Date: Sat, 5 Jan 2013 11:24:49 -0600
From: CAMERON BROCK III <cameronbrock3@gmail.com>
Subject: IF HE HOLLER$ MAKE HIM PAY PART 23 GAY AUTHORITARIN

IF HE HOLLER$ MAKE HIM PAY.  PART 23

by Cameron Brock III

(cameronbrock3@gmail.com)


NOTE: I'm only 19 so don't expect a bunch of fancy writing from me.
Yeah, this really is my real name and email and all this shit really
happened. I know it sounds weird but it's all fucking true because
people really ARE like this. A guy couldn't make up all the freaking
stuff (LOL). Don't fucking read it if you can't stand the fucking truth
about men and their fucking fags.


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Fag Furniture

There's one very easy tool in the truly sadistic Master's arsenal of
mindfucks for training his submissive faggot and making sure he
remains in his proper place. It's an everyday item that every Master
has around the house:

Furniture.

A Master may be in the process of dog-training his fag. In which case,
it may be only proper that fagdogs are trained not to be on the
furniture.  This just makes sense.

But the training of a fag should not always involve common sense. A
fag's life is no longer about logic. It is not about logical rewards
and punishments. In fact, the beginning stages of its training (and
perhaps always) should involve some level of confusion.

Something should always keep the fag off balance. Something should
keep the fag always guessing, perpetually worried.

A fag's pitiful little life should always have an element of
unpredictableness because it must always be reminded that it lives at
the capricious whim of its Master.

A fag might be punished, let's say, not for the common sense reason
that it broke a rule.

But rather the stupid slave fag can and should be punished FOR NO
FUCKING REASON AT ALL!!

Or perhaps there IS a reason, but a Master (whose power is total) is
not obliged to explain ANYTHING to a faggot.

The faggot's butt might be left searing red by a belting, and the
faggot perpetually guessing and wondering what it had done wrong, if
anything. What eventually gets into its little head is that the Master
just fucking WANTED to.

Just because he could.

This aspect of what the fag must learn to do unquestioningly is all
part of its training. It must become accustomed to a state of mind
blurred of its own will, so that it remains pliable to the pleasure of
its Master.
	This blurriness is what I like to call Constructive Confusion. A good
Master can create this Constructive Confusion with a succession of
rules and punishments that always keep the fag guessing. Its mind
short-circuits. After a while the blubbering cuntface just gives up
asking questions and just obeys rules.
	Like: KEEP OFF THE FURNITURE.

So perhaps it is constructively confusing for the fag if it is not
exactly considered a dog, but STILL not allowed to use any of the
furniture the way normal human beings would. It's not a human, it's
not even a dog. The fag might perpetually be asking itself, "Then what
am I?" Of course, it never gets an answer. It never really knows how
to define itself. So its identity is forever at the breaking point of
its Masters.

I always add this to the trainingtapes of the faggots. When they
listen to FagRadio, it reminds them that it is their duty to be
nothing, wiping out all preconceptions of what it is, so it is a blank
slate upon which the Master can inscribe what the Master wants. It is
remarkable the way it molds their enfeebled minds. It makes them all
the more insatiable for cock and servitude as a way of finding
purpose.

At any rate, whether or not you're involved in dog-training, furniture
is excellent option for fagslave molding. Hell, if you do have a dog,
let the faggot see that the dog IS allowed on the furniture, but fags
aren't. This will confuse the fag all the more.

The mere command that the faggot may not use the furniture of real men
demarcates a clear-cut division between the lives of superior normal
men, and the submissive abnormal faggots at their feet.

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One faggot whose life was taken over by a teenage male superior was --
very quickly in its ownership -- denied the use of furniture.

The very furniture in the faggot slave's own house which the faggot
had used all its life.

Some Masters, like this young jock, just instinctively know this sort
of control is an intelligent training device.

The faggot told me in an interview for my studies in Fagology:

"Keep off the furniture. Stay off the couch, Master would say, down,
faggot, down! He'd say, stupid faggot, how dare you crawl on my nice
clean rug! And when I forgot and accidentally almost sat on the couch,
he'd swat me hard with a rolled up newspaper. Never realized before
how much a rolled-up newspaper could hurt like hell. Especially on my
balls!
	At first it was so...jarring. So humiliating. Being told to keep off
my own furniture. I didn't know what to think. It was crazy. I mean,
it was driving me crazy. I was already confused about so much. In just
a span of a few weeks, this mean jock teenager with a giant cock had
taken over my life! He practically had me hypnotized with his big
fucking cock. I would do ANYTHING for it, and he knew it.  He called
me a cash-cunt and made me pay him lots of money. He fucked me. He
fucked me in my face. And in my asshole. He called both my holes
pussies. He took over my house after only a few days. I begged him not
to, but he just laughed.  He fucked me and then made me sleep on the
floor while HE slept on my bed.
	There I was in my own house. Among all my usual possessions. Stuff I
had bought, inherited, used for most of my life.  And suddenly...they
weren't MY possessions anymore. He just TOOK them.  I mean, they were
still there. They were still around me. I could see them. But, just
because this superior young man said so, they suddenly didn't belong
to me anymore. Just because this man said so, I couldn't use them the
way I had been using them. I couldn't even TOUCH them. It was really
nerve-wracking. I couldn't begin to tell you how much it changed my
life just being forbidden the use off all these familiar objects.
Just because my young Master said so, I now sort of felt like it was
me who was possessed by the furniture. It was like now I was even
LOWER than the furniture I had once used!
	I remember the first day I was let off my leash and I was free to
crawl into what was once my office. It was now a workout room for my
young Master and his friends. I went over to the rolling faux-leather
office chair where I had once sat so many hours staring at the
computer jacking off to porn scenes of dominant young men humiliating
guys like me. I could almost see and smell the cumstains that were on
the seat of the chair. I vaguely remembered me sitting there, naked
and hard, even typing my first tentative and timid email to the man
who would become my young Master...."





In the case of another faggot named 'Hole':

	"With the help of my life savings, my young Master moved us into a
brand new house together. It was all new territory for me. But it
became like another planet.
	My Master laid down a bunch of new rules.
	First off, in this house, I was always to be completely naked. My
Master told me that under no circumstances was I ever to be clothed
within this new house, but also I was never to use any of the
furniture.  I swear, if there was any vestige of a sense of "equality"
left in my mind, it disappeared over the next few days. I entered into
this private sphere where my natural state was total nudity. Total
nudity and total submission.
	The house was like a jail where I was given a new identity as a
nothing-fuckhole slave. My Master made it clear that I was kind of
like an appliance that came with the house: a vacuum cleaner or a mop.
A fuckhole that was perpetually crawling around on the floor. My
Master was even kind enough to give me some fuzzy rag dusters for my
hands and knees. He said that when I crawled around the house I would
at least be useful as a sort of automatic floor polisher.  Believe me,
those floors were kept really really shiny!
  It troubled me at first, and I got kind of sore, but after a little
while it was just plain exciting roaming free around the house,
butt-naked, mind emptied out like a good little ditzy faggot hole,
like some kind of subhuman pet to some higher beings. In spite of my
first doubts, I started to really like it.  I'm afraid sometimes my
little dick was so excited it got wet and left dribblings all over my
Master's hardwood floors, for which he punished me severely-- as I
deserved.

Of course, I was NEVER allowed to cum, so my sorry little dick seemed
to stay in a state of perpetual excitement, being naked, on all fours,
surrounded by all these superior reminders of my Master and his
friends. All this furniture which I didn't deserve to use. I just
wasn't good enough for it. My Master laughed at how quickly I was
adjusting to my new lowly existence, saying this was where I was
obviously supposed to be.  My butt couldn't help but wag happily as I
crawled around in my new happy, lowly, liberated existence.
	And my Master forbid me the use of any article of furnishings in the
house. Nothing was available for my use unless my Master explicitly
gave me one time permission to use it for his commands.  From the very
beginnings, the living room set, the dining table, the divan, the
footstool, were all to me as if they were some kind of alien
technology that I was not highly enough evolved to comprehend.
	And it wasn't just the basic furnishings. I mean, like, curtains,
towel racks, toilet paper rolls, kitchen sinks, can openers. NONE of
it was mine to touch or use unless Master explicitly permitted it.  So
I could not even drink out of a cup, or eat out of a dish.  Light
switches were forbidden. I could not turn them on or off. If the light
was on I had to leave it on, or if the light was off, I couldn't turn
it on, but rather just had the bad luck of having to crawl around in
the dark. I tell you, I felt like a really helpless slave with no
control over my surroundings whatsoever.
	Because every object was untouchable, off-limits, forbidden, it
seemed to reverberate with its own special domination over my desires.

Hours alone in that quiet house when my Master was away at work, it
began to dawn on me, that even an inanimate object which I could not
touch without permission, was superior to me--a mere naked inferior
creature.
	I was, after all, as my Master informed me many times when he stuck
his dick in me "Just a hole."
	He fucked me hard. "And what is a hole?"
	"Nothing sir. A hole is nothing!"
	"So what does that make you, Hole?"
	"Nothing, Sir, it makes me nothing!"
	A mere empty hole.
	And what business did a hole have being on furniture?

For hours when my Master was away at school, I crawled around naked on
the floor in that big quiet house, the furniture DID seem to become my
guardians and my superiors. Even mere toilet paper seemed to be
superior to me, denying me the usual associations which a normal
person associates with furniture.
	So even when I was left alone naked in the house I was never allowed
to live or behave like a normal human being. By my own obedience to
Master's rules, I was constantly reminded of the presence of my
Master. 		There came to be moments when I would simply sit there naked
before a chair, a chair like so many I had used so casually in my
previous life.
	I would now look upon the chair with a sort of awe and wonder now
that it was a sacred possession of the god I worshipped.
	Alone in the house, naked with my thoughts and furniture, it was as
if I were being held captive by them, even being humiliated by them
because I was not good enough for them. They became omnipresent
reminders of the forbidden, like the electrified bars of a cage.
	 And with my Master's absence, it was even more so,  because I was by
my own conscience decision, out of respect for my Master's wishes,
that I would not touch them.

The table legs became HIS legs, and I began to enjoy being at the same
level as them.
	After just a few days, this seemed so much like the "new normal" for
me. Seeing things from this lowly perspective just seemed...correct.
	So when I was occasionally allowed to stand up like a normal human
being to cook dinner, everything seemed off-balance. It wasn't quite
right. I even felt a little dizzy. Like I was seeing everything from a
scary height.
	That which I was forbidden to touch--a couch, a chair, a table, an
umbrella stand, a coffee table, a rug--became new and alien to me.
They suddenly vibrated with hot power. They suddenly had an air of
forbiddenness. They sat in the room like a bunch of bullies forbidding
my little naked body to even look at them.
	And when real men came into the house, when my Master invited some of
his buddies over, my world just turned upside down. 	They way they
were allowed to relate to the furniture began to amaze me. they
just--sat...down...upon...it. They used this furniture as casually as
they used me.

At a certain stage in my training my Master summoned me into his bathroom.
	I knew this was a very special occasion. Something special was going
to happen because I was never really much allowed into his bathroom
unless it was to perform some cleaning service, be it scrubbing him in
the shower, swallowing his piss, or just licking the tiles clean.
	He was sitting on the toilet. My eyes fixed on his fat cock hanging
over the edge of the toilet. He summoned me over to it, and indicated
that I should take it in my mouth-hole.
	"That's a good hole, " he said, "warm your Master's cock in your
mouth while I tell you what's about to happen to you this weekend."
	I took the hot velvet meat in my wet mouth and it felt so snug in my
throat while I listened to his words.
	"Hole, your Master's going to go away for the weekend. But you're
going to stay here in the house. Don't worry, you're not going to be
alone. But I've been kind enough to make arrangements for you, even
though you're just a hole. See, Master has arranged for some of my
gutterpunk acquaintances to come by and stay in the house while I'm
gone. I've told them they're welcome to use any of the facilities here
as they see fit. Even you. I told them how you were just a hole, and
they seemed to really like the idea of having the free use of a faggot
hole for the entire weekend. So, now, I want you to be a good hole,
and make sure that all these men have a good time, serve them just
like you would serve me, and make sure they know that they can use you
just like they would use any other piece of furniture in the house, do
you understand?"
	I looked up at him desperately, my jaws aching and lips salivating
around his cockpiece and shook my head yes, desperately fearful of
what would happen to me. I wondered what I had done to deserve this,
but knew better not to ask. Would he really leave me alone with a gang
of beastly smelly hooligans?  What would a bunch of horny teenage
gutterpunks do to a naked little faggot? But what would happen to me
if I DIDN'T please them? That scared me even more!
	My Master smiled down at me as if he were reading my mind. "That's
okay. I'm sure you're all going to have a fun time. Now hold still,
I'm going to feed you my precious morning piss."
	And I felt his warm delicious piss filling up my mouth and tricking
down my throat.




It's true, my Master has a bunch of rowdy gutterpunk friends.
	I admit it, when I was a stuck-up white-collar businessman, before I
became a lowly fag slave, I used to look down upon kids like that.
	I guess I once thought they were lazy lowlifes. I thought they were
the dregs of society.
	Now I only think of them as real men with superior cocks. Now, thanks
to my Master's retraining, I realize it's ME who's the lazy lowlife.
It's ME who's the dregs of society.!  I'm just a mere HOLE, while
these superior young men with hot stiff pricks always dripping with
pre-cum, deserved every ounce of my abilty to worship them and give
them pleasure.

Now these gutterpunks are like exotic pierced tattooed gods. When they
came into the house that weekend and used the furniture, furniture
which I was forbidden, I was almost in awe at how they used it.
Everywhere they sat, each of these boys now looked like young Kings.
Every item they used became now an object of veneration in my eyes. It
was sacred, and object of respect, and the fact that they used it so
casually, so cavalierly, stuff I was never allowed to touch, endowed
them with so much more respect in my eyes.

That Friday evening the house was super-quiet. My Master made me kiss
his ass goodbye one last time before he hiked up his pants and went
off to god-knows-what business in the outside world that real men tend
to.
	Now it was just me, naked on my knees on the hardwood floors.
	I crawled sort of aimlessly among the furniture. My mind emptied to a
sort of zen-like state, preparing myself to be open to almost anything
the gutterpunks might do to me.
	I heard the door unlock. Heard their boots coming down the hall. I
scrambled to cower naked in my appointed corner.  The bootsteps came
closer till I was aware of at least four or five young men standing
around me. Snickering.
	"Well what do you know. He was telling the truth. There it is.
That's the faggot he was telling us about. This is the faggot he said
we could use all weekend."
	i could see a black boot just out of the corner of my eye but didn't
dare move. I shivered and could feel my exposed scrotum shrink up and
my pink sphincter tighten.  Another one laughed and said,
	"Is that right?  You the dirty filthy cocksucker fag that we can use
anyway we want to this weekend?"
	I dared to look up at them. I saw five brownish gutterpunk faces sort
of sneering down at me. Young hungry sexy teenagers. Some had
piercings in noses, eyebrows and lips. Heads partly shaved and partly
braided. One had a devilish goatee. Another a gold tooth in his lewd
grin. Thorny tattoos that started on their necks and drifted down
below their skinny waists. I had once thought of these boys as filthy
animals. And yet they were the ones looking down upon me as if I were
some kind of icky puddle of scum.
	"Let's see," the one with the goatee said, "let's see if he's a fag."
	And he hawked a gob of spit on me, splat on my face.
	I sat there and took it, letting his warm fluid from his superior
manliness warm up my already blushing face.
	They laughed. "Damn." he said, and spit again. "It's true. You really
can do anything to a faggot."  Spit.
	And they all just stood around spitting on me for several minutes.
They all must've spit on me a dozen different times. It really amused
them that this grown man was actually feeling honored by being spit
upon by gutterpunks. They even perfected their aim with each spit,
getting better and better about the gobs of spit landing smack in my
face.  I mean, how many times in real life do you get a chance to
practice spitting in some guy's face? Why not take advantage of it?
	They laughed again and high-fived each other and then one had the
brilliant idea of spitting on his own boots and ordering me lick the
spit off of it.
	"Ewwww grosss," he said, "damn, I always heard of faggots like this
who'd do anything a guy said, but I didn't know they really existed.
Just look. He's cleaning off my fucking shoe with my spit.  Hey
faggot, now do the other one."  And he gobbed some more spit on his
other shoes and I began to gratefully lick it up, even kind of
revelling in the fact that they were simultaneously grossed out and
amused at the little faggot at the same time. I really liked being the
object of their amusement. It pleased them in a twisted way, and I
enjoyed the fact that these strong virile superior young men were so
pleased. So they all wanted in on it after that, spitting on their
filthy shoes with all the streetscum on it, and making me lick it over
and polish all their shoes with my tongue.
	They even moved to the living room where they sprawled out and told
me to go get them some beers in the fridge. I figured since it was
their orders, then it was okay to crawl to the fridge and open it and
get beers out for them, because I would never have been able to use it
otherwise. So I got the beers, one by one, each of them smacking my
ass as I crawled back to the sacred fridge for the next one's bottle.
	They found it absolutely hilarious.  To me, I guess since I was
living this life and it was my daily existence, it was somehow
absolutely normal that I should be doing this, but I guess since this
was their first time to using and abusing a faggot they were really
getting a kick out of this stuff to me.
	 While i was crawling into the kitchen, one of them found the TV with
all the porn on it, even some of the homemade porn my Master made of
me being trained and punished,  another found the stereo with all the
heavy metal music on it.  For me, this was a new experience, since I
was never allowed to use any of these appliances while under my
Master's rule.  The very fact that they seemed like they had automatic
access to these magical items of my Master's, well, it just seemed so
cocky and arrogant, and, well, just proof that they were of the
superior type just like my Master, who I was born to serve.  It just
made sense that I should serve them.
	They made me sit up and beg and poured beer over me, and they even
invented what they called "buttpolishing" of their shoes.
	They made me bend over with my faggot hole high in the air, and they
spit on my hole, then they would stick out their boot and have me buff
their shoes with my moistened sphincter. They would grind the toe of
their shoes into my rectum, but then made me also rub it up and down
and around their shoes, scrubbing their shoes with my ass. It hurt so
much that I almost started crying, so they were laughing at that, but
I kept scrubbing, polishing each of their black shoes in turn.
	We found that I could even do a better ass-polishing of their shoes
if I actually faced their knees and held on to their legs like a dog
humping them, but bounced my raw butt all over their slickened shoes.
	The "dog-humping" just reminded them that I could be treated like a
dog. So then they had the great idea that they could just take off
their shoes and toss them and have me run fetch them from across the
room. They made me suck on their socks, and then made me tongue clean
their filthy feet.
	Of course, me being face first in their crotches, well, the booze and
the porn finally got to them. Their crotches were absolutely bulging
with hard teen dick meat by the time they pulled them out and made me
start sniffing around them. They grinned and laughed the entire time I
was hungrily sucking and licking all those super long prongs. Sure
they were a little funky, being gutterpunk cocks. But being a slave
fag, I didn't consider that I really had any choice in the matter, so
I just dove in a kept sucking at whatever slimy teen cock was thrust
at me. Some were shaved, some had tattoos, some some piercings, in the
cockhead, in the testicles.
	They forced me to crawl from crotch to crotch, sampling their juicing
teen pricks. The guys thought it was hysterical that a grown man could
be so cock hungry. My mouth gaped open. Those dicks reamed out my
throat. I was whimpering at the juicy taste of those fine young
pricks. That I should have no dignity at all. No self-respect, that
all I knew was cock and servitude and practically existed to be told
what to do by any real man who had a cock hanging off his crotch.
This was my purpose.  They had me snorting on their balls and gulping
up their cocks. They ordered me to roll back their nasty foreskins and
eat the dick-cheese out of them. Obviously they hadn't taken baths in
weeks, and they knew it was part of my humiliation that I should just
be a fag smothered in their smelly crotches, suctioning off the scum
of their testicles.
	They kept watching porn and were getting higher and higher on the
domination, and even when I sucked off the youngest guy who was about
sixteen and had the sweetest load of cum I had ever tasted, they just
laughed and said, okay, now we get to try out his OTHER hole.
	So they all fucked me in the ass.
	It was all so casual for them, too. These kids, just fucking a fag.
	They just traded off. They made me hold the cock of one them in my
mouth while the other one got behind me, lubricated my butt with beer
and slammed it in me.
	When the youngest punk got to me, he made sure he stuck the beer
bottle deep in my punk-fucked rectum. He practically gave me a beer
enema, which made me a little dizzy, but that that was a good thing
because that kid was the meanest dude who really liked to fuck the
hardest. He really slammed his cock up into my hole, His big floppy
ballsack whip-slammed against my nuts. This babyfaced punk was showing
off for his punk buddies and even started slapping my buttcheeks hard
with every thrust. My butt was red and I was practically whimpering in
his friend's crotch as he laughed and fucked me.
	Occasionally one of the other punks hawked another fresh wad of spit
in my face.
	By the time we were done fucking me hard on the couch, they had
slimed me with almost every possible body fluid they could think of.
	Till one decided to take me into the bathtub and pee on me.
	I gasped for air. Getting splashed with gushing streams of punk piss
all at once.  They screamed with laughter while they slathered my
piss-soaked body. One punk said, "Some people deserve to be peed on."
	They told me to thank them for it while they sprayed me some more,
like I was being power-washed with punk piss. Of course all the boys
had some wicked loads of scalding piss that followed too, that just
kept coming. Gallons of the stuff streaming out of their long teen
hoses.  		Except for the youngest boy. He grinned down at me. He made
me hold his dick in my mouth while I swallowed his piss. He giggled as
his stream poured down my gulping throat, sucking on his cock like a
baby on its bottle. The last few drops even puddled up in his foreskin
and he giggled and told me to slurp it out with my tongue.
	 Of course, after consuming all of that liquid, I myself had to pee,
so they loved just making me bend over in the tub and pee in my own
mouth.
	They said they loved the fact that my piss was really all of their
beer piss just getting recycled in my own mouth.
	They giggled and agreed that for the rest of this weekend none of
them would ever piss in the toilet again and that I was to be the
automatic pissdrinker for their punky dicks whenever any of them told
me that they needed to take a piss. Also they said whenever I needed
to piss, I was only allowed to piss in my own mouth, so I'd better get
used to it. They said that their piss, and their cum, was the only
sustenance I'd be allowed to consume all weekend. They laughed that I
would just keep recycling their beer and my own piss all weekend
long!!
	The youngest punk was still crazy-horny. He seemed really turned on
by this new discovery that he could do so much crazy fucked-up twisted
shit to a full grown man. He loved it. So he dragged me to a room
upstairs so he could have fun just making me gag on his cock and vomit
and then make me lick up the vomit and clean up his crotch. But he
laughed and said every time I vomited, I was going to get beat up
good. He started off just slapping me around pretty hard, but then he
really used his fists, gave me a black eye, left my head ringing a few
times. He punched me in the stomach once and I was bent over retching
and he decided to fuck me again.
	When he finally dragged me back downstairs in a really lamentable
condition, the his punk buddies all laughed and said, "Dude you really
fucked up the pussyboy!!!!"
	From then on that weekend, that upstairs room was called the
"Punishment Room".
	Of course, the punishments were never really because I did anything
wrong but more just because one of them had a really vicious and
painful twisted idea that one of them wanted to try out on me in
private.
	They did the most terrible things to me up there. And laughed about
it. I got to where I was screaming and crying whenever one took me by
the leash they put on me, and decided to take me to the Punishment
Room.
	They were some sick fucking sadistic bastards. I was trembling and
resisting because I knew what they were going to to do me was sheer
torture up there, but they even punished me for resistance.
	It's surprising what sadistic brutality is stored up within the
average teen. Teens would make great guards at concentration camps.
These boys finally had the chance to freely let out all that
hostility.
	The young punk with the gold tooth took off his metal studded belt
and whipped my butt bloody raw. He even made me use his belt and hit
my poor dicklet while he sat back and grinned and took pictures with
his phone.
	The punk with the goatee decided to give me a piercing in my nutsack
with a safety pin. Of course he really just enjoyed jabbing my nutsack
with a sharp object and watching me jump. He slapped me around some
more when I cried over the sheer pain of it.  Another boy took his
cigaret lighter, tied me to a chair, and had me screaming for an hour
while he singed off all the hairs from my balls.  Another kid just
took some scissors from my Master's office and had fun whacking all
the hair off my head in a really haphazard way, so my hair now looked
even more shabby and tangled than theirs.
	I swear, every time I went up to the Punishment Room, I came back
looking more bedraggled and a sloppy beaten up cumbucket. I never knew
what kind of cruel diabolical thing they were going to do to me next.
I was constantly crying now. And my dick was constantly hard. And they
were constantly laughing at me. I was one broken fucked-up fag now.
After this weekend, I knew that every time I saw a gutterpunk on the
street after this, I'd probably sprout and instant hard-on and drop to
my knees.
	And after this weekend these young gutterpunks would never run into
an arrogant businessman without knowing they could easily turn him a
cash-paying grovelling pussyboy to dance on the end of their fine
cocks.
	One punk said it got to the point that they really couldn't stand the
sight of me.
	Knowing all the sick perverted stuff I'd done this weekend, they
realized what a truly scumbag lowlife I really was. I was lower than
any animal, they laughed. Plus I looked like such crap, all bruised
up, crusted with their spit and piss and cum. Plus I stank. They said
it just made them want to treat me even worse.  Here were these
gutterpunks laughing at me and saying I looked and smelled like a real
scumbag.
	"Damn," one said, "I just can't stand looking at the sorry little
faggot anymore.  Geez, can't we just, like, put him away some place?
Can't we just put the little faggot puke out of sight? I mean, just
LOOK at it, it's so fucking gross and disgusting.  I don't even wanna
see that filthy little hole of his!"
	So one got an idea to go out to the street to the garbage and
retrieve a average size cardboard box.  About enough for a large
air-conditioner.
	"Here, " he said, "I think the fag will just fit in this. Try it,
fag. Crawl in. That's it. Comfy?"
	If I scrunched down and folded my body in tight, it would just barely
fit in it.
	"Good. Now we're going to write on it "Fag Box" Because this is where
we're going to keep our fag. And we're going to put the box in the
corner here right under the TV."
	And they shoved the box that said "Fag Box" off to the corner and I
lay quietly in that box, feeling almost like a beat-up piece of
furniture myself, listening to them talk about their music, or their
girlfriends or the best places to get free food. They drank a lot more
and even seem to forget about me most of the night till they went to
bed.
	Well they didn't actually go to bed much because they kept playing
the music loud and partying, banging on the box occasionally just to
make sure I stayed totally terrified of them. And then they called
some girls over, and all the time I was scared out of my mind, sitting
there in the living room in my Fag Box.
	 But things didn't calm down. From my box I could hear girls giggling
and asking if they really did have a fag in a box, and the punks would
open it up and show them there was a real live fag in the box. And the
girls laughed at me when they heard all the stuff I let the guys do to
them and they were even grossed out of over my beat up face and
roughed up dicklet. But it must have turned them on a little too
because they got so hot and eager for pure dominant male cock that
they stripped and fucked those boypunks hard and sloppy right there on
the sofa.
	The girls were so intrigued that the boys could push around a captive
little faggot like me, that I sort of came to an understanding that
maybe part of my purpose was not only to siphon off all the extra cum
produced by superior males, but maybe I was even meant to be used,
bullied and abused, as a way that acted as a sort of foreplay so that
women would be thoroughly titillated for breeding with real males.
	That weekend the guys discovered the girls they invited over were
really incredibly turned on by watching guys use and abuse me.
	Of course I noticed that the guys seemed especially inspired to be
brutal when they girls were watching.  They spanked me harder, kicked
me harder, abused me more and called me even more obscene names,
whenever there was a girl they wanted to impress. They knew it just
got the girl more excited seeing them be so dominant and bullying that
they just beat me all the harder.
	After such a show, the girls could really throw them some really hot
wild fucks.
	Maybe some other fags might be disappointed that they didn't get the
much-coveted prize of those hard teen cocks, but I had been a
well-trained faggot.  As a truly submissive hole, I realized how much
of an absolute honor it was to be used in such a way. Almost as a sort
of human lubricant, so that the superior men would receive the
ultimate mind-blowing earth-shattering orgasms which they so richly
deserved lightening through their fine god-like cocks. I should be
proud that I had in some way contributed to their happiness.  After
all, pleasing men's cocks, ANY men's cocks, in any way that I can, is
my real purpose in life.  If so, I did an outstanding job with the
gutterpunks that weekend.

When my Master finally came home that Monday afternoon, my gutterpunk
masters were gone, the house was a total wreck, and my master had me
crawl out of my "Fag Box",
	By that time I was practically unrecognizable with all the swelling
and the bruising. There was not one spot on my body that did not have
a welt of some sort, my hair was gone, cut or singed off, tattoos,
writing and piercings over my body, and one tooth chipped.
	But did Master give a shit? No. He was more pissed off about the
house. My young Master was furious. He knew I didn't do it, but since
i was a hole, it was okay to blame me for everything anyway.
	He slapped me around and complained about the beerstains on the
floor, the fuckstains on the couch, the pee in the bathtub, the blood
that was on the bed upstairs. He said, that I'd better get busy trying
to clean up all this furniture because I wasn't going to sleep till it
was spic and span. He said, I'd better worship the fucking sofa with
my tongue, and polish the floors and the bathtub as if they were my
masters, and I would keep doing it even if he denied me cock and sleep
privileges for several days.
	He made me rub my tongue on the ring marks on the table, scrubbing
them clean. Made me clean out the stains in the toilet. Tongued out
every ashtray they used.  After he had done whipping me a dozen times,
the whole house was spotless.
	Finally he allowed me to curl up beside the rug. Not on the rug.
BESIDE it. I just was never going to be good enough to actually get ON
the rug.

But Master still kept the Fag Box after that.
	He says it's where he "stores" me when I'm not in use.
	I have become just like an appliance in the house.
	Master seemed to think it was funny to turn his personal fag into a
piece of furniture, too. So now I was like an ornamental conversation
piece in the living room.
	Master is very creative. After the gutterpunks he was even more
inspired to use me as different types of furniture.   I WAS a
coffeetable. Master's friends would come over and put their feet up on
me. They'd put their cold beers and cigars on my back. Or even put
their hot coffee on me in the morning. It was almost unbearable. He
made me also be an ashtray and a welcome mat. Master said this would
teach me to have more respect for his belongings.
	The gutterpunks still come over. They still make me be their toilet
seat. Master even demonstrated to boys how I was very much like a rug,
something to be stepped on. He made me just lay there flat on the
floor, not thinking or moving or feeling.  Just staring up at the
ceiling while the punks stepped all over me. He even said that a fag
rug was even better than a real rug because you could put your
cigarets out on me.
	Whenever any of Master's friends might come over, of course they
would see that shabby little box in the corner and ask about it. He
would demonstrate that there was an actual fag inside, one that he
used and abused constantly for his amusement and pleasure.  Of course,
the guys would always want a demonstration.
	Funny, I'm such a well-trained fag, that I actually think of myself
as a component of the "home-entertainment' system of my Master.  Just
as someone might have a dvd player, or a stereo, or a gaming system, I
am just another component to provide entertainment and relaxation for
my owner and his guests.

But my Master wasn't through with my "adjustment".

Master has even has made me literally 'a hole', by having me construct
a little booth in the basement made of plywood.  About once a week, he
has me place an ad on an internet hookup site advertising the times
and the address, saying it's a private gloryhole and that any man who
wants to can just come over and get blown by "the best free facepussy
in town!".
	And so I sit there in the basement in the dark, kneeling behind the
carefully constructed hole in the plywood, waiting for strange men to
enter the basement door, step up to the hole, stick their dicks in and
have me suck them off.  I could swear I could taste the sweet cum of
that sixteen year old gutterpunk who comes there regularly to feed me
his load. I'm sure dozens of his other gutterpunk friends are now
dropping by and having a fun time dumping their cum in my cuntmouth.
After all those cocks, my Master has even turned me into more of a
hole than ever.

But I'm not complaining. In fact, I am honored and grateful for being
able to serve so many real men with real cocks the way I do. Other
faggots are starving for such an honor and opportunity.  I guess it
would have been unbearable if I was a human being. But I'm not. I'm a
Hole. Holes don't have feelings--thank goodness.

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"Hole's" experience is somewhat intense, but nothing really outside
the standards of a truly dedicated fulltime trained and owned faggot
slave.  It is a perfect example of how a willing and eager faggot's
values and norms can be reshaped once the pussycunt becomes addicted
to serving the cock of a true normal dominant man.


For any "curious" feral fags out there (feral fags are those fags
currently without Masters) this might be a good training exercise:

See if you can go naked for a day, or even a weekend, in your own
house, pretending that you have been forbidden by your Master to use
all of your furniture.

Send me fifty bucks fagtax to my paypal account along with your faggy
observations about your experience and what you need to best control
you, and I'll include your ideas in my next essay!







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INSTRUCTIONS AND EXPLANATIONS FOR FAGS AND THEIR MASTERS

Essentially FagRadio is this: it is a sort of guided meditation about
cocksucking and being a fag, and subservience, and obedience, and
making sure that superior men are always served and receive pleasure.

It is about 45 minutes of a recording made by me, a superior male,
telling a cocksucker who and what he is, and how he should
go about it, and what he should be more focussed on because he is just
a fag. He is a fag, he was born a fag, and always will be nothing but
a fag. And he will be much happier once he learns to accept it. This
is a recording that a faggot might play in his ears when he goes to
sleep at night, or even while he is out jogging, or even when he is
sucking on superior guy's cock for long periods of time.

Information to purchase a copy of the FagRadio brainwashing mp3 audio
file is available upon request at cameronbrock3@gmail.com


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Any fag$ that wanna $how their appreciation to a $uperior alpha male
like my$elf, feel free to $how me your appreciation at paypal
(cameronbrock3@gmail) and/or $how me your gratitude by getting me
something off my gift list at amazon under cameronbrock3@gmail.com.

If you $end me an email at cameronbrock3@gmail.com just remember I
don't wa$te time just playing with fags who don't know how to $how
their immediate and con$tant appreciation.

Hell, even send some donation to Nifty.org for even giving you the ability
to fanta$ize your $icko fantasie$.