Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2005 00:36:00 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Pleasure Slave, Part 17

PLEASURE SLAVE, By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


Part 17

I really did feel like an idiot, standing there.  Even
though it wasn't my fault, really, that I was being
punished for the bad report - and it certainly wasn't
my fault that the whole place had slipped in the
ratings - my fellows all sniggered and laughed at me
as I stood there, telling me that it was going to be
really tough for me.  It was so unfair - I always
hated it when someone was hailed as "finally making
the target" where I  used to work:  the guy who bought
in the business at the end of the month was hailed as
a hero, whereas I, who had sold my stuff early on, was
after all just as much responsible for our
achievement.  And now it was the same - mine might
have been the last bad report, but those who hadn't
done so well earlier in the month were equally to
blame, but they were not being punished!

All I could do, though, was stand there, feeling at
first stupid, then cross.  I thought of just ignoring
it, and exercising as usual, but then I didn't doubt
that Master Jed would make good on his threat to use
the bull whip.  So I had to stick it out.

I must have been there for at least an hour, and you
know how bad that is, just to stand still for an hour:
 your legs and back aches, and with my eyes only a few
inches from the wall, I was totally, mindlessly, bored
as I soon finished scrutinising all the tiny patterns
and imperfections  in the bare plaster.  Master Jed
came in then and told me to follow him, and we went
down to street where there was a beat-up old car
standing.  "Right, Steve:  this is your punishment!
We've hired you out for the day to one of the places
on the South Side that services the blacks and
Hispanics.  We may as well get back some of the money
you've cost us! You'll find it rather different there,
and, shall we say, a 'different type of client' from
the ones you're used to!'  Now, get in..."

The car was, I suppose, some sort of really beat-up
cab, as the moment I was in it roared off into the
traffic.  We soon left the affluent centre I was used
to, and were in a part of the city that I'd never
really ventured in to before - small shops and bars
lined the streets, and the overwhelming percentage of
the people on the streets were now blacks, Hispanics,
or assorted kinds that you couldn't even tell about,
as they were in long robes with their faces covered,
and all that sort of stuff.   The taxi finally pulled
up at a grubby-looking doorway sandwiched between a
really low-looking bar and a liquor store.  There was
a smell of exotic spices and old cooking fat in the
air.  The taxi driver, a greasy-looking Hispanic, his
gut bulging over the waistband of his cheap jeans, and
with thick, black oily hair, motioned for me to go in,
and he followed me.

There was a tiny window in the passage way inside the
door, and inside was a big  black.  He looked at me
and the taxi driver, then pressed a button to buzz
open the heavy door in front of us.    Inside there
were some battered couches with a few newspapers and
magazines, all of which had been heavily used and were
rather tattered, lying around.

"Right, boy", the black told me. "This is the
reception area.  In-between customers you come here
and stand around, so that they can see what's on
offer.  You don't take cash or anything - that's all
done at the window before the guys are allowed in.
And remember, it's half an hour maximum:  I'll be
watching you, and you need to keep your work rate up
or else I'll whip you.  Just get the guy in to your
cubicle, get him hard, suck him off or let him fuck
you, then get him out quick;  clean yourself up, and
get back here for the next customer. It's pay day
today, and we're expecting the usual big, horny crowd
who have been waiting for a bit of ass all week."

He walked off, with me following, and opened a flimsy
door "This is your cubicle for today", he told me.  I
looked and there was a three-quarter sized bed (the
place was too small for a proper double) covered in
plastic sheet, a stand in the corner where I guessed
the customers could hang their coats, and a wash basin
with a grubby-looking towel, and a used bar of soap.
"Remember, clean yourself after each customer -  they
don't like the smell of another guy's cum on you.  And
not more than thirty minutes each.  The condoms and
lube are here..."

"Any questions?"

"Am I supposed to have a guy every thirty minutes? You
can't be serious!"

"You boys coming down from that fancy place are all
the same.  How long do you think it takes a horny guy
to fuck you - and our customers are all really horny
and frustrated?  You're used to spending al night with
a guy, but it's different here.  Our customers are
guys away from their women, who just want quick relief
- it's not part of their culture to jerk themselves
off.  Most of them don't really want to fuck another
guy, but the women prostitutes are really vile, so
it's better for them to fuck a guy than to have to
jerk themselves off they reckon. So suck them or let
them fuck you - they only need to shoot, for physical
relief.  Most of them don't even use the full thirty
minutes - they're in, get their dicks out, get them in
you, and then they're away - as I said, they don't
necessarily want to do it at all so the quicker the
better as far as they are concerned."

"Please.... I can't do that...."

"Of course you can!  All you have to do is lie there
and be used:  our customers all know the score:  they
pay their fifty and they get a nice mouth, or a nice
ass, and that's it.  And I don't want any complaints,
and any time being wasted.  I have five of you boys,
and when the rush starts at about six, when they're
all finishing work, I don't want queues building up."

"Senor..."  The taxi driver was now speaking to the
black.  "Can I be first....?"

"Sure.  Go ahead.  You can have this guy instead of
the fare."

The black turned and left, and the greasy Hispanic at
once undid his jeans and pushed them to the ground.
His underwear was white once, I suppose, but had gone
grey with poor washing and age.  Not that it mattered,
as he simply pushed that down to his knees, too, and
stood there with his fat dick starting to go hard,
poking out from under his shirt tail.

I stood there in horror, but he snapped "On your
knees, bitch, and suck my dick...."

Well, what was I supposed to do?  Here I was, in this
hell hole, with the first customer.  If I refused, I'd
be whipped here, and bullwhipped by Master Jed.  So I
knelt down, and took his dick in my hand, and pushed
back his 'skin.  It was disgusting -  it must have
been hours since he last showered, and days since he
cleaned his dick properly!  I almost vomited as a I
nosed that vile rank odour that uncut guys get if
they're not careful.  And as I took it into my mouth,
he put his hands behind my head and pulled me close to
him, so all the dark, dirty odours of his pubes
flooded my nostrils.

It just wasn't like being with one of my usual clients
- nicely showered, in clean clothes, taking their
time, talking.... No, this was just using me, using my
mouth to bring him sexual satisfaction, nothing more,
nothing less.

He held my head so that I had to take his cum in my
mouth, and stay on his dick as it gradually detumesced
and the last dribbles of his cum trickled into me.
Then without a word he pulled up his clothes, and
left.  No tip, not even "goodbye."   I went over to
the basin and tried to wash my mouth out - look,
there's nothing wrong with cum, don't let me let you
think that - I've had lots and lots of it as many
clients like you to suck them, or lick their cum off
if they've shot over you.  No, it was this Hispanic -
he was so dirty and sweaty, and his dick tasted so
foul from the rancid smeg under his skin that it
almost made me want to vomit.

I was still bent over the basin when the black came
in.  "Didn't you hear me, boy?  I told you to go out
to reception as soon as you're finished.  Jose only
cums in the mouth, I know, as he's a good customer, so
you can be straight out there... So lose those shorts
so the customers can see what they're getting, and
move it...!"

The rest of that day was a nightmare.  I soon realised
that these guys were indeed almost ashamed of what
they were doing - they had wives or girl friends
somewhere, but they wanted to ease their dicks and
balls, and so this place was convenient, and cheap!
Some of them didn't have good English anyway, but they
mostly didn't speak anyway, as they didn't want to see
me as another guy as they were disgusted with
themselves.  About three quarters of them only wanted
to face fuck me, and the remainder, to a man, always
fucked my ass doggy style, with me lying on my belly
on the bed, feet on the floor, as they stood there and
went at it.  Not one of them wanted to fuck me on my
back, as I think they didn't want to look at the face
of another guy as they went up him.

I hated the whole thing.  It was utterly vile.  I
hated the guys, their smell, the way they didn't even
bother to undress, just pushed their pants and
underwear to the floor, and the way there was
absolutely no human contact at all.  It they did say
anything, it was just to scream things like "Go,
bitch!" at me.  And, of course, there were the condoms
- we never used them at Slaves For Your Pleasure as
like all discerning guys, our clients wanted the
proper sensation of a raw dick on a raw ass.  But now
I had to roll those awful things on to the guys'
dicks, then afterwards, toss them into the waste bin
in the corner.

I'd got there at about three in the afternoon, and it
was four in the morning before the queue of guys
waiting for service finally dried up.  I hadn't had
time to speak to my "co-workers", but now we sat there
on the scuzzy couches, all looking half dead.  I must
have had about twenty guys - I lost count after the
first eight or so - and my ass was sore from all the
attention it had got.  My co-workers were a pretty
miserable looking lot - none of them had a body like
mine, as they were all kind of thin and undernourished
looking.  I was amazed when they started to smoke -
didn't they care at all about their health?

Incredibly, they were basically sneering at me - I was
"a fucking slave" and didn't deserve to be in their
company and they were proper free men.  I ask you -
what a way for a guy to make a living!  And they
didn't make much, either - I soon learned that the
place charged a basic fifty for thirty minutes, and
that the guy performing the service just got a quarter
of that.  So my epic stint, with all those dreadful
dicks forced into me, would only have earned me two
fifty.  And Slaves For Your Pleasure usually charged
their clients more than two thousand!

They didn't even give me a cab back "home" - I had to
jog through the deserted streets on a cold morning in
just my shorts.  And back at base, there was a change,
too:  I'd been looking forward to crawling into bed
with one of the guys I liked being with - Jomo,
perhaps, or better still, Ray, so I could tell them
how bad I felt.  But the moment I went into reception,
I was told to wait.  Master Jed came out, only half
dressed, as I suppose he'd been with one of the guys -
and led me down the corridor and locked me into a tiny
room, with just a basin, lavatory, and single bed.

"When we lend our guys out to that place", he told me,
"We keep them locked up until we get their test
results back - there's too much risk of you passing
something on to the other men here.  Now, Steve,
remember this:  they're always glad to hire one of our
studs down there, and if there's the slightest bit of
bother with you in the future, you'll be straight back
there.  And there are worse places, too - that was
relatively civilised.  There are places we could send
you to where the blacks come off shift then line up to
just fuck:  one after the other, no break at all
in-between: as soon as one gets his dick out of you,
the next one is there ."

So that was it.  I realised that I didn't have a bad
life, really.  I enjoyed the sex with most of the
clients, especially now I'd mastered the trick of
turning most of them around so that I got to fuck.  I
was clean, warm, well fed, and had lots of time to
myself to exercise.  And I was working with a great
bunch of guys, and had made some special friends.  If
I sat down and thought about it, I suppose I might
even have said that being made a slave had done me
good:  I'd been kind of drifting before, but now there
as some structure to my life, and I was mostly
enjoying it.

All that changed, though, when about a month later I
was called into Master Brett's office.  I stood there,
head respectfully bowed, hands behind my back, and
feet apart, whilst he finished signing some papers,
then made a couple of phone calls.  When he finally
acknowledged me, he smiled  "Our training here has
done you good, Steve.  You'd never have stood like
that for all this time when you first arrived.  You've
learned that a free man likes to just have a slave
around sometimes, so that he's got something
interesting to look at.   Now we want you to remember
all of that in your next assignment - I'm sure your
new owner will tell everyone where he got you from,
and I wouldn't want our reputation to be spoiled
because you misbehave, or go back to being 'uppity'.
I'll certainly recommend to him that he sends you to
that place on the South Side if there's any signs of
that!"

He stopped for a moment, and so I was able to say
"Please, sir... My new owner?"

"Yes, Steve.  It is rather unusual.  But a client came
in and made us an offer for you, and whilst we were at
first inclined to refuse, the price he finally came up
with was so attractive that it was a no-brainer.  He
was so impressed with you that he wants to use you all
the time, wholly and exclusively."

I began to feel really happy - of all the clients I'd
had, the only one who I could think of who really
appreciated me, and who had the money, I thought, was
Scott! I truly enjoyed being with him, and he had a
nice body:  the thought of living with him, and being
ale to fuck him every night, was fantastic!  Hey, if
this was slavery, give me more!

Just then the telephone rang, and Master Brett said
"Please, show him in...."  There was a knock on the
door, a slave opened it, and in came Rob.  He at once
came over to me and I said "Rob....", in absolute
shock.

"Master Rob to you, Steve!", he snapped.  Then turning
to Master Brett  said "I thought you told me that his
attitude problem had been fixed, when we agreed the
deal..."

"A momentary lapse, I'm sure", Master Brett replied
smoothly.  "The slave knows that any failure to obey
you completely, and to give you the most complete
satisfaction, will result in punishment... And we've
provided you with the contact...."

"Quite so.  Now, let me just make sure all is as
expected...."

Rob came over to me, and my old friend, the guy I'd
been to school an college with, started to run his
hands over my body.  Look, I know it's no big deal to
have another guy feel your muscles (especially if you
have a good body, as I have) - and as a slave you
really do get used to it.  But this was Rob, my old
buddy, probing and pushing at me just as if I was some
sort of animal, rather that his friend.

"Shuck those shorts, Steve", he said cheerily.  "I
just want to make sure that nothing's happened to that
dick and those balls..."

I don't know why I felt the most acute embarrassment
now - after all, I'd been naked hundreds of times in
front of other men, and had had so many clients feel
my dick and balls.  And Rob had even hired me and had
sex with me, so it should have been all right.  But as
he held my dick in his warm palm, then cupped my balls
with his other hand and used his thumb to separate
them and caress them, I felt myself blushing with
shame - or was it with anger?  I couldn't help myself
- I went to pull my body back, away form his hands.

"Steady, Steve!", Rob said in a mildly irritated tone.
 "You're going to have to get used to me feeling your
balls, you know!  Why do you think I've paid all this
money for your contract?  I've always liked the look
of you, but you were always so dammed superior, always
off with the best-looking women, that you never even
noticed me.  Well, now that I've come into that
inheritance, I can afford to indulge my whims a
little... And you're one of the things I've always
wanted, just like the Porsche, and the fancy
apartment...."

He stood up, and said to Master Brett "He'll do.  I've
still got my doubts about his training - did you see
the way he tried to pull back when I was testing his
balls?  But I'll soon fix that, I think.  I've just
bought an apartment in Harbour View Towers, and one of
the services provided for the use of residents in the
building is the punishment room in the basement:
everyone there owns slaves, as you'd expect in a place
like that, and I guess there's always a need for some
physical chastisement -  in fact the concierge says
that he has a whip master's certificate and is
authorised to perform severe floggings, so I don't
expect too many problems.  This one will soon learn
how I expect to be treated as his owner."

They chatted for a minute or two, as I stood there,
now naked, playing no part in the conversation.  The
two men discussed their deal, my treatment, the proper
way of disciplining slaves, the need for a properly
servile attitude, and all the other kinds of things
that you'd expect two slave owners to talk about.   It
was just as if I wasn't there, that it wasn't my body
they were discussing, my life they were deciding on.

Finally, they were finished, and Rob curtly told me to
follow him.  I went to pull up my shorts, tiny as they
were, but he snapped "No need for those, Steve.
You're easy on the eye, and there's no point in
covering up your assets!"

"Oh, sir - you'd better let him dress, even
minimally", Master Brett interrupted. "The City
Council has an ordinance that forbids slaves to be
naked in the central area, unless they're pulling
rickshaws, or cleaning out the public fountains, or
any of those jobs where nakedness is deemed 'essential
for the proper conduct of the work'.  If you're just
leading your slave through the streets, or sending him
out to the stores, or on errands, or whatever, then
I'm afraid that you have to have him covered.  But
we'll throw in the shorts, at no additional charge."

Rob shrugged, snapped at me "Come on, boy...", and
strode out.

Harbour View Towers was one of those very fancy new
buildings, all steel and sheet glass, with stunning
views - especially from the thirty fourth floor, where
Rob's apartment was.   He'd had to let me ride in the
front set of his brand new Porsche to get there, as
when he opened  the trunk, the proper place for slaves
to ride, he'd said, it was just too small for even a
tiny slave to cower in, let alone a big guy like me.
As it was, he spent the entire journey grumbling about
how the sweat from my bare back was probably damaging
the fine soft calf leather of the seat!  I remembered
how we used to drive along together, either in my
beat-up old truck, or his beat-up old car, and that
never mattered:  we'd just been happy to be two guys
off somewhere, to a party, or a game, or something...
But now, it was all different.

When we were stopped at some lights, he turned to me
and said "This is going to be awkward for me, Steve.
We used to be buddies, I know, but now I own you,
you're my slave.  I'll tell you now that I won't
tolerate bad behaviour or anything - you're a slave,
and you'll obey, or I won't hesitate to have you
punished:  I'll try not to let our former friendship
interfere, as it does a slave no good, the books say,
to have a master who is too lenient, or who doesn't
act consistently.  So, difficult though it may be for
me, I will do the right thing."

Fucking hell!  Difficult for him?  How did he think I
felt?  I'd already had that disastrous session with
him at Slaves For Your Pleasure, and now he was gong
to own me full time!

"Rob, look, I know it's difficult, but we're buddies,
I'll try...."

"That's what I mean, slave!  I'm Master Rob, your
owner;  you're not my buddy any more - you can't be
friends with a slave, as the saying goes.;  and you'll
have to do a lot better than 'try' - as I said, if you
don't do as I want, then I won't hesitate to punish."

The light changed and he raced away then, and we just
sat there in silence for the rest of the short
journey.  Rob showed me his reserved parking space in
the basement garage of Harbour View Towers and told me
that one of my duties - eventually, when I'd 'settled
in', would be to come down every day and polish the
Porsche.  Then we went over to the elevators, and
because I was with him, I was allowed to use the
regular ones - as Rob pointed out, this was a modern
building, designed for the wealthy with slaves ,and so
there was a separate slave elevator for use by
unaccompanied slaves.  Just as well, I thought,
remembering the climb to the tenth floor of Slaves For
Pleasure - how high was this place?

We got out on floor thirty four, and there were only
four doors in the elegant hallway.  Rob opened one of
them, and we went it - curiously, there was a long,
narrow hallway, but then it opened out into a huge
living room:  floor to ceiling glass windows running
the whole width of the long wall gave a stunning view
of the lake, and there was a small but functional
"kitchen" in steel and marble in one corner.  I
suspected that the residents of Harbour View Towers
ate out, or had food sent in, and that there was
almost no "real" cooking done.

Opening off the huge living room was an equally
spacious bedroom, again with those stunning views, and
behind that was a vast marble bathroom with a big
bath, walk-in shower, and all the expensive fittings
you would expect in such a place.   Rob then took me
back into the living room and opened a small, narrow
door, almost hidden in one corner.

Inside there was what I can only describe as a "cell".
 A narrow bunk on one wall, a lavatory and wash basin
crammed on the other, and in-between, barely room to
move.  There was no natural light as this tiny space
seemed to be crammed into the building's core, around
the elevator shafts, and there was a small air grille
in the ceiling.  "This is your room, Steve", Rob
added, rather unnecessarily - well, it was hardly a
guest room, was it?  "Harbour View Towers has all
these in-build slave facilities.  The door is
specially strengthened, so that when you're locked in,
you can't break out.  And it's soundproofed, of
course, so if I'm punishing you by 'locking you down',
you won't be able to disturb me by shouting!  You
won't normally sleep in here, though, as I have other
plans..."

He led me back to the bedroom, and showed me a small
truckle bed that slid out from under his monster-sized
one.  Neatly folded on top of it was a small blanket.
"This is where you sleep, Steve.  When I've finished
fucking you, you get this out and spend the rest of
the night here, in case I need you again before
morning.  Then you're readily available in the morning
so I can just kick at you when I'm ready for my bath -
and so on.  Now, whilst we're thinking about this,
drop those shorts.  There's no need for you to be
dressed around the house, as I've bought you to be
easy on the eye and you've got nothing to be ashamed
about anyway.  We'll see how we get on with the food
later - if I ever find one of your hairs anywhere
around my plate after you've served me, or in the
kitchen area, then I'll just have you completely
shaved."

I stood there, half hesitating, and he snapped "Shug
those shorts!  I need to attach your restraint chain,
and I can't do that with those fucking shorts on...."

He went over to the corner of the room, and came back
to me dragging a light but strong-looking chain with a
cuff on one end.  He clipped it neatly around my left
ankle and it snapped shut with a final-sounding snick.
 "You wear this all the time", he told me.  "The key
is up by the front door, and you'll see that although
you can get around all the rest of the apartment with
this chain on, you can't reach the door, or those
cupboards by it:  it's a special feature of the
slave-ready apartments here:  the mounting is fixed
into the concrete of the building, and the rooms are
specially designed to be 'open plan' so you can move
freely, but not towards the front door.  The owner can
leave the slave alone all day with no fear of him
causing mischief.  Every time I go out I'll leave
there by the door, too, the remotes for the TV and CD,
and the phone - 'Modern Slave Owner' says  that slaves
who don't have access to entertainment are brighter
and more alert when their owners return in the
evening, and I can see that they're right.  Of course,
it's a bit of a nuisance not being able to have you
answer the door to visitors - I always enjoy being
greeted by a naked slave when I go out visiting - but
that's a small price to pay for the security of
knowing that you can't leave, and can't  cause
mischief."

"And whilst we're having this little talk about slave
behaviour:  your duties.  To service me sexually, of
course, as I've described.  But then I need this place
kept absolutely immaculate - not a speck of dust
anywhere.   And my clothes - I might change two or
three times a day, and I always need to look
immaculate, as a 'man about town'.  Freshly ironed
shirts, jackets and slacks always pressed before
they're put away, that kind of thing.  I don't like to
see ironing around the place, so you do all that when
I'm out.  And that's about it, really.  Oh, except for
the weekly poker games - we're still doing that, as we
used to.  Still the same old gang... Still on Fridays.
 You can't play now, of curse, but we always have them
here now, so on Friday nights you'll serve the drinks,
empty the ashtrays, hand around the snacks, and
generally make it a pleasant experience for your
former buddies to relax over a good game.  The chain
means that you can't wear shorts, of course, but
somewhere around you'll find there's a loin cloth that
you can wear when I've got guests - not that there's
anything wrong with nudity for a slave, but some
people find it a little distasteful, especially if the
slave is serving snacks or drinks.  So Friday night is
loin cloth night.   And that's it, really."

Rob looked at his watch, muttered "Hell....  I'm late
for tea...  Whilst I'm gone, have a good look around,
and see what's what and where things are kept."

Without giving me a chance to say a word, he tossed
his jacket on to the floor and took another one from
the closet, strode through the living room picking up
the remotes and the phone, then went out of the front
door.  I followed the same route, the chain making a
faintly slithering rattling noise as I dragged it
after me,  but half way along the corridor the chain
jerked me to a halt.  However much I pulled, however
hard I tried, I couldn't reach the front door.  It was
rather like using a vacuum cleaner:  there's never
enough cord to reach everywhere!,  There was nothing
else to do, so I spent the rest of my time exploring
the apartment - looking in all the closets, seeing the
astonishing array of smart clothes Rob had bought
himself, trying out the shower and stuff.  But there
was no entertainment, as I couldn't work the TV or CD,
and ultimately I just sat there, watching the lights
in the city gradually come on from the huge panoramic
windows.    It was so odd - Rob has always been a bit
of a slob:  he didn't exercise as much as the rest of
our set, he never bothered much about his personal
appearance, sometimes not shaving for two or three
days, and allowing his hair to straggle over his
collar, and clothes were unimportant - jeans or sweat
pants, a sweat top, an old jacket....  And he'd lived
in an apartment that verged on the squalid, with empty
beer cans and pizza boxes all over the place.  How
this inheritance, all this money,  had changed him.
And he was changed in other ways, too, I mused.  I'd
always thought that he might be just a little bit
queer, as he didn't chase the women as
enthusiastically as the rest of us, but now he seemed
like all these other rich guys who were clients of
Slaves For Your Pleasure - all he wanted was ass!
Perhaps that's what owning slaves does to you, I
thought.

Rob didn't come back until about midnight, and then he
seemed to be mildly drunk (well, perhaps more than
that!).  I kind of stood there, not knowing what to
do, as he pulled his clothes off and left them just in
a heap all over the bedroom floor.  "You can do all
that in the morning", he snapped when he saw me
looking at them rather disapprovingly. "Now, on your
belly on the bed, and spread your legs..."

In his drunken state it was surprising that he could
get it up, and then find my hole.  But I had to endure
him thrashing away on top of me until he finally shot
his load.  He lay still, his dick remaining buried in
me, for a few minutes, and his foul alcohol-fuelled
breath flowed over me.  "There, Steve boy, this is how
it's going to be from now on - just you and me, every
night.  I'm going to fuck you, Steve, whenever I want;
and sometimes I'm going to have a little hors
d'oeuvre, when you're on your knees cleaning out my
ass with that tongue of yours.  Who would have
thought, Steve, that you, team captain, super stud,
admired by everyone, would now be my personal
plaything?  Mine to do with exactly as I want?  And
I've been reading some stuff on the net recently, and
I think it might be interesting to try a few new
things - like cinching your balls tightly down to the
bottom of your sac for a few days, and caging your
cock so you can't cum, and then seeing what happens
when - and if - I release you."

But it was his next few words that really chilled me,
as he continued "And, Steve, just think about it -
you're not only legally my slave, but you're
physically my prisoner, too.  Here on the thirty
fourth floor, you're chained by your ankle and you
can't get out of the door, and the phones won't work
for you.... So whatever I choose to do to you, you've
got to stay here and take it.  I think we're going to
have some fun, Steve... Or, at least, I will!"

So saying, he pulled himself out of me and stood there
whilst I knelt in front of him cleaning him off, then
he threw himself into the bed and ordered me to get
out the truckle for myself.  I lay there, wrapped in
my thin blanket, wondering what the fuck was going to
happen to me!


End Of Part 17