Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2007 21:31:18 +0200
From: che tor <che_tor@hotmail.com>
Subject: Master Ali

The sleazy trader had used leather thongs to tie my wrists to a pole. Behind
my back. Not that it was necessary. What slave would be crazy enough to
escape into this dusty, gritty city wearing only lycra shorts and a slave
collar? The black lycra shorts were new and shiny, part of the trader's
marketing ploy, a little investment that might pay off if the new owner was
interested in more than just a Java programmer. I had also been given a full
body shaving, and been oiled up nicely. The lycra shorts were small, so they
accentuated crotch and butt.

  The slave collar, a stainless steel rim riveted to a brown leather
backing, was old and weather-worn. The trader wasn't going to spend money on
a new one of those, especially since the client was likely to give me a new
one with a standard company look, and maybe the company logo.

  The door opened and the trader and client walked in. The client was a dark
man of medium height wearing a loose and expensive-looking tunic. My
immediate thought was: he's not fat, he's not old, he's not ugly. I felt
relief and some delight wash through me.

  When I say he wasn't ugly, I don't mean he was good-looking. In the unlit
room (there was no proper window) I could make out intense and beady eyes, a
round face, a thin line of a beard running like a loop around the bottom of
his face, framing it in a way. Not handsome, but okay. And I noticed there
was a sexy sternness about him.

  The client seemed a bit taken aback, though he tried not to make it
obvious. He wasn't going to let his guard down with a slave. But I could see
that something had struck him.

  His beady eyes glistened in the thick dark air of the stuffy room. He
looked me up and down, from head to naked toe, with a tiny curl of
disapproval at the corner of his mouth. It was intense. I sensed he was
trying to conceal his approval by appearing as disapproving and nonchalant
as possible. I was thrilled.

  Eventually he snapped out of whatever he'd fallen into.

  He couldn't have expected much body-wise from a computer programmer. Most
of us are nothing to look at, especially the straight ones. We tend to
concentrate on getting good at our job, and in that way to earn the special
favours a slave is continuously on the lookout for. A more comfortable
sleeping space, protection from other bully slaves, better food, and fewer
random whippings. But I've been training for years. Fortunately, my
slaveowners have always had some gym equipment lying around, and have
allowed me to use it. So I've built up some nice, smooth pecs, firm biceps,
muscular forearms with protruding veins, a sixpack, and a couple of sexy
legs. Why not? And it's paid off on a couple of occasions.

  The two of them left the room, closing the door behind them. They spoke in
hushed tones. The client seemed to be negotiating. My ears strained to pick
up anything I could about what the next phase in my life might be like. But
I heard nothing A lot of slave owners don't want their slaves to know what
price they fetch. It's enough for a slave to know he's the owner's property.
Why give a slave information he doesn't need to perform his duties?

  They returned, and I was untied. The trader told me my new owner was
Master Ali. Master Ali took a pair of handcuffs out of his tunic pocket and
turned me around roughly, his fingers digging into my biceps in a lingering
kind of way. He snapped the handcuffs on like a true professional and
frogmarched me out of the slavetrader's shop. He barely said goodbye to the
trader, though the trader was bubbling with enthusiasm, and accompanied us
out into the street. I wasn't sure whether Master Ali had paid a
particularly good price, or whether the slavetrader was always this bubbly
on concluding a slave deal.


  I was put in the back seat of a rather old but sturdy Mercedes. We wound
our way through the city teeming with salespeople, shoppers, slaves, some
accompanied by their masters, some not, and schoolchildren. I drank in these
images, hungrily. I barely know the city I live in, because I work as a
programmer, and not as a messenger or personal assistant slave. Those guys
get to move around all the time, but a programmer like myself hardly ever
sees anything outside the workplace.

  Master Ali pumped me for information about my previous assignments, and my
previous owner. Whilst he did, he eyed me through the rear view mirror. I
was leaning forward, because my hands were forced behind my back by the
handcuffs. I kept my eyes in line with the mirror, so I could continuously
catch Master Ali's eyes, which were really intense, now that I could see
them better in the bright light of day.

  My previous owner had been the competition as far as Master Ali's computer
services firm was concerned, at least until my previous owner's firm had
gone bust due to total mismanagement. The bank had taken possession of all
the slaves, and that's was how I got onto the market again.

  Master Ali explained that he had just signed a new contract to supply
web-based systems to a US client, and that I was going to be a key part of
fulfilling the contract.

  The work actually sounded interesting. I was beginning to look forward to
this new phase in my life. An owner who was definitely no eyesore. Work that
was interesting. I just had to find out about the availability of gym
equipment.

  I asked Master Ali and he said there was equipment available, that he
liked his slaves to stay fit. A healthy mind in a healthy body, he said.

  `I can see you keep yourself fit,' Master Ali observed. It was a
concession, an acknowledgement, that gave me a small rush.

  This was going to be as good a slave life as one could imagine, I told
myself. I was even beginning to like Master Ali. He had this sexy
matter-of-fact way about him.

  `You must be a hard worker,' Master Ali half said, half asked.

  `Yes, Master, I work well. I enjoy my work.'

  `This contract is important to me. I'm going to make a lot of money. You
will need to work long hours, and make sure you do quality work.'

  `Yes Master,' I said. `Long hours are fine if it's work you enjoy doing,
and I enjoy my work.'

  `If you work well, I will find ways of rewarding you.'

  `Thank-you, Master.'

  `But my slaves also know me to be ruthless if my slaves don't do their
work properly.'

  There was that bluntness again. Something stirred in my groin.

  `A Master must get what he can from his slaves,' I half said, half
croaked.

  `I'm glad you understand,' he said, glancing at me through the rear view
mirror.

  `I've got this,' he said, opening the glove compartment. Inside, was a
black leather bullwhip neatly rolled up. `I use it,' he added.

  I looked at the familiar implement of slave control. I'd never known a
master to carry it in his glove compartment. I also looked at Master Ali's
hand, his right hand. It would be the hand he'd use to wield the monster, to
inflict his punishment. It was a broad, sinewy hand. He had a gold chain
strung around his thick wrist.

  `What do you say slave?'

  What the hell was I supposed to say?

  `Sometimes slaves need to be whipped, Master,' I attempted, obediently,
trying to see things Master Ali's way. `If they haven't followed the
Master's instructions fully.'

  `I'm glad you understand,' he repeated.

  I wondered whether I should assure him that he wouldn't need to whip me,
that I was an excellent worker. That in fact I'd never been bullwhipped
ever. I'd been hand-beaten a couple of times, and had tasted some casual
swipes from the cane. But I'd never been subjected to a proper bullwhipping.
I just made very sure I never put myself in a situation where I might
warrant such a thing. I'd witnessed other slaves being bullwhipped a couple
of times, wretched slaves too stupid to know how best to behave, or how to
perform their work properly. Or victims of unfair and sadistic slave owners.
It's not a pretty sight. But it can be a turn-on, especially if they get
some muscular, well-oiled whipper to do the job. A whipper who really enjoys
the task, because you get a number of them. Yes, it can be quite a turn-on.

  But I decided to say as little as possible on the topic to Master Ali. It
seemed best.

  But, as I was about to discover, there was no getting away from it.

  `I'm going to use it today,' Master Ali said, snapping the glove
compartment shut. Though the whip wasn't visible any more, its image was
perfectly stored in my head. As was the image of Master Ali's hand pushing
the glove compartment deftly shut.

  I said nothing, started to feel sick. So I was going to witness a
bullwhipping this very day, I told myself.

  `Have you been bullwhipped before, slave?' Master Ali asked.

  `No Master,' I responded. `There's never been a need. I'm an obedient and
capable slave, Master.'

  `Well then it will be a completely new experience, slave.'

  Was he going to whip me today? My whole body was starting to seize.

  `What do you say, slave?' Master Ali was looking at me through the rear
view mirror. He must have seen that my eyes had gone wide and very white.

  I couldn't imagine what I might say.

  `What do you say, slave?' he repeated, this time sternly.

  I tried to take hold of myself.

  `Master, why is Master whipping me today?' I asked, stammering. `Master
has never known a slave as good and obedient and skilful and hard-working as
me.' Maybe there was still a way of talking myself out of this, I thought.

  `You need to know what a whipping from Master Ali feels like. Beforehand.
I believe in preventative whipping. That way there's a smaller chance that
you'll need to be punished for poor work later.'

  `I also want to make sure you don't make me bankrupt like you did to your
previous owner.'

  So that was it. He thought I was part of that.
  `Master,' I began to explain hastily, `the reason why my previous owner
went bankrupt...'

  `Keep you mouth shut, slave,' Master Ali cut me short. `I know what I'm
doing.'

  `I'm a good whipper, slave,' Master Ali explained. `Maximum pain, minimum
damage. Your body will be over it in two weeks. But your mind won't,' he
said, pointing to his temple. For the first time ever, I saw Master Ali
smile. It was a cruel, intense, highly personal smile. `And I'll have a
better slave on my hands.'

  I was speechless. My gut was aching with fear.

  `What do you say slave?'

  What the fuck was I supposed to say?

  `Thank-you Master. Thank-you for making me a better slave.' That response
seemed to keep Master Ali happy. Anything to keep this guy happy now, I
thought, especially since he was going to be slicing me up with a bullwhip
before this day was over. His emotional state had to be my prime concern.

  The rest of the trip we did in silence.


Master Ali pulled the Mercedes up to a high gate covered completely by steel
plating so you couldn't see inside, or wouldn't be able to see from the
inside out. There was a high wall around the property, with shards of glass
embedded into the top. A guard with military fatigues and a machine gun
opened the gate in response to Master Ali's hooting. He saluted as Master
Ali drove in along the dusty driveway.

  The property was large. It sloped gently downhill towards the back, where
tall eucalyptus trees towered above various buildings. We drove past what
had to be the main house, Master Ali's residence. It was a house with a long
veranda at the front. It looked like it had been extended in bits and
pieces. There were a couple of women on the veranda wearing dresses and
matching headscarves made of colourful red and green and yellow patterned
fabrics. One or two of them were probably Master Ali's wives. There were
some children too, playing in the well-tended garden in front of the main
house. Probably the Master's children. Walking along the perimeter wall of
the property, some distance away, was another guard, also in military
fatigues. He also had a machine gun slung over one shoulder. But he was also
carrying a whip, which I saw him crack in the air, as if he was trying to
hit some flying insect. The sick feeling in my gut intensified, and I
wondered where in this property slaves were given their first whipping. A
preventative whipping, as Master Ali had put it.

  The Mercedes proceeded to the back of the house and stopped. At that
moment Master Ali's cellphone rang, and he fished out a hi-tech handset from
his tunic pocket. As he spoke, he waved at a slave who was approaching,
gestured towards me, and then pointed towards the back of the property. Take
this slave away, he seemed to be saying. Take him and prepare him for the
induction whipping. Master Ali did not look directly at me though. He was
fully engrossed in his phonecall. A business call, it seemed. A call for
making more money, getting more profit out of his little slave force.

  It couldn't have been a very large slave force, judging by the size of the
slave quarters at the back, though some Masters manage to squeeze an
incredibly high number of slaves into limited living quarters.

  The slave who led me to the slave quarters was wearing loose white linen
trousers that took him down to just below his knees. He was also wearing
sandals. But nothing else. In the back of my mind I registered that he was
good looking, with a fine, sculpted torso, but I was barely aware of that,
because foremost in my mind was the thought of the whipping my body was
going to be subjected to.

  That thought occupied my mind as the slave, whose name was Moosa, showed
me my room, where the showers were, where the gym equipment was, where the
slaves ate.

  I was still in the grip of my impending punishment as I was introduced to
another slave, Mustafa, who managed the workshop. Mustafa wanted to get me
onto a job as soon as possible, and started explaining things to me. He took
me to the programmer's workshop. I hardly heard a thing Mustafa said, such
was my terror over the impending whipping, but somehow I managed to begin
work very gingerly on my first programming task. In fact, I told myself that
if I concentrated hard enough on the task, the whipping would somehow go
away.

  Actually, it did.

  A couple of days went by, and there was no whipping. I didn't see Master
Ali at all. I began to suspect it had all been a game on the part of Master
Ali. But I didn't ask any of the other slaves about it. I thought it might
be bad luck to even mention Master Ali's promise. Maybe one of the slaves,
maybe Mustafa, was meant to do the whipping, but didn't believe in whipping
fellow slaves.

  I decided there was no harm in keeping absolutely quiet about the reason
for the terrible fear that had accompanied my arrival at Master Ali's.

  I started loosening up, focussing on other aspects of my new slave life.

  I soon realised that Moosa was the kind of man I could easily fall in love
with. Not only was he absolutely beautiful, and sexy in an un-selfconscious
kind of way, he was intelligent and kind. He was very good to me. We bonded
over the gym equipment. In fact, it was clear that of all the slaves, we
were the fitness freaks.

  We quickly became gym partners. He would exercise in these very sexy white
lycra shorts, which would make his bulge clear and, for me, very enticing. I
would use my black cycling shorts the slave trader had put me into.

  Moosa had a woman, though, and two children. So I wasn't too sure what to
make of things when he started insisting that I feel his torso, the hardness
of his pecs, the roundness of his biceps (as he flexed them). He wasn't
showing off. He wasn't that kind of man. He was just interested in his own
bodily development. He felt my own body, commented on it, admired it.

  One day I decided I couldn't take the uncertainty any more. After our
weight training, when I felt his pecs to gauge how hard they where, I let my
fingers slip across his smooth skin, and onto his nipple. I let my
forefinger play lightly with the nipple, which seemed rock hard to me.

  Moosa stopped me by grabbing my hand, asked me whether I liked men. I said
I did. He said he didn't, but also that he thought it was fine if I did.

  Moosa then looked at me, as if he wanted to say something.

  `Watch out for Master Ali,' he said.

  `Why?' I asked.

  `Just be careful with him,' Moosa said. `I'll tell you some time. Not
now.'

  I was disappointed, infuriated, intrigued. My move on Moosa hadn't paid
off. But there was some issue around men and Master Ali which Moosa was not
willing to share with me.

  More or less from that time I started seeing more of Master Ali. He would
come into the workshop quite frequently, where we slaves would be sitting at
our computers. An important deadline for a big project that we were all
working on was drawing near. Master Ali would speak only to Mustafa, and
Mustafa would convey orders to the rest of us, and check our work.

  On one particular day, Master Ali came in to the workshop, highly
agitated. We had just handed over a product to the overseas client. One
module in the software was not working properly. Master Ali was shouting,
asking Mustafa who was responsible for the module in question. Mustafa lied,
he said we'd all been working on it, and that he took responsibility for all
the work. It was a lie, because we all knew it was Moosa's module. He'd done
nearly all of the work. He would have been responsible if something was not
working.

  `I want to know who is responsible for this fuck-up!' Ali screamed,
banging a fist into one of the workbenches, so a computer mouse jumped.

  Mustafa stood frozen, not a muscle in his body moving.

  Moosa broke the silence by standing up off his swivel chair. I remember
noticing how the sunlight that succeeded in penetrating the oily window
panes lit up a few beads of sweat sprinkled across his torso. It was hot, so
he had been working shirtless. I thought of how these pearls spoke of my
desire for this man, his body, his whole goodness. I suppose I latched onto
these observations in the vain hope that what was obviously about to occur,
would not occur..

  `That was my module,' Moosa announced, with a steely look on his face.

  The rest of us gasped within, in unison, in admiration of Moosa, and in
fear over what would happen next.

  What happened next was not the most gruesome act I had ever witnessed, yet
it sickened me to the core like nothing that had ever come before. Seeing a
man that you love being whipped must be akin to a mother's seeing her own
child abused. It shakes you, sickens you, to the core.

  Master Ali told us to wait for him. He left, and came back some ten
minutes later with two of his guards, armed with machine-guns. Master Ali
himself had changed from the ???? he had been wearing earlier to a vest with
a military camouflage pattern, khaki trousers, and brown leather military
boots, tied up with a long lattice of laces. I had never seen Master Ali
like this before. It was disturbing, and added to my trauma over what was to
follow. What was disturbing was that Master Ali looked sexier than ever
before. With his military vest on, I got a chance to see Master Ali's arms
properly for the first time ever. His upper arms were surprisingly
developed. His biceps were of the type that retained a prominent bulge, no
matter what the position of the arm. His shoulder muscles, sprouting out of
his upper arms in clear ridges, created a pair of bulbous shoulders.

  Master Ali was carrying a snake whip in his one hand, and a few other
stringy items in the other.

  He cracked the whip so it emitted a sharp crack through the tense air. I
remembered reading that a whip crack is actually a sonic boom, caused by the
fact that the tail of the whip swipes through the air at a speed faster than
sound. The cracking of the whip created a small cloud of leather dust in the
spot where the crack had occurred.

  `Slave-whipping time!' Master Ali shouted, with sinister glee. `It is time
that you slaves were reminded of the consequences of disobedience.'

  `Master Ali, I have not been disobedient,' Moosa pointed out, with a
fearlessness that exuded complete human beauty for me.

  `Keep quiet, you slave!' Master Ali ranted, slicing the snake whip through
the air once again and producing a new sonic boom crack. `I am the Master
here. If  I say you have been disobedient, then you have been disobedient.
That module you did had mistakes in it. I could loose a lot of money. I need
to teach you slaves a lesson. All of you!'

  The nervousness in the workshop went up one notch. It was not impossible
that this madman was going to whip the lot of us.

  Now Master Ali began busying himself with the contents of his other hand.
He handed leather thongs to one of the two soldiers, and pointed to a
workbench. It was clear that Moosa was to be tied up for the whipping. The
other soldier understood that his job remained to maintain the general
order, a role he now assumed with greater earnestness, given that he would
be alone. He had his machine gun on the ready, and maintained a continual
scan of everyone in the room, paying special attention to every movement,
every shuffling of a foot, every glance of an eyeball from one slave to
another.

  But there was something else that had to happen before Moosa was tied up.

  Master Ali held out what looked firstly like a bunch of white shoelaces,
though I quickly realised it was a white G-string.

  `Slave, you will need to get that body of yours into this.'

  I detected a slight change in Master Ali's tone of voice. His dark eyes
assumed a slightly distant look, though ostensibly they moved from the
G-string to the slave he was about to whip. It was as if he was already
picturing Moosa in the G-string.

  To someone with my sexual tastes, it became clear in an instant that
Master Ali was operating at two levels. On the one hand he was a slavemaster
disciplining his slaves. On the other, he was a man possessed by the
sensation of taking his sexual fantasies into the realm of reality, bit by
bit.

  Moosa had to remove his cotton slave trousers in front of everyone. As he
stood there naked, the camera within my head clicked away at the images of
his perfect body for eternal preservation. My sexual thirst for him was the
best photographic fixing agent I could ever have.

  As he climbed into the little cotton cage of the G-string, Moosa's muscles
rippled silently but dramatically beneath his smooth skin.

  With his loins caged by the thing, Moosa stood up straight and looked at
Master Ali with the detachment of someone able to escape from his own
miserable predicament, and find refuge within a superior eye that took in
the whole scene from a distance. Moosa's stare, aimed at Master Ali, was
devoid of any visible fear, was taken up only be a quiet accusation of the
injustice of the whole setup, and of Master Ali's kinkiness. It was perhaps
the latter accusation that stung most.

  Master Ali's eyes drank in the image of his G-stringed slave.

  `Slave, it's put on skew', Master Ali accused roughly. `Straighten it. If
I whip a slave, he must be properly dressed up for the occasion. Show some
respect.' With that Master Ali produced another crack with the whip, just
for the effect.

  It was true that the G-string did not sit symmetrically on Moosa. It
needed some adjustment. The sacred pouch containing the penis was off
centre, and the hip string on one side was higher than on the other side.

  Moosa performed a few adjustments.

  Following a signal from Master Ali, the soldier carrying the leather
thongs cleared a workbench and led Moosa to it. Moosa was tied by the wrists
and the ankles to the legs of the workbench. His ankles were tied to the
bottom of the front legs, forcing his beautiful legs to spread out wide. His
wrists were tied to the tops of the back legs of the workbench, so that
Moosa's stomach and chest were forced to lie horizontally over the top of
the workbench.

  His buttocks, framed along the top by the cords of the G-string, protruded
just above the height of the workbench. The vertical string was visible over
the top part of Moosa's arse crack, but then it seemed to disappear into his
arse at the lower end. At least that was the view I had from my position in
the room.

  Master Ali went up to Moosa and adjusted the G-string further. He was a
like a man wanting perfection in his prized possessions, a man polishing his
new BMW to perfection. He pulled the G-string up, looking at the arrangement
from various angles. He was an artist absorbed in his live sculpture. He
pulled it and let it go, allowing it to sting Moosa lightly. He made sure
that the cord running up Moosa arse crack sat as deep and tight as possible.

  Next Master Ali let the loop of the snake whip run lightly over Moosa's
unblemished buttocks. The fact that they would soon be the target of Master
Ali's vicious punishment made the act so much more intense, and tragic for
me.

  Master Ali let the snake whip trace a line upwards, up Moosa's broad back,
towards his shoulders. Master Ali placed the instrument of punishment before
Moosa's mouth, which was just a few centimetres above the table top.

  `Kiss, slave!' Master Ali ordered.

  Moosa complied, and those lips I had so often dreamt would touch my lips,
pouted forward and lightly touched that instrument of cruelty instead.

  Master Ali cleared his throat, maybe as a physical signal for his whole
self to shake itself loose from the kinky trance that had gripped him for a
couple of minutes.

  `Slaves,' Master Ali announced, to the terrified, appalled audience. `What
you are about to witness is a reminder of your status. Observe carefully.
You may not be fieldworkers, you may sit on your arses the whole day in
front of computer screens, you may be well-educated, but you are slaves
nonetheless. And I am your owner. I have the power to punish you and even
put you to death. It's my decision completely. Only once have I put a slave
to death, but I wouldn't hesitate to do it again if I thought it was
necessary and in my interests. And as you know, I do not hesitate to punish
slaves to improve the performance of my business.'

  `Keep your eyes on the slaves,' he ordered the two soldiers. `Make sure
they all watch. None of them must turn away. If they do, tell me, and I'll
make sure they get taught how to pay attention. Understood?'

  `Yes sir,' the two soldiers murmured, steadying their machine guns as a
gesture of obedience.

  With that, Master Ali positioned himself carefully around three metres
behind the workbench to which Moosa was bound. He let the whip dangle free
for some seconds, as if giving it some air, then he lifted him arm, swung it
and his whole body forward, and then jerked his arm back at the critical
moment.

  It was a perfect hit as far as Master Ali was concerned.

  The leather slapped a fifteen centimetre stroke across Moosa's right
buttock.

  The thought that went through my mind was that Master Ali must have been
practicing. On some inanimate object, presumably. His technique was just too
good. This had to be the culmination of a lot of careful practice, and
patient waiting for the arrival of this moment.

  Moosa let out a deep scream that filled the room. The lash had been
delivered with a force that would have made any control on the part of the
victim impossible.

  That scream clearly energised Master Ali. It signalled to him that it was
he alone was in control, now that he had taken Moosa beyond his breakpoint.

  Master Ali also seemed satisfied with his technique, which was not just
about the strength of impact, but also about distance. He didn't want to get
too close and create a line of contact that was too long, too uncontrolled.

  Master Ali now proceeded to deliver the remaining whippings. I counted ten
in total. They left Moosa with a criss-crossing of scars across his
buttocks, and a few scars extending up his back. The lashes across Moosa's
back were delivered with a slightly different technique. Master Ali would
raise his whip higher, and stand closer to the bound Moosa.

  The beatings were delivered with a pause of at least fifteen seconds
between them, so Moosa could on each lashing complete the cycle of agony,
from the initial scream on impact through to the groans caused by the pain
sinking in, and the terrible anticipation of the next stroke. As the beating
proceeded, Moosa's screams became longer and more uncontrolled. He started
to cry after about the seventh stroke.


I witnessed the spectacle whilst convulsed by a number of different
emotions, which I only managed to unravel that night, whilst lying in bed.

  On the one hand, I shared the confusing tangle of terror and anger shared
by all of us slaves in the workshop that day. Master Ali's behaviour was
unnecessary. We worked hard for him, and Moosa in particular was a
cooperative worker, even if he didn't display an ideal attention to detail.
Master Ali did not need to treat Moosa that way. In particular, Master Ali's
kinkiness, and clear pleasure in inflicting pain on his slaves, went beyond
what was normal and reasonable for slave owners. Nearly all of us had the
experience of different owners, and none were as sadistic and extreme as
Master Ali.

  Another emotion I felt was anguish over the fact that Moosa, the object of
my love and devotion over many months, should have been tormented and
scarred in this way. I couldn't help feeling responsible, as if I should
have found a way to prevent this, to save Moosa. Even without anything
concrete in return from Moosa, I would have given my life to preserve him
from this treatment. That was how in love I was. As I lay in bed staring at
the nothingness of my dark room that night, it was with a strange, burning
urge that I wished it had been me, and not Moosa, tied to that workbench.

  Finally, I was bewitched by the image of Master Ali in his tight military
vest, his torso strong and ruthless, the muscles on his arms bulging with
the pleasure of inflicting punishment, swinging that snake whip with
confident precision through the air and onto the contents of the G-string
whose strings he had adjusted so carefully, so lovingly. There was an energy
in Master Ali that totally possessed me. It was moreover an energy that
could fit so snugly side by side with my own opposite, but similar energy. I
believed I was the only slave in the room that day who could truly tune in
to what Master Ali was feeling. I masturbated intensely, but painfully, many
times over that night whilst fantasising that Master Ali had noticed me, my
own kinky desires, and made the connection, and had begun to use me, whip
me, punish me, abuse me.

  It was not as if Master Ali was replacing Moosa in any way. What I felt
for Master Ali was completely foreign to what I felt for Moosa. The feelings
for the one did not diminish the feelings for the other.

  The next day, in the light of day and whilst helping Moosa in the workshop
with the code that had caused all the fuss in the first place, I hatched a
plan. It dawned on me that there was a logical way of making my sexual urges
towards these two men complement each other. I was going to try and make
contact with Master Ali, sexually, let him know where I stood. I was going
to make it clear to him that he could direct his evil and sadistic impulses
towards me. I would be his whipping boy whenever the urge arose. He did not
need to treat his other slaves, who were innocent, like he did. Above all, I
had to deflect any punishments that might come Moosa's way in future,
towards myself.


The question was how I was going to make contact with Master Ali. We slaves
saw him on many days, but there were always many of us present, and it was
always about Master Ali giving instructions, in his usual brusque,
commanding manner. I needed to see him privately. I had no idea what his
reaction might be. He might regard my advances as totally impertinent, and
if so, I didn't want any other slaves around who might bear the brunt of a
reaction.

  I decided to stay on longer in the workshop in the evenings, in the double
hope that I would be the last one remaining, and that Master Ali would come
by the workshop. Many of us worked quite late, especially after Moosa's
whipping. We were all dead scared of upsetting clients with bad software
products. In that sense, Master Ali's punishment strategy had the desired
effect. That was the terrible thing. Hard discipline did yield dividends. I
was often left alone, after the others had returned to their rooms, where,
unlike me, many had women and children to go back to. On one evening, around
two months after Moosa's whipping, when the ugly wounds on Moosa's body had
at last begun to fade into the rest of his skin, Master Ali came in.

  It was dark, hot, and the cicadas were making one hell of a racket. It was
just before the rainy season, and the air hung heavy with dust. Plants,
people, Masters, slaves were all feeling that pre-rain sense of
anticipation.

  `Master,' I uttered, deferentially, standing up and facing him, and
lowering my eyes.

  `Okay,' Master Ali dismissed me, in typical style. `Get on with your work
slave.'

  Master Ali went to browse through the logbooks of tasks done that was
maintained by Mustafa.

  I picked a moment, my heart pounding within. I hoped that my voice
wouldn't betray my inner turbulence.

  `Master,' I said meekly. `Master didn't bullwhip me that time.'

  Master Ali looked up at me in total surprise, as if I had suddenly become
insane. No normal slave would ever broach the subject of a punishment in
that way.

  `What did you say, slave?' Master Ali asked, roughly, looking up, whilst
keeping his finger on a place in one of the rosters.

  Master Ali must just have had a bath, or a shower. His skin, or what I
could see of it, shone. He was wearing a singlet, which exposed his neck and
the beginnings of his shoulders. Though he was some seven metres away from
me, I could smell the unmistakable fragrance of soap drifting through the
dry air.

  `Master, when I first came here a year ago, you said you always bullwhip
new slaves. Preventative whipping, you called it.'

  Master Ali laughed briefly. I think he was enjoying this unconventional
forwardness from a slave, though he hadn't cottoned on to the type of
forwardness I had in mind.

  `I tell all new slaves the same thing. It's to frighten them. It worked,
didn't it?' Master Ali laughed again.

  This was a new experience to me. Master Ali speaking casually, even
laughing. And I was alone with him. My whole body was tingling, especially
my groin. I was anxious, too anxious, not to make a mess of this
opportunity.

  `Master, I was very afraid. I've never been whipped, I mean properly
whipped, in my life before.' Now I laughed, tentatively.

  `You may never need to be whipped, slave. You're probably the best worker
in this workshop. With slaves like you, your previous Master must have been
an idiot to go bankrupt.'

  Though we were still seven metres apart, the intimacy was intense. Master
Ali was completely disregarding Master-slave protocol. He was complimenting
a slave, and badmouthing another Master. I felt immensely privileged.

  `I often imagine what it must be like being whipped by you, Master,' I
ventured.

  Master Ali's face went dead serious again. `It's part of being a slave,
slave. Maybe that's why you're such a good worker. In your mind I'm whipping
you, and so you discipline yourself. I wish some of the other slaves were
more like that.'

  `But Master Ali,' I explained, aware that now my voice must surely be
quaking. `With me it's different. I want to be whipped by you.'

  Master Ali went silent. He just stared at me with those dark eyes of his.
Intensely. Something inside me told me I'd struck a chord within him. So I
proceeded.

  `Master, the respect, the obedience I feel for you just doesn't know any
limits. Whatever I do, I feel I can't serve you well enough. I would like to
serve you more, better, than I do now. It's like I want to push myself
further, and that will still not be enough, and then I would love to be
whipped, hard, mercilessly, by you, my Master, to push me beyond my limits.
Master, I would be the happiest slave on earth if you could whip me, punish
me, abuse me, tell me I'm useless, even though I try my best. Master, I
can't help it, those are my feelings. I'd like to be whipped in front of
everyone, and privately as well, so Master you could do anything to me, even
things you would not want to do in front of the other slaves.'

  `Stop, slave!' Master Ali commanded, loudly.

  There was a nasty curl at the corner of his mouth. I prayed within that it
was not an indication of revulsion. A rising terror within me told me I'd
gone too far, said too much too soon.

  `You're a sick slave, slave,' Master Ali observed.

  My heart sank.

  `My only sickness is my devotion to you, Master,' I responded, quickly.

  Master Ali mulled over this for some seconds. He seemed intrigued by the
idea.

  `In all other ways I'm a healthy slave, Master. I look after my body, I
train my body. I have to look after my Master's property.'

  Somehow that seemed to do it for Master Ali. I knew I had him convinced
when he gave me my next instruction.

  `Slave, I'll be going to the shed behind the eucalyptus trees later
tonight. Don't go there before me. But when you see me going, come with me.
Walk a few metres behind me. Keep that mouth of yours shut. Just follow me.'

  It felt like I had just completed a marathon. And come first. My head, my
body, was throbbing with relief, with joy.

  `I'm going to examine you more closely, slave,' was the last thing Master
Ali said before he slammed the duty roster shut and walked out of the
workshop.


To my knowledge, none of the slaves in the compound had ever been inside the
shed behind the eucalyptus trees. I sat nervously on one of our ramshackle
chairs in the courtyard of the slave quarters, keeping an anxious eye on the
section of night where I knew the path leading to the copse of eucalyptus
trees ran. As usual, the other slaves were chatting about this and that. We
had just eaten. I was oblivious to the chatter. I also hadn't felt able to
eat.

  I was wearing loose cotton trousers, and a vest that I knew did justice to
my shoulders, pecs and general V-shape. I had put on the least worn
underpants I had. And I had taken a very good bath, with some good soap
Moosa's wife made.

  My heart almost knocked a hole through my ribcage when I eventually saw
Master Ali walking from the house, along the path to the eucalyptus trees.
He was wearing a white agbada, which stood out in a ghostly way in the dark.

  I waited until Master Ali's form had progressed some way, then I slipped
into the night, without saying a word to my fellow slaves, and walked
briskly to catch up with him.

  In accordance with his instruction, I kept a few metres behind him. And of
course didn't say anything. I was brimming with hope, fear, uncertainty, but
I had to make sure I didn't mess anything up by making any wrong moves.
Above all, it seemed important to say as little as possible, whatever
happened. Observe Master Ali, think just about Master Ali's wishes, I had
told myself. Your own desires and wishes don't matter a shit, I had to
remind myself.

  We got to the shed. Master Ali took a keyring out of his pocket, and
unlocked the padlock on the door. He entered, stooping slightly as the
doorframe was low, and I entered after him. He closed the door, and used the
padlock to lock the door from the inside.

  We were trapped in each other's company. I was wild with expectation.

  I suppose I stood like a stunned idiot in front of Master Ali. He got me
out of my trance by stepping up to me and slapping me hard across the face.

  `Thank-you Master,' came out of my lips with a naturalness that amazed me.

  `Slave, kneel before your Master,' he instructed, brusquely.

  I immediately sank to my knees. My eyes dropped to the ground. My head was
spinning from the slap I had received.

  `And look down, slave. Unless your Master tells you to look up, you look
down.'

  I could sense that Master Ali was removing his agbada. He flung it across
the room onto a single bed positioned against one wall. I had managed to
take in the details of the shed's interior when I had walked in. There was a
wooden wardrobe, the single bed and a bedside table with a lamp. Master Ali
had turned on this lamp, which had a cast a warm dusky light onto the
contents of the shed. I had also noticed a large poster of a bodybuilder on
one wall. The floor was concrete, with a thin film of dust on it.

  `Look up, slave,' Master Ali ordered.

  I looked up and saw Master Ali standing topless and in a pair of tight
leather trousers. I must have convulsed visibly at his physical power and
beauty. His black torso had a dull sheen to it, as if he had applied some
oil over it. A thin gold chain round his bull's neck was catching the light.
His body, more of it than I had ever seen before, was truly magnificent. His
pectorals were hard and round like melons, and loomed over a perfectly
ridged stomach. His arms, which I knew better, were buff and veined. The
leather pants, which I had never seen before, hugged his crotch nicely, and
accentuated the musculature of his thick thighs. He was standing barefoot on
the concrete. A pair of sandals he had been wearing earlier had been
discarded to one side.

  I had a strong impulse to reach out for Master Ali, maybe to throw myself
before him and kiss his feet. The god standing before me was like an
incarnation of what my most inner self had always hankered after. I felt
amazement, also a desperate anxiety that this might not be real, might not
really be happening.

  `So, slave,' Master Ali began, `you told me earlier you think a lot about
serving me, pleasing me. Be more specific. Give me details.'

  I hadn't quite anticipated this. I frantically wondered how honest I
should be. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

  I got a strong sense that Master Ali knew exactly the power that his
physical presence wielded over me, that he was relishing this power,
enjoying my own sense of powerlessness and vulnerability.

  `Master, I meant what I said. I want to please you in any way I can. I
want to be completely dominated by you.'

  `Tell me about your fantasies,' he commanded me, like I should have known
that this is what he wanted.

  `Master.' I took a deep breath. I had never shared my deepest fantasies
with anyone, let alone the subject of my fantasy. `Master, I fantasise that
you do terrible things to me, and that I accept, want more.'

  `What things?' Master Ali insisted, impatiently.

  `Master, in one fantasy, you slap me in the face like you did earlier,
then you push my head down , down towards your crotch. Your cock is hard,
and big, in front of my face.' My voice trembled for my presumptuousness.
Through the corner of my eye (my head was lowered) I sensed that Master Ali
was massaging his crotch, through the leather pants. That gave me courage to
go on. `Master, I hesitate before your cock, don't know exactly what you
want me to do. But then you put your hand at the back of my head and push my
head down. Your cock goes into my mouth. Deep. I feel I choke a bit. That's
when you control me with a horsewhip that you have in your hand. You
horsewhip me on my naked back. I understand that you are training me,
forcing me to discipline my body, my throat, to accept you fully. The shock
of being whipped in fact loosens my throat, my mind. Your cock goes in
fully, and I take it. I take it like a well-trained slave. I like the way my
body is training itself to serve you, Master, in any way it can. You fuck my
face.'

  `Stop,' Master Ali orders. `Tell me how else I fuck you, other than in the
mouth.'

  I haul yet another fantasy out of my immense gallery of fantasies
involving Master Ali.

  `Master,' I begin slowly, laying the next story out before me. `You tie me
to a whipping frame. You don't need to tie me up at all, because I obey you
in any way, always. But it gives you pleasure to tie your slaves down,
including me. It makes your power clearer, and the powerlessness of your
slaves.'

  `Go on,' Master Ali uttered, softly, as if he was enjoying the story, was
absorbed by it. I felt immensely proud of my ability to please my Master in
this way.

  `You are behind me, with a snakewhip. You enjoy hurting your slaves a bit
before you fuck them, you like to see them cry a bit. You like to see how
much pain your slaves can take before they break. Your whip is coiled in
your hand, and you run the loop of your torture instrument over my exposed
body. You are calculating where you should whip me. Maybe you want to try
out a new whipping technique. I feel the leather touching my body, and I
feel fear, but I also want it. I know it is right for me to feel pain if my
Master wants that. My own cock is going hard, as the snakewhip moves up and
down my back, my buttocks, the backs of my thighs. You also touch my nipples
with the snakewhip. You seem especially interested in my nipples today.'

  `You take a step back, and the leather snake flies through the air,
cutting across my back, and just under my armpit. Even though I am an
obedient slave, my body rebels, it pulls against the leather thongs tying my
ankles and my wrists to the frame. You instruct me to control my body
better, or you will simply whip me more painfully. I have to stand still
when that whip hits me, take the pain like a properly trained slave. I close
my eyes and try and concentrate on standing still. When the leather coil
comes flying next time I move less, though the pain is greater. It is
greater because the tip of the whip reaches around the front of me, licks me
on my nipple in fact. I understand that this is the technique you are trying
out. Nipple whipping.'

  `After you have successfully nipple whipped me on both nipples, that's
about five whipstrokes down the line, you untie me. I'm not bleeding, but I
am full of welts. My body stings. Something in my mind has cracked. My
pride, maybe. My manhood. I even have the beginnings of tears in my eyes.
That's embarrassing, but I'm not too worried, because I know my Master likes
to see some evidence that he has truly broken me. I also have a strong
hard-on.'

  `You push me onto a bed, face down. Your cock has grown from the whipping,
from being cruel to your slave. You have enjoyed seeing your slave suffer,
cry a bit. With your whip, you tap my arse, tell me to put it into the air.
You put a condom onto your cock, because you don't want slave dirt on it.
You put lubricant on it, for your own comfort more than the slave's comfort.
You trace your fingers over the weltmarks on my back. They give you
pleasure, make you harder. You start pushing against my arse, looking for
the opening. You find it. You start entering. It is very tight, and your
slave is whimpering a bit. You ask your slave whether he needs more whipping
to relax him. I say no. I say I am an obedient slave who will open for my
Master. You say you like that attitude. You ask me whether my back, my
nipples hurt. I say yes, and whilst I'm answering you take the opportunity
to push really hard, go in deeper. For a moment, I scream. You ask me if it
hurts, and I say yes. I am now breathing fast, dealing with the pain,
suffering. You like your domination, my submission. You tell me I am a
worthless slave, a slave who must be made to suffer sometimes, a slave who
must be whipped regularly. You are going deeper and deeper as you say this,
thrusting hard. You know that this hurts, so you thrust harder. You begin
slapping me, on my back, on the back of my head, wildly. You thrust and you
thrust. I feel your power reverberate all over me as you get close to
coming. You come, Master Ali, you come inside me, and as you come you slap
me some more on my side, rhythmically, in time to your shooting.'

  `Nice story,' Master Ali said, nonchalantly. My heart sank for a moment. I
feared I had said too much, or too little. But the next thing Master Ali
said struck straight at my heart, elated me beyond belief.

  `Slave,' Master Ali said. `You know yourself well. And you know me.'

  Those simple words I would never forget. They were to become the most
treasured gems of my relationship with Master Ali.

  `But I have some different stories, and as your Master it is my stories
that must be followed. Is that clear?'

  `Yes Master Ali. My stories can only serve as background to your stories,
which must always be the most important ones. I wish to serve in any story
you, Master Ali, might have.'

  `Any story?' he inquired, almost quizzically.

  `Any story,' I immediately responded, a chill and an excitement rising
through my body at the thought that there were fantasies beyond my own
fantasies that involved me, that I had no idea of, and that could take me
anywhere, absolutely anywhere.

  `Get up off your knees slave,' Master Ali ordered. `Take all your clothes
off.'

  I followed orders swiftly, whilst Master Ali opened the single cupboard in
the room, and pulled out a metre long, fairly rigid whip, which was hanging
on a hook at the back of the cupboard. He also pulled out a white crumpled
up bit of cloth that I recognised immediately. It was the G-string he had
put on Moosa.

  `Put this on, slave,' Master Ali commanded, throwing the G-string to me.

  I caught it, and felt a strong impulse to take it to my nose, to smell the
smell of Moosa. I was certain I would find Moosa's presence in this flimsy
piece of fabric, that it had not been washed since the horror of the
workshed some two months back. But I desisted. It would not have been the
right thing to do. Instead of my nose, my body would have to savour this
special closeness to my fellow-slave Moosa.

  I had a raging hard-on, so the G-string was not going to fit on snugly. In
fact, it didn't quite fit over my groin. There were bits of pubic hair
visible around the sides of the miniature panel of white cotton. I let my
fingers run over the strings of the G-string, remembering how particular
Master Ali had been about this when he had whipped Moosa. In particular, I
made sure the string at the back fitted right into my arse crack.

  `Okay, slave, stand to attention!' Master Ali ordered. `You've seen
bodybuilder's posing on the Internet have you?'

  `Yes Master,' I replied.

  `I'm glad you have, though I'll need to whip you for that later on because
you know you slaves aren't supposed to be looking at the Internet when
you're supposed to work.'

  `Yes Master,' I said, breathlessly.

  `I want you to do some bodybuilder poses for me slave. Show me your
muscles. I need to inspect them. Start with the biceps.'

  I started with my right arm, letting it drop, then bending it slowly,
tensing my muscles so that my bicep stood out nicely. I looked at it
nervously, hoping that it would not fail me, hoping it would form into its
customary ball, with the thin thread of a vein running over it, like a vine.
I wasn't disappointed. The hard ball of a bicep rose to the occasion.

  I did the other arm. Then I brought both arms up, and flexed both biceps
together.

  `Stop, freeze there!' Master Ali commanded. `Let me look at my property a
bit more closely.'

  He pointed the whip at me, used it like a probe to following the contours
of my upper arm, both underneath and below. He let the end of the whip,
which was almost as rigid as a cane, but with a slight slack at the end,
feel my armpits.

  `You'll need to learn to shave here,' he said.

  My face flushed with embarrassment.

  `Now show me your pectorals,' he ordered, letting the whip end sweep
lightly over my pecs and my nipples.

  I turned sideways, so Master Ali would get a side profile, then pulled my
stomach muscles in, and let my pecs stand out. My whole body was tensed in
this pose.

  `Stop there!' he said. `Stick your pectorals out further, slave. Try
harder.'

  I tried harder and in the process stuck my arse out further too. Master
Ali seemed to like that. Out of the corner of my eye I could catch him
massaging his crotch again.

  He went to his cupboard and pulled something out.

  `Here,' he said, throwing me a leather harness. `Put this on. I think it
will make your pecs stand out extra nice.'

  I had never worn one of these things before. It took me a while to work
out how to put it on, but eventually I got the right loops over my head.
Master Ali looked on patiently during all of this.

  The harness had leather straps, around two centimetres wide, running
below, between and along the sides of my pecs. The side straps went in under
my armpits. I tightened the buckles.

  `A bit tighter,' Master Ali ordered, somewhat impatient now. `It must hurt
a little.'

  That last statement sent a new rush of blood to my already erect penis.

  I tightened the buckles a few more holes.

  `That's fine!' he said.

  `Now stick out those damn pecs again,' he commanded.

  I went back to my previous pose, though this time my muscles strained a
bit against the leather harness. I could feel how my pecs were more
pronounced than before, as they were accentuated, and pushed out by the
leather straps.

  `You feel those restraints, slave?' he asked. `What does it feel like to
have straps restraining your body like this?'

  `It feels good, Master,' I replied. `I feel your power in this leather
harness, like you are controlling how my body looks.'

  `Good,' Master Ali cooed. `That's how a true slave should feel.'

  I felt immensely proud, special.

  `Keep that pose, slave,' Master Ali went on. `Whatever I do, you must keep
it.'

  He moved around to the other side of me, and with lightning speed raised
the whip and let it come whistling down on my exposed arse.

  `How does that feel slave?' he shouted.

  `It feels good, my Master, it feels good!' I shouted back.

  `And this?' he asked as a served a second stinging lash with the whip.

  The pain of the first lashing was only just starting to spread through my
body, like a stinging, but warm liquid.

  `Good too Master!' I exclaimed, having difficulty keeping my pose.

  `Keep that pose, slave, or you'll really experience a proper beating you
won't forget!'

  I put new vigour into my pose.

  `That was your arse,' Master Ali muttered, as if to himself. `Now let me
lash those beautiful tits of yours. If it's beautiful, lash it!' he went on,
as if uttering some mantra.

  He positioned himself a bit further forward and let the end of the whip
play with my nipples again. My mind raced from the intense pain on my arse,
to the liquid pleasure around my nipples, to the hard-on in my G-string,
which had now reached a new, raging level.

  This time I could see the whip before my eyes as he raised it and let it
whisk lightning speed towards my left pectoral, where the sting of the lash
was delivered squarely to my nipple. Like in my fantasy.

  `Perfect!' Master Ali exclaimed, clearly pleased with himself. `Don't
leave that pose!'

  He moved himself over to the other side, and delivered yet another blow,
to my right nipple. It was a perfect hit.

  This time my body winced a bit.

  `Stand still, slave! You must be a statue. Show me how you can be my
statue.'

  He delivered some more blows, this time not as carefully aimed. To my
pecs, my arse and one to my stomach. The stomach one almost blew my air out,
but I managed to remain motionless.

  `Good,' Master Ali commented. `You're learning. But I see there is one
thing you're not controlling.'

  Master Ali emitted a mean laugh.

  I knew what he was referring to.

  The whip touched my hard-on, the end where the pre-cum was surely oozing
out slowly. The touch of the whip only made things worse. I braced myself
for a lash across my penis. I didn't know whether I was going to endure that
as well as I'd endured the other whippings.

  But instead of lashing me, Master Ali raised the whip to my mouth and
said: `Lick!'

  I licked the moisture off the whip. I tasted leather, and my own pre-cum
and I convinced myself that I could also taste the taste of Moosa, the
odours of his body left behind in the G-string. I felt a moment of privacy
beyond what was happening here with Master Ali.

  Maybe Master Ali had read my mind, however, because he asked: `So slave,
do you taste the presence of that other slave I beat in the workshed, that
other slave that does not seem to understand the pleasures of a Master as
well as you do?'

  I panicked about how to respond. In the end I lied to Master Ali.

  `No, Master, I don't taste that other slave.'

  Master Ali said nothing, let the whip touch the contours of my face
lightly. My heartbeat increased as I began suspecting that Master Ali might
somehow know about my feelings for Moosa, or my secret plan, the plan where
I divert Master Ali's sadistic instincts away from the other slaves, mainly
so that I can save Moosa from more beatings. I asked myself whether my
Master may in fact be omniscient, as he said nothing and just went on
stroking my face with the whip. I imagined he might see through me, might
punish me properly, whip the last vestiges of any intentions of my own right
out of me.

  But Master Ali did not pursue the matter. My feelings for Moosa were safe,
were entirely my own. Not a soul in the world knew about them. Here was one
area where Master Ali would not own me, would not see everything exposed
naked before him, ready for whatever treatment he might decide. Within all
my powerlessness, there was this one patch of power I had.

Master Ali told me to take the harness off, he wanted to see me in just the
G-string, whip marks and all. I removed the harness, and my blood flowed
freely around my body once again. The whip marks were stinging, but I
relished them. Each whip mark told of a moment of closeness, of passion like
lightning between myself, the slave, and Master Ali. The sharp pain humming
at the different points across my body were the bonds between myself and my
Master. I felt privileged to have them.

  Master Ali took the harness from me and hung it up in the cupboard. For
the first time, I got a glimpse of the interior of the cupboard. It was full
of leather and steel items, hung up on hooks, or laying on shelves. Some
items I recognised, some I did not. I saw that there were at least five
different whips.

  `This is my cupboard of toys, slave,' Master Ali explained, with a note of
pride. `I've collected these things from my overseas trips. You've seen
these things on the Internet?'

  I had.

  `At least now I have a slave who can fully appreciate these things. I
hope.' He looked at me sternly.

  `Master, I can, believe me.' He looks at me, almost quizzically. I feel I
need to reassure him, so I shared some more of myself. `Master, when I am
with you, I feel I am a man, but a special kind of man, a man who is
inferior to a real man, a man like you, Master. It seems right, natural,
Master, for me to submit to you in everything, to just be an extension of
your will. Master, it feels like that is the way it should be. Always. Under
any circumstances. Your pleasure is supreme, Master. No matter what you
want, it is supreme, and I will submit, willingly, Master.' I then decided
to say it. `Master, if it was your pleasure to finish off this slave, to
kill this slave, then I would do everything in my power to see that your
will was fulfilled. I would kill myself, Master, or let you do it, without
resistance.'

  Master Ali was not rubbing his crotch through the leather, just holding
it.

  `Slave, I like that.' He looked at me, as if he really appreciated me. I
swelled within. `I like that in a slave, for a slave to understand, to
accept fully his slavehood, to submit, like you seem to wish to submit.'

  He paused for a while.

  `But I need to test your commitment, slave. Not now, but one day I will
put you to the test.' He turned and took a leather item up from a shelf. It
looked like a hood. `This is a special hood, slave. When put on properly,
and tightly, it does not allow you to breathe, through your nose or your
mouth. This is what I want to do to you, slave. I will put this hood on you,
tighten it properly.' He was holding the hood up. I could see strings that
would be pulled tight. I saw an opening for the eyes. `But first I would
have handcuffed your hands behind you, just in case your instinct should
tell you to try and remove the hood. This hood lets me see your eyes. I will
look at your eyes, as I look at your eyes now. I will look for your
commitment, for your total servitude to me. I will look for that in your
eyes. I don't want to see selfish fear, I want to see commitment to my
superior intentions, my right to do as I please with my slaves. I will push
you to the limit, let you start suffocating. I will watch you fall to the
floor, desperate for oxygen. I will watch you writhe on the floor before me.
At that moment I would savour the life and death control over my slave. I
would think of how much you had satisfied me recently, whether you were
looking after that slave body, which is my property, I would think whether I
was in the mood to sacrifice a slave, just for my pleasure, watch a slave
being extinguished for my entertainment before my eyes. If I decided to keep
you alive, slave, I would go down, untie the hood, watch you gulp for air,
come back to the land of the living. I might have to apply mouth to mouth
resuscitation to you. I might even decide to put my tongue in your mouth,
let you taste your master's mouth.'

  Master Ali had a dreamy look in his eyes. He was gripping the hood hard in
his right hand, squeezing it.

  `Master,' said, somewhat breathless, `I have imagined almost exactly the
same thing. I have thought of you killing me like that, and masturbated
while I thought of it.' It was true.

  Master Ali grinned, for the first time that evening. He took a step
forward and swiped the leather hood hard through my face.

  `Slave, we can do many nice things together!'

  He stared at me.

  `So many nice things!'

  I felt elated. I think Master Ali was too. We were both exploring new
human territory, bringing pent-up passions into the open.

  He threw the hood back into the cupboard.

  `But tonight I do not want to kill you slave. I have other plans for you.
How are your whip marks? Do you still feel the pain?'

  `The pain is starting to go away, Master.'

  Master Ali took the whip he was using earlier. He positioned himself
behind me, landed a few more swipes onto my buttocks. I think it was four.

  `Feel the pain now, slave?'

  `Yes, Master. Thank-you.'

  `Good. I need to rape that whipped slave arse today. That's what I feel
like today'

  `Thank-you Master!'

  `This is how I want to do it.' He took some objects out and placed them on
the little bedside table. There was a cigarette box with a lighter. `While I
am raping that arse of your, I want you to light a cigarette. I want you to
keep it lit. I'll ask you to give me the cigarette when I am close to
coming. I'm going to take that cigarette and extinguish it on your buttock.
I've heard the pain makes slave arses respond nicely, they grip your cock
harder, makes it more exciting for me when I come. I want to test how this
works on you, slave.'

  `Yes, Master,' I responded.

  `Okay, get on the bed, your arse up in the air.'

  Master Ali pushed me roughly onto the bed, used his hand to raise my hips
to the level he wanted. He pushed my head down roughly onto the pillow that
was lying there, like he didn't want me to look round. I remembered the
instruction about the lit cigarette, looked through the corner of my eye at
the bedside table, checked that the cigarette box and lighter were there.

  Master Ali traced a rough finger over my whip marks. He caressed the lines
where the whip had hit me. He went on like that for a while. Then, as if to
signal that he was ready for business, he slapped each buttock hard. He
knelt behind me. I heard him lower the leather pants. I wished I could have
seen his underwear, if he had any, but I knew he didn't want me to look
around. I felt a naked cock touch my arsecrack.

  Apart from the slap in the face I got when I entered the shed, this was
the first time Master Ali was actually touching me.