Date: Fri, 9 Feb 2007 14:24:21 -0800 (PST)
From: dogeboy2 <dogeboy2@yahoo.com>
Subject: To My Knees

This is my third submission to Nifty, and about half the length of the
previous ones, Chained and The Rescue. This is the complete story in one
file.

Thanks to all who enjoyed the other stories and emailed to say so. Like the
others, this one's about the corruption of a straight boy at the hands of a
dominant man. Brendan, sick of his father and his boring farm life in
Kentucky, runs away to California and meets a supposedly kindly, caring
middle-aged cop with a different agenda on his mind. It's got lots of S&M,
WS, NC, brainwashing, training, bondage, and other pervy touches to arouse
the beast.

Please don't read if you're underage or troubled by "bad thoughts" about
your horny gay impulses. Crazy Christians, why not check out now and go
back to your hypocritical lives?

COPYRIGHT 2007 reserved to the author. Feel free to download for your
personal reading pleasure, but please refrain from any other uses or
republication in any format without contacting the author first.

Send email, appreciative or otherwise, to dogeboy2@yahoo.com. Thanks for
reading.


TO MY KNEES


I was told to write this document, ordered to I should say, and I have
learned now to obey orders. I was not always so obedient. I have learned to
be. Learned to speak only when spoken to, and to pick up a pen and write
what I am told, when I am told to do it. Normally I do not use a pen, am
forbidden to, but I was told I must retain this skill -- even though
ordered not to use it -- in case it should be of use to: Him.

This document is intended to relate my brief history. I say brief not
because I am that young (I am twenty-one) but because my true history -- as
he calls it -- began six months ago when I was picked up, rescued I should
say, from the streets by the man at whose whim I seem tolive: Mr. Braxton.

I will use my old name for the first time in these months. I did not seek
permission for this but was told to do it as a way of "reaching the
reader." He has said I must cultivate a reader whom I will never see or
know, to gain favor from an unknown entity, just as I try in every way I
can to gain his approval. My purpose now, he says, is and must always be,
simply to please him, in whatever way he determines.

My name is -- was -- Brendan and I was born on a farm in Kentucky. My
family is -- was -- from Irish and Scotch stock, and there were eight of us
kids. Four girls and four boys. We all learned farm work, hard work, at an
early age, all of us, for this was one of those (I learned, rare nowadays)
family farms. My father was a strict man (the distant neighbors hated him)
and my mother suffered somewhat by his hand, although I rarely heard her
complain. I realize now it is possible to suffer and accept your lot and
even (though maybe not in my mother's case) to eagerly await the punishment
you know will be given.

My father, like me, was a big man, over six feet, and like me he has a bull
neck and thick sinewy arms from years of working the land. He knew the
common name of every tree that grew on our land and taught this information
to us kids. I have been ordered to forget this kind of "useless nonsense"
and have mostly succeeded in erasing it now from my mind.

Even though my father was mean, I learned early to disobey him and follow
my own course. I had no allies in this, because in spite of my brothers
being as husky and strong as I was, they were too afraid of my father to
buck him. My sisters avoided Dad for the most part and spent their leisure
time with my mother. I always felt I could push with Dad -- that there was
some special bond, like it or not, that let me fight him without getting
strapped the way my brothers would, for the slightest infraction. Not that
I was never beat. I was. I remember a big rubber hose he used on me when I
got too out of hand, and I still have a small scar on my back from where he
knocked me down in the yard and I landed on a piece of sharp metal. Had I
been trained then the way I am now, I might have enjoyed his attack, and
thanked him for it perhaps by getting down and licking his feet or lapping
at his crotch, as I have been trained to do.

My earliest disobedience revolved around school. I disliked the regimen and
hated to attend more than three days of the week. I learned to forge my
parents' handwriting and even made lists of the excuses I had used so as
not to repeat any. In the eighth grade my father discovered this list and
grilled me on its purpose till I admitted the truth. He took his shirt off
that time and beat the shit out of me. I never understood why he took his
shirt off when I was the one getting the beating, but I've learned now not
to question what a master does with his slave, for that's what any parent
and child relationship is, if you think. At least until the child is old
enough (or inclined) to fight back.

Although my situation was not that bad, not as bad as many (including my
brothers'), it aggravated me that I had to conform at all to my father's
wishes. What did he know? I objected less to the physical pain of his
beatings than to the humiliation. I hated it when he would say (as he did
often in my teenage years) "Son, I'm going to bring you to your knees."
This was the phrase he always used -- I must be brought "to my knees." But
it never happened. He couldn't break me; for some reason he seemed to stop
short out of I don't know what feeling. I could see the frustration on his
face as I grit my teeth and choked on my screams as he whipped my strong
back. I vowed when I was eighteen (an age of vast maturity to a
fifteen-year-old) to run away from Kentucky for good. I loved my parents,
at least my mom, but realized I could -- no, had to -- survive without
them.

I did not leave home at eighteen, nineteen, or even twenty; family life and
commitments and farm work were taking precedence, I never forgot my vow and
kept it resting low in my mind for when the time seemed right -- my
wenty-first birthday.

Soon after this birthday, I confided my plan to my brother Lemuel. He
agreed to keep my secret, but advised against my going. He said that unless
I planned to run away to another farm, I might as well stay there. He
reminded me I didn't have any skills outside of farming. I replied that I
was strong and healthy and it was true, he agreed, I was "strong as an ox,"
naturally muscular from years of working the soil right alongside my dad

I had a girlfriend at this time named Molly, a black-haired quiet pretty
girl, but she didn't mean so much to me that I couldn't leave her. She was
more of a pal than a girlfriend, even though I did fuck her. I remember how
she appreciated my big dick. She'd fool around with the foreskin, and run
her fingers along the shaft like she wanted to scratch it. Even so, I
thought she felt the same about me as I did about her, that I was more her
pal, and she wouldn't miss me for too long. I wondered if I had "picked"
her because she had that detached kind of quality. I asked Lem to tell her
after I was gone.

I sold my baseball card collection cheap to a friend of Molly's father. I
told him not to say anything to my father because he was "sensitive" and
might kick my ass if he thought I was doing something strictly against his
wishes. He laughed and said he'd keep our little secret. I guess he was
happy to get a bargain.

I slowly got rid of most of the paraphernalia of my farm life, including
some camping gear (but not my sleeping bag) and some expensive tools my
father had bought me over the years. All in all, I amassed about two
thousand dollars. This was a fortune to me and it made me happy and nervous
at the same time. I thought if I hitchhiked across the country -- to
California -- I could keep my other expenses minimal until I got a job.

The night before I left I told my other brothers and sisters, swearing them
to secrecy. They all seemed to worry how my mother would react, but since
they only tolerated my father (as slaves must) without considering his
feelings ("if that bastard has any," Lem reminded me), they also agreed to
keep silent. Actually, I knew they would tell, probably within a day of my
leaving, but I figured if they all knew, Dad couldn't single any of them
out for punishment.

The next morning, I assembled my gear -- sleeping bag, toothbrush and
toothpaste, some tee-shirts and cutoffs for the warm California days, socks
and underwear, my money, and a copy of the Farmer's Almanac. I always liked
to read a little of it at night, and I figured the weather predictions were
accurate enough to make it valuable in my travels. Funny, though, I must
have assumed I was going to Los Angeles, for I never once checked the
temperature listings in San Francisco -- which is where I ended up.

At five-thirty a.m., when my father and Gerard took the tractor into the
field, I left. I walked the two miles into town, scrambled up the highway
ramp and stuck out my thumb. Due West.

I had always heard truckers were friendly and would help a guy in need, and
this proved to be true. I was lucky to get picked up by two
truckers. Between them they took me from Kentucky to California, over a
three-day period. I stayed one night in Colorado. The first trucker who
picked me up, a fat older guy with a southern drawl, bought my food and
even let me stay in his motel room with him.

The second trucker dropped me right in San Francisco. I spent a day
wandering around and marveling at the buildings and the busy pace and all
the well-dressed people. I had watched a lot of TV, but it's different when
you see it up close. People seemed to move too fast there, and I started to
feel like a fool in my cutoffs. Where was the beach? The weather wasn't
nearly as warm as I thought, and there was a bone-rattling wind that made
me seek the shelter of a subway station bathroom where I put on a new pair
of Levis and flannel shirt. At least I'd be warm.

I inquired at several of the nicer looking hotels and was told they were
either full up or really expensive. I couldn't pay a hundred dollars a
night. I'd be broke too fast. I finally found a room for $40 a night in a
broken-down hotel in the Tenderloin. I half-slept, because I was sure the
guy at the front desk, who looked like a real creep, was going to steal my
money. So I was pretty tired during the day.

I noticed as I walked around how much people stared at me. I thought they
must realize where I was from, that I was a hayseed and didn't have as much
sophistication as they did, and I thought it was strange that the men
looked at you just as much as the women -- maybe more. I had never had an
experience with a man.

I found the local Manpower agency and put in for some work. The guy who
took my application seemed to take an instant dislike to me, for some
reason, and told me I should come back next week when they had some jobs
opening up. I tried to argue with him, but he just told me in a low voice
to "get the fuck out." I still don't know what I did but walk in
there. Nowadays if a guy talked to me that way, I guess I would get down on
all fours and ask him if I could please lick his ass.

I was trying to eat just a moderate amount each day, but food here was
expensive and my money was dwindling. I cringed each time the amount dipped
below the next hundred. I had talked to some of the skinny kids who were
prostitutes on Polk Street. They acted tough but their lives were a mess, I
could tell, just the merry-go-round of drugs and booze and whoredom. Not a
happy life, but one I began to fear was waiting for me unless I formed a
plan, and soon. I could call home, I was sure Lem would send me some money,
but that would be defeat -- it would bring me to my knees, a thing that
must not happen.

I couldn't shake in particular the image of a bum I kept seeing at the
plaza downtown, a young guy with blackened face and feet, his legs stiff
like they were turning to wood or stone, walking around cursing under his
breath and staring at people. I had seen him up close and his face looked
kind of handsome under the layer of dirt and matted hair, and I wondered
what on earth had brought him to that low state. Every time I counted my
money now I saw his face in my mind.

I was sitting on a bench at the bus stop, waiting to go down to the ocean
to think, maybe to plot a way out of my situation. I kept thinking how
young a bum can be out here. Back home the few bums were pretty old and
there was usually somebody to take care of them, they weren't on their
own. While I was thinking about this, a car, a new blue Cadillac, one of
those smaller ones, cruised by. The guy inside seemed to be staring at me
and I didn't do anything but just waited for my bus. The Cadillac circled a
couple of times, then pulled right up to me.

The guy inside was dark-haired, middle-aged, but strong and relaxed, maybe
out on his lunch hour, and he rolled down his window and asked if I needed
a ride. I said sure and got in. I was happy somebody wanted to rescue me,
even though I didn't know what to expect.

He introduced himself as Mr. Braxton and he reminded me of a high-school
football coach, or a police sergeant. (He was a policeman, I learned
later.) He was big like me, with bristly black hair and a thick moustache,
and strong and friendly acting, but kind of authoritative, commanding, as
if he knew what he wanted and would go after it. I was nervous but I felt
lucky to be in his great car.

I told him my whole story, just as I've told it here, and he listened and
nodded a lot and laughed when something I said struck him as funny, even if
I didn't think it was funny. He was on his own wavelength, I thought, but I
liked being paid attention to by somebody who looked important or at this
point maybe by anybody at all.

It was Friday afternoon. "I'm off for the day," he said. "You want to come
by my place and crash? You look pretty ragged out."

"I don't want to impose," I told him but I was hoping some opportunity like
this would arise -- any kind of change! Maybe he would take me under his
wing, I thought, and help me get a job.

"No imposition," he said, "you strike me as a boy who'll do what's best for
himself. Am I wrong?"

"No sir," I said, reverting to the formal addressing of my elders that my
father had taught me.

"Good boy," he said, putting his hand on my head and rubbing it, kind of
like you would a dog. But I didn't mind. I let him rub my head and I didn't
care, it felt good to have a human being even touch me after so many days
alone -- even another guy.

"You're a good boy," he repeated, making a fist and rubbing it along my
cheek. I thought this was going kind of far for a stranger, but he did it
in a friendly way and I didn't want to spoil maybe my best (or only)
chance.

"Thank you, sir," I said, and felt funny now, as if I wanted to keep
calling him sir. I thought he was demanding it, in some subtle way, without
really saying it, like it was a secret condition of my being helped. It
still struck me as strange how willing I was to go along, because even
though I did it growing up, I hated it. I never believed I should respect
every single older person, just because they were older, like my father
told me.

Mr. Braxton put his hand on my leg (I was wearing my cutoffs, which badly
needed washing) and kept it there as we drove through the city to his house
in the Richmond district. When we did arrive, I was surprised at how nice
it was. I don't know why. Since his clothes were really clean and he had an
expensive car, it stood to reason he would have a fancy house too.

"You like this place, Brendan?"

"Yes sir," I said, again surprised at myself for calling him "sir."

"You like to call me sir. Good. I like to hear it. Good boy. Say it again."

"Yes, sir," I said, still jittery about this trend.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, "I like to be comfortable, you should
too." He took off his suit and walked buck-naked into the next room, where
he put on a jock strap. I looked quickly at his crotch and saw he was
pretty well-endowed. I thought I had a pretty big dick -- I had the
reputation in school, and Molly always said so -- but Mr. Braxton's looked
bigger through his shorts. His balls were big and fat and wrinkly and were
partly visible through the jock. This must be a California thing, I
thought.

"You want a drink?" he said.

"Sure, yes sir," I said, anxious above all to please my new
friend. Anything to avoid going back to the street!

He left the room and returned with a tall glass of some sweet drink and
another jock strap like the one he wore. He told me to get out of my dirty
pants and put it on.

"Shouldn't I take a shower first, sir?" I said. I was ashamed of having to
add, "I'm dirty."

"Don't bother. I'll scrub you down later," he said.

I shrugged and disrobed in front of him. I didn't want to be indiscreet but
I could see him looking at me as I stripped down. He watched me, I thought,
the way a farmer might appraise a prize hog. Not that I was fat -- just
stocky. But I felt self-conscious about baring my ass in this strange house
in front of a strange man.

We sat down together on his couch and I thought we must look like father
and son, both big guys, both wearing nothing but jock straps and drinking
these tall cool sweet drinks.

"Brendan, you've come a long way," he said, and I could feel the drink
going to my head, and it was making me want to call him "sir, sir," over
and over again, beyond my will. He put his hand on my naked belly and was
rubbing it and I didn't say anything because the drink was making me too
high to think clearly.

"You've had some rough times and I can tell you most kids like you don't
make it in this city. Too much competition. Unless you want to peddle your
ass on Polk Street. You're even a little old for that -- twenty-one, you
said? You could pass for younger. I'm a cop. I see all this stuff all the
time. There's not much alternative for a farm boy in a big city. Either
make it on the city's terms, or back you go to the farm."

"Yes sir," I said, trying to grasp what he was really saying, nervous at
what I felt was a veiled threat.

"I could take care of you, if you'd let me. But there'd have to be certain
conditions."

"Conditions?" I said, and he left the room to get me another drink, even
though I protested.

When he returned he was wearing only a pair of heavy black boots. Now I
could see his dick plain and it somehow bothered me, the size.

"Well, Brendan," he said, scratching his balls, then making a fist and
mock-punching my stomach, "what are you looking for in life? New
experiences? Excitement? Or just a wife and some kids and a tract house?"

"Mr. Braxton, I want to be ... open-minded," I said, wondering how slurred
my speech was becoming. I saw in my bleary-eyed way that he was eyeing me
hard and had started rolling his foreskin back and forth over the head of
his dick.

He took the drink out of my hand and put his hand under my chin and told me
forcefully to "drink it all, straight down, now."

"Yes sir," I said and opened my mouth (I recall) like a fish in a tank,
waiting (begging) for food. After I had drunk the rest of my drink, he
stood up and put his dick into my mouth.

"I have to piss," he said, and even though I felt drunk and overly relaxed,
I was alarmed as he let loose a stream of piss down my throat.

"A chaser, Brendan," he said, laughing as I sputtered and spit out the
piss. I suddenly felt naked and alone and afraid in this expensive room
with a middle-aged cop pissing in my mouth.

"Don't!" I managed to say, in a low wet pleading voice.

"Don't what?" he said. "Say sir and I'll consider your plea."

"Don't ... piss in my mouth, please sir?"

"Why? I like to piss in your mouth. It feels good. Look at my dick. It's
hard now. Pissing in your pretty mouth gives me a hard-on. You don't want
to deny me that, do you? Don't you want to please me? Or do you prefer the
streets? There's plenty of room there."

"I do want to ... please you ... sir," I said, wondering how on earth I had
got myself into this predicament and how I could get out. I was upset and
felt like I was losing control, but Mr. Braxton seemed to sense this and he
put his arms around me and said, "I'll try to take it slow. You're a
beautiful boy -- my boy. You're what I want. And I'm what you need. You
should relax. Anything I do will be for your own good, I promise. Even my
piss -- it's good for you. Part of your education."

This made me feel better and I thought maybe I had best play
along. Besides, as Mr. Braxton said, the taste of piss is not really all
that bad, once you get used to it.

"I have some more piss," he said, "but I'll let you drink it from the
glass, later." He pissed into his glass and set it aside. "Next, get down
on all fours. I'm going to fuck your ass."

"I don't want it!" I remember saying.

I tried to stand up, but he grabbed me and pulled me down. I was afraid of
him ramming that thing up my ass. He was stronger than me, though, and held
me on all fours till I quieted down. I guess I had become too drunk on
alcohol and piss to keep objecting -- he held me still till I relaxed --
because for some reason I did as I was told, and even though I felt like a
dog (a female dog, at that), I obeyed him and lay my head on his thick
carpet while he mounted me from behind.

I had never had anything like this happen before, but Mr. Braxton must have
known what he was doing because even though my asshole drew up tight he
kept at it and soon had the head of his big dick stuck in there. Once he
got it in, he methodically fucked my ass until it was raw. And when he
pumped his come in me and withdrew with a slow groan, I felt like somebody
had doused my asshole with gasoline and struck a match to it.

"Go to the bathroom, there to the left, and clean yourself up," he said,
rubbing my head in his friendly way.

I stumbled through the room and sat down on the toilet. My head hurt and my
ass ached and I was crying low, but for some reason I didn't feel as bad as
I knew I should have. I had come while he was fucking me.

That night I slept in the same bed as Mr. Braxton, but he positioned me
between his legs, so I slept with my mouth on his dick. During the night he
got a hard on and lazily jacked off in my mouth. I woke up when his sticky
sperm hit the back of my throat. In the morning he had to piss and he
grabbed my head and let it go into my mouth. I was surprised at how
insatiable he seemed. I thought sex impulses declined in middle-age.

Shortly after he fed me his piss, he laid me out on the bed and put his big
hairy ass on my face and ordered me to clean it with my tongue. What could
I say? He seemed to be willing to put me up until I got on my feet
financially, and even though what we were doing was weird, weirder than I
ever dreamed, I was sure stranger things must have happened in this life,
and anyway, what options did I have? I was in no position to object, and
Mr. Braxton knew it

After that night Mr. Braxton taught me a lot. He lectured me continuously
on the "eradication of my ego," which he said was very important. I was to
stop thinking so much of myself and my needs, it could only lead to trouble
(I had to agree with him there). I must view him as the provider of
everything I needed, and think of myself as a "strong animal" that existed
to please him (and his friends). The most important things about me, he
said, were my mouth and my ass which, I have to say, he complimented me on
and enjoyed using often. I had never thought of my ass or mouth as
"commodities," but Mr. Braxton made me realize they were just that. They
were important because he liked to use them. My dick and balls were of use
to him occasionally, but most of the time he would tie them down with
leather straps, so if I was standing up straight (which wasn't very often)
my dick would be hidden and only my thick pubic hair would show, like I was
a girl. Sometimes he liked to show me off to his friends this way,
something I grew to look forward to in spite of myself.

He trained me to spend most of my time on all fours. He developed a series
of hand signals and facial expressions that indicated what he wished me to
do, so that if he came in from work he had only to lift his hand for me to
begin lapping eagerly at his crotch. If a friend of his came by, whom I was
to "service," as he put it, he had only to nod a certain way and I would
crawl over to the guy with my tongue hanging out like a dog and my ass
wagging like I was begging for a fist or a fuck.

I learned to accept and eagerly await his use of me. At first I was allowed
to thank him for this but eventually he trained me not to speak. He said it
was better that way, better if I just served and said nothing. I would be
happier that way he said, and you know, he was right -- as usual. He would
reward me by dry-fucking my ass, or locking me naked face down onto a table
in the basement and inviting several of his friends over to pull a train on
what I heard him call his "prime slab of meat."

I learned to accept beatings with a variety of implements, including a
bullwhip. He said my body could take it and he was right. Those years of
strained effort on the farm had given me a firm foundation for accepting
any brutality that might come my way. I sometimes wonder if that wasn't the
purpose of all my farm training. My Braxton says it was. I used to ask
myself why I was willing to obey him, when I fought so much against my
father's discipline, and I couldn't give an answer, then or now, except to
say that he got me when I was desperate and vulnerable. Later I started
realizing that it might really be because Mr. Braxton was stronger than my
father and I respect him because he doesn't make idle threats.

After I am finished writing this document, Mr. Braxton is going to give it
to some of his friends to read. As a reward for my writing in as articulate
a manner as possible, as he says, he is going to let me spend a whole night
servicing five men. I will be the "evening's entertainment," as he says,
and he will not direct the action. He will only watch. What happens after
the scene concludes depends on how successfully I serve, how energetically
I degrade myself for his friends. I believe there is a veiled threat there,
so I will double my efforts to please.

I will be encased in a hood and rubber body suit. He had to have one
specially made, he said, because I'm so big and stocky. There will be
openings only for my nose (breathing), crotch, mouth and ass (for
servicing). For once, my dick and balls will be untied and
exposed. Mr. Braxton says it is a good fat dick and somebody might want to
sit on it, or whip it, or beat my big balls.

I am to respond in any way I am told. I must read their signals, he says,
though how I can do this with my eyes covered is not quite clear to me. I
will do my best though. If a man's hand starts feeling around my ass and
pushing hard against it, I'll know to quickly get on all fours and spread
my legs to accept what he wants to put in it, boot or dick or fist. If I
feel a hard dick being slapped against my mouth, I'll open wide and
greedily suck and gulp the piss or come he wants to deposit there.

I must at all cost reflect well on my Master. I'll show him I can obey his
every wish and even anticipate how he would like me to react. I'm so
grateful now that he found me and wanted to spend time training me, when I
might have just wandered around the city and become a bum, like that
black-footed man and so many others Mr. Braxton has told me about. He's
made it pretty clear what my fate would be if I didn't go along. There
isn't that much a farm boy can do in a big city like this after all. And I
couldn't go back to Kentucky, not now. This is my real life forever.

I don't know if I should thank my father for paving the way for this, but I
feel somehow he would approve Mr. Braxton's punishments and
pleasure-giving. Sometimes when my master is "milking" my dick (as he does
once a week, like he would a cow, in a clinical way, to wean me from the
idea of my own pleasure), I think about my father and imagine the two of
them taking turns milking me, laughing together and slapping my ass and
congratulating themselves on having finally brought me to my knees.

 -- END --

Please send comments, praises or pans, to dogeboy2@yahoo.com. Thanks for
reading!