stood to attention, looking straight ahead (that's how
he'd taught me) whilst he ate and watched television, the doorbell rang.

"Right, See who that is," said Paul, after a pause, without looking away
from the screen.

I was naked, and wearing my large metal slave collar, and my legs were
chained with the long chain I wore around the house (it didn't restrict my
movement as such, just dragged and chinked so I was always aware of it). So
I went to the front door.

As I opened it I kept my erection hidden but Rodder could see clearly
enough that I was totally naked and he caught sight of the chain on my foot
and the collar. He grinned.

"Hi there kinky! Is your, um, 'Master' in?"

"Who is it?" shouted Paul.

"Man to see you."

"I'm a friend of your boy!" Rodder called through the jar of the door.

Paul reacted like he'd been electrocuted. He rushed out and pushed me out
of the way of the door, grabbed it and started to close it in Rodder's
face.

"What's this?" He said to me.

I was confused.

I looked down and didn't speak.

That made Paul even more mad.

---

[quote]

The slave mind is unsuited to the possibilities of conscious
freedom. Thought and self awareness are damaging to your slave, which is
why we use training, punishment, reward, conditioning and distraction to
achieve mental control. In extreme situations, for example where the slave
questions its routines or resists instruction, the owner should resort to
extreme violence or, failing that, implement a regime of psycho-sexual
drugs together with tougher punishment. Once stable control has been
reasserted an amended maintenance programme of punishments and inducements,
with permanent physical reminders such as scarring, tattoos or castration,
should be established in order to avoid the possibility of the slave
demanding, or even conceiving of, manumission.

A slave cannot want to be free.

[unquote]

Reading that book... was like reading a description of my life, almost a
diary, of the past 15 years. It made me sick.

What had I given up in becoming Paul's sex slave and house boy? What would
I have achieved un-caged? Was sexual and household servility my only
usefulness? Was I no more valuable than my physical beauty made me in the
eyes of others? What else could I do? What else could I have been? Until I
found Paul's book I had not even asked these questions, and now I did they
made me depressed and confused and angered and frightened. Now I saw things
differently.

I was Paul's fuck servant, his fucking fuck servant...

What was to become of me? What gets done with an old slave, when I could no
longer keep my muscles, the sharp etchings of my stomach turned to fat, the
lean skin-tone across my body bloated with fluid, the drift towards useless
old age, when my hole was no longer tight and I was no longer fuckable,
when Paul no longer wished to fuck me and my resilience could no longer
bear the cold basement nights and freezing showers. I should have stayed in
the forces cs by now I might be dead, like Squigger. That's a solution of
sorts. What difference would it have made?

Now I was tearful and moaned like a kid, pathetic and absorbed in self
pity. I crouched by Pauls bed and blankly wept at the hopelessness of it
all, frustrated angry tears that ran in rage from my eyes.

I turned and faced Paul's mirror. My eyes were blue and contrasted sharply
with the red rimming. What did men see in these eyes? The tears made my
face shine. I looked at my lips, moist and pink, made for kissing, made for
blow jobs; mouth made for licking; my thick neck and the hard nut of my
Adam's apple, made for swallowing the cock squirt of so many masters as
Paul had made me do.

What made them want me? What was I worth?

----

"Right. You go downstairs," Paul ordered, holding the door shut in Rodder's
face. Rodder had stepped back to avoid being hit - like Paul would actually
punch him. It might have happened! I trotted downstairs, trailing chain,
and adopted the upright kneeling pose, waiting for Paul to finish with
Rodder. I could hear him say, "I don't know you, do I?" And Rodder said
something indistinct like to explain. And then Paul stepped outside I
think, cs they continued talking for some time. The mumbling came through
the ventilation bricks. I was conscious that they were talking about me. It
excited me to think they were talking about me. I wanted them to be talking
about me. My election was painful.

Eventually the front door reopened and I heard footsteps. They were coming
in. I strained to hear everything, but all I heard was these
footsteps. They were going into the room with the tv.

Then Paul shouted for me.

I grabbed my leg chain and ran upstairs, quietly on the soft balls of my
feet. They were sitting in the tv room, on separate chairs, facing each
other. I lowered my chain to the ground and stood to attention. Rodder
looked happy to see me.

"Right," said Paul. "This man has a proposition that I like. Kneel."

I sank to my knees and looked down. Paul was wearing his black and white
trainers. Rodder was wearing blue trainers with fluorescent yellow
stripes. He had a dark blue tracksuit, I could see from the legs. Paul was
wearing black trackies. He had dressed. He had been wearing just his
underpants earlier, with his cock sticking out of one leg hole.

Paul told Rodder to show me his cock. I could see it pressing through his
trousers, but I wasn't sure what I was seeing. Rodder stood up and dropped
his trousers. I crawled over to it. It was huge.

"Right. What do you think of that?" asked Paul with a grin.

"It's good Sir," I mumbled. Smiling.

"It is good isn't it? And do you want it?"

"Yes Sir."

"Bet you do. Can't wait. Right."

Rodder pointed at it and I crawled even closer and he suddenly grabbed my
head and stuffed it down my throat. It made me gag so much I actually
vomited. They both laughed like drains. "That happens a lot," said
Rodder. I was coughing and coughing.

When it stopped he forced it into my face again. He told me to relax. I
tried to relax. It made me open my jaw so it ached and I was breathing
intermittently through my nose and he was just using my neck like a
cunt. Each time he pushed it in I had to hold my breath until he let it out
again, as you'd expect. And I could feel it going down inside my neck like
a wild parasite. I closed my eyes as Rodder drove it so deep I was buried
in his bushy pubic hair.

When he stopped I fell to the ground panting. Paul kicked my head. "Lick,"
he said.

I licked the fat pole of Rodder's prick and also his balls and the hair
area all around.

I could still taste the vomit in my throat.

When they were finished, I just continued licking, til Rodder said, "I
think the bitch is ready."

"Right. Do you you want it?"

"Yes please Sir."

"Where do you want it?"

"Up my arse Sir."

"Right up your cunt.

"My cunt."

"Right."

I think I was so excited by Rodder's huge cock because it just made him
look so hungry like he was desperate to fuck with it. It must be strange to
have a cock of such enormous size, always inside your pants wanting to be
let out and used on some guy, any guy who'd be up to it. I wasn't sure how
much damage it could do to me. I knelt back on my heels, waiting for Rodder
to tell me how he wanted it. He held it in his fist and pumped it a few
times, wrapping his fingers over the huge ugly head.

I felt irresistibly drawn to it, as Paul and Rodder both could see.

"Right," said Paul. "See he really wants it! Might as well now."

"Oh boy," said Rodder. "He's so eager. I usually, you know, have to, you
know, use some thing."

"Right. Well whatever. Hold on. Come here." Paul stood up and led Rodder
towards the cellar door. I followed. I stayed on my hands and knees - it
seemed appropriate. When we got down the stairs I knelt down on the
concrete. Rodder waved at me to crawl move to him to worship his wood.

Rodder was well impressed with what he saw. He found the cellar
fascinating. "Well, would you credit it? It's a regular Aladdin's
cave. What a playroom. All this... equipment. Who gets to use this?"

"Just me, and a few select friends."

"What, so they bring their guys here?"

"Right. No. You misunderstand. This is all mine. Everything. I share it,
that's what I mean."

"Including him."

"Right.  Lube's over there."

I knew where Paul was pointing, even though I was kneeling in front of
Rodder licking the shaft of his prick. He was stroking my head. Paul was
watching us intently.

Rodder gave my head a push. "Hey slut, lube up for me."

I released him my mouth, reluctantly, and crept over to a table where there
were various tubs and tubes of lube. I took a large squish of one on my
palm and pushed it into myself. Paul was watching. I returned to Rodder and
wiped the remaining gel up and down his prick and over the tip. Rodder
exhaled deeply.

"Ok... that's enough. Now..."

Paul intervened, "Right, over here. This is good. Put him in this," he
indicated a leather fuck-sling I was used to being fucked in. I stood and
sat back into it letting Rodder stand between my legs, spreading and
raising them so that his wood bounced above my genitals.

"Right. Tie him," said Paul.

"You wha'?" said Rodder.

"I want to see you tie him. His hands go on those manacles and his ankles
there."

Rodder groaned, " Man... like I really want to screw him. He's so fucking
hot. Why does he need all this crap? What's the big deal?"

"Right. The deals this, mate. The deals if you want to poke my fucking
slave then you do it my way and I want to see it restrained cos when I see
you screw it I want to see you screwing it and not some snivelling cunt
struggling cos it can't take the strain. I don't want to see you being
careful. I want to see you let him have it no holding back. No loveydovey
bollocks. Right? So. Fucking tie up the bitch and let's get on. Look, do
you honestly never have a struggle?"

Rodder was silent. He looked at me like, for a moment, he was sorry. I
never understood. I had my arms and legs up. I was ready. I had my hole
pointing up and there was nothing in my mind resisting the invasion of his
vicious tool. I looked at it and felt it touch my hole and I wanted it.

I wanted it so much.

So Rodder came round and painstakingly manacled my wrists and legs up into
their positions on the fuck-sling, so there was nothing to impede his use
of my gaping shitter. I couldn't move around or struggle or anything if,
like, I couldn't take it.

His cockhead repeatedly touched me.

"Right."

"Does he need a gag?" asked Rodder.

"Do you usually have to gag them?"

"Sometimes they scream."

"Right? Interesting. So they do resist, sometimes."

"I'm just saying," said Rodder. "If we need to restrain him then perhaps
we'd better gag him while we're at it. Just in case."

"Right," said Paul. "Just in case. I see. Well I don't think so cos I'll be
at that end won't I and I'll deal with it. Now for fucks sake get on."

So that's when Rodder put it in me.

And I screamed.

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END OF Even The First - PART EIGHT