Date: Sat, 9 Apr 2011 13:40:58 -0700
From: MACK Wayne <mackxwayne@hotmail.com>
Subject: A Slave's Induction - Ch 7

Disclaimer: All rights reserved.  No part of the story can be reproduced in
any form without the express permission of the author, me.


A slave's Induction


Ch 7  - The Begged for Proposition

With Nick's recent revelations about my good fortune, and the Boss's
leniency, and what could happen to me, I knew what I was about to say, and
how I would say it, was more critically important than ever.  I needed to
be sure to demean myself while venerating him. Like he'd seen me doing from
afar that night making him laugh at Nick's observation of me being "like a
lamb to the slaughter" - worship him, while denigrating myself.  I needed
to apologize to him and beg him.
	I started, and he interrupted me to say he'd rather see me
kneeling.  I painfully worked my way into that position relieving some of
the pressure on the plug.  I was glad to find that the Ôlittle things
meaning a lot' syndrome, worked on the "less pain," side of things as well,
not just the, "more pain," side.  I knelt on the towel and started again.
He put his cigar in the large ashtray and interlaced his fingers on his
stomach, the picture of serenity - the exact opposite of what I was feeling
- what he knew I was feeling - what he wanted and intended for me to feel.
	I began with him, instead of with "I," or "me," "Sir, You are the
most amazing man I have ever known.  Your looks are those of a god.  You
are as strong as you are dominant and demanding.  You have shown me your
power, and by it all, Sir, I am awe struck. You gave me an offer and I said
I couldn't do it - afraid of the exposure.  I asked impertinent questions
about anonymity and made it a condition in order to accommodate you.  I'm
very sorry Sir.  You said you wanted a face the men who buy your video can
identify with."
	I thought about Nick's words, "He loves to be begged," and I did
so, "I beg you Sir to please allow me to be that face - exposed for your
pleasure and for the good of your project." I stopped for a moment to see
if he would interject or question.  He gave me a, "rolling along" hand
gesture, letting me know in his silence that I should continue - that he
was listening.  I still needed to convince him.
 	"My decision was purely self motivated Boss, Sir.  I was
inconsiderate and disrespectful of your likes, needs, wants, and wishes
Sir.  It was wrong, and I am very sorry for my mistake.  I want to change
that to making decisions based on what you prefer, how you prefer it, when
you prefer it, where you prefer it, and for how long, Sir.  I beg you Boss
Sir, please Sir, give me the opportunity to accept your offer, I so
foolishly turned down, so I can prove it to you Sir." I slowed to a stop.
He picked up his cigar.
	"Anything more?" he asked, as he put it in his mouth and rolled it
around and bit lightly on it.  I thought quickly and thanked him and said
that there was.
	 "Yes Sir.  This stuffed-pussied bitch toy is grateful for
everything you have done for and to it - for making it reconsider Sir.
Thank You Sir.  You first Sir, always and in all things," and a final,
"Thank You Sir, Boss - Master Sir."
	He leaned the chair back reclining it, laced his fingers behind his
head and sucked on the cigar in his mouth looking pensive.  "Had I said
enough?  Been respectful enough?  Used enough Sir's?  Begged enough?  Been
sincere enough?  Self-effacing enough?
	The seat came forward.  The cigar got played with in the ashtray
and then left there.  His feet remained on the desk.  I was so nervous
waiting, it felt good when he started to speak even though I didn't know
what to expect.  "Master huh?  He said, "Well you're getting a little ahead
of yourself, but it speaks to your sincerity and gives insight to the
effect I'm already having, so I'll allow it.  First off, I accept your
offer of your manhood and your person.  When I own something I own it
outright, so just for clarification, this is a 'lock, stock, and barrel'
offering I'm accepting, right?" Before I could answer he added, "No limits
or conditions.  You retain no rights to your person for yourself.  Both
your body and mind are objects of my personal property.  Is that what you
had in mind with your offer?
	"Yes Sir," was what I said.  Hearing it all set out like that, it
was impossible to comprehend, but it seemed already to be happening.  He
sat there so relaxed and cavalier about discussing my existence as
property, about my retaining no rights for myself or to my own person.  I
was acknowledging no rights to my own body and mind.  It seemed like it
shouldn't be real, but my condition - my pain - my horrifying night in his
cage - was verifying that it was.  My arms still had limited sensation from
the elbows to fingertips.  Everything hurt - even things the men hadn't
touched.  My ass cheeks were on fire from the belting I got.  There weren't
many, but the strikes were savage with that belt swung by such a strong
person.  He may not have even realized how hard he hit me, but I can tell
you it was unimaginable.  The welts felt like they must be huge.  I thought
about how guys always commented on my ass, seeing it in the locker room or
wherever.  I tried to imagine what they'd think seeing it like this - how
stunned they'd be at its distorted plugged and belted appearance.
	 "Then it looks like were on the same page." He said, and abruptly
shifted to the next subject.  "As to the movie offer, I thought you'd come
to see things differently if I gave you time to think about it.  "You have
a much better feel about you - much more what I imagined, seeing you watch
me from across the bar - here now - afraid of doing or saying the wrong
thing to me.  That arrogance and sense of self-import you had the other
night are gone.  I remember your ass planted there on my sofa saying, 'no'
to me.  You were actually sitting on my furniture, setting conditions in
order for me to use you, in essence, telling me that you were too important
to be identified in my production."
	He stopped and just looked at me a moment and made a chilling
addition to his thought, "Just remember, whenever it's necessary, I can
give you time out to consider what needs adjusting and just how you might
adjust it." That simple expression, 'time out' sent chills up my spine.
	He took another slow draw on his cigar and looked at the glowing
ash on the end as he expelled the mouthful of smoke - blew a few rings, and
continued, "You also LOOK much better.  Naked and on the floor is much more
appropriate for something like you - kneeling there respectfully, cunt
stuffed so full and deep you can hardly think straight, not knowing what to
do till you are told.  The expression on your face shows a combination of
worry and complete focus, trying to get it all right for me.  And, turn
around." He said.  "Show me what Nick did to you, and tell me why."
Humiliated, I showed the Boss my burning belt stripes and explained fully
how I got them.
	"See," he said with self-satisfaction in his tone, "now this is the
way I imagined you when you were presenting yourself to me in the bar so
enamored and worshipful. When you were sitting on my furniture saying, 'no'
to me, this is how I saw you." His arrogance was so assured as he
continued, by listing some of my attributes, "- a subservient, obedient,
naked, kneeling, fisted, plugged, beaten, controlled, owned, fearful,
respectful, thankful, urinal.  I could go on," He gloated, "but that's
enough identity markers for now.  Oh," he added, "did I mention ash tray?"
he asked, knowing he hadn't.
	"No Sir."
	"Yeah - even ash tray.  Come over here." Bill patted his of his
upraised thigh and I crawled to his side. "Tip your head back and open your
mouth.  I'll show you.  As I obeyed, Bill took a long leisurely draw on his
fat stogy adding more ash to the growing accumulation at its tip, and blew
the smoke in my face.  Slowly he moved the cigar into position over my open
mouth and paused, "Bet you've never been a man's ashtray have you?"
	As my tongue began to move trying with my open mouth to form my
negative reply, he casually flicked the cigar with his finger just like I'd
seen him do a few times over the glass ash receptacle on his desk - and the
long tight cylinder of smoked spent tobacco fell into my mouth instantly
making fact of his just added descriptive adjective regarding my identity.
It was hot, it was dry, it was unimaginable, and it was my Master's.  By
his hand and his objects he had violated and claimed my ass for his
purposes, and now his ash was violating and claiming my oral cavity in the
same way.
	"That's got to be dry," he said as he put his legs down and stood
up over me looking down into my - or his - ash filled mouth.  The nice
thing about you as my personal ashtray, is that you self clean.  Here, I'll
help you with that.  He snorted up a big cigar smoking hocker and centered
his mouth over mine before letting the plentiful slimy snotty lunger drip
in with the ashes, "Now swallow that filth & show me a clean ashtray," he
ordered.
	I did what I never would have imagined.  I closed my mouth, worked
the combination of the Master's slime and ash - with several swallows -
down my throat, tipped my head back, and opened again.
	"Not clean enough!" he yelled, and expectorated a forceful blow
again into the back of my throat, "Now show me a clean ashtray, or I will
dump this whole glass tray full," he picked up the ashtray off the desk and
held it up over me as he finished his threat, "into that hole for you to
process."
	I swallowed and swallowed and worked up saliva of my own and
swallowed again till I felt the terrible taste dissipating before opening
my mouth for his critical inspection.
	"Nothing worse than a dirty ash tray," he said, "You ever show me a
dirty one again, and I'll have you smoking a cigar a day to the nub for a
week and using this thing here," he stuck his finger in my mouth moving my
tongue around and further inspecting, "for the ashes!  You hear me
shithead?"
	"Yes Sir Boss Sir.  Your ashtray is very sorry Sir." He sat back
down and put his feet back up on the desk as I stared worried and nervously
at the floor.
	I was all the things he said - and more (or less depending on how
you looked at it).  There was nothing he had enumerated that could be
denied, and as he had taken his time enumerating the litany, I was forced
to face the truth of each descriptive.  I couldn't imagine why, and I
wasn't sure how it had come to this, but the fact of my being exactly the
way he wanted me right now - exactly the creature he was creating and had
just described, was unmistakable.
	He picked up a couple of stapled pieces of paper and held them out.
Take these back to your towel shithead.  He put them in my ashtray mouth
and ordered me to crawl like the dog I was, "Go!  Sit Fido!" he ordered.
As I crawled obediently away, my excruciatingly plugged and belted ass in
his plain view, he told me what I was about to read.  "You have accepted my
offer to be in my movie without conditions or foreknowledge of the
particulars, which is as it should be.  What you hold in your mouth,
however, is what I choose for you to know and be thinking about, for your
upcoming staring roll.  So go ahead and read it over when you get settled
there."
	I came close to letting out a reactionary yelp as I sat back down,
but with great difficulty, I managed instead after removing the pages from
my mouth, to thank him in a fairly normal sounding tone.  Sitting on the
plug had renewed the hurt from the untold depth and astonishing stretch it
was so effectively causing my asshole and insides.  As I read the listed
information for the roll of the castrator, I began to sweat.  The first
thing it addressed was the matter of anonymity.  It said that for
identification purposes, so the viewers could relate to a real person, my
name - tom - would be clearly tattooed on one of my pecs or shoulders.  It
said the filming would present as many shots of my face while I am working
as possible, and that it would include close ups of expressions of my
pleasure and self satisfaction while working on "my" victim.
	Then it addressed the procedure itself.  It said that I would be
shown videos of nuttings for instructional and training purposes and then
required to do a simple, surgical type of removal.  Then it talked about
specifics of the procedure.  The sack would be opened and each testicle
pulled out.  They would be carefully eviscerated and left to hang by their
chords for a time to be specified and for activities to be specified.
Whenever directed to, I, the castrator, would suture and tie off both
vesicle chords, and on queue cut each nut free retaining as much of the
attached chord as possible.
	Regarding the determination of the nuts themselves, it said that
the castrator would do as instructed in the moment, and enumerated a
horrific litany of possibilities that I couldn't imagine myself doing, but
at the same time knowing I would.
	Then it made reference to the victim.  It said that some men
actually want to be castrated.  This would not be one of them.  He would
not be a participatory subject, and he would not be gagged, so that his
objections and pleas could be, "heard and enjoyed." It said there were
others, but listed one possible scenario. The victim would have been lured
with a lot of cash, to make a fake S and M video.  I would secure him and
then announce his fate to him and torture him for a time before the
finale. I finished reading.
	I had seen some of the footage.  I knew I was as red as a beet, and
I was wet with sweat both from what I'd just read and my pain.  I wanted to
say, "Those things we discussed in the bar about castration, were
fantasies.  I didn't mean I would actually want to cut a man's balls off.
Please don't make me do this." I sat there humiliated, with a sinking
feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I knew I was not to speak without being
addressed, so I held the paper in my lap and looked up at the powerful man
behind his desk writing, and waited.
	Without looking up from his work, he spoke to me, "How's our
soon-to-be movie star? Done with the cliff notes so-to-speak?"
Respectfully, as always, I answered that I had read it all.  "Now at least
you have an idea of what your roll will be so you can prepare mentally to
do a good job," he said.
	I wished I didn't have "an idea", or the correlating mental images
that were now implanted.  He went on to inform me of the timing of my
appearance.  "I'll be filming you in a few months.  I want to get you in
your best possible shape mentally and physically.  Nick will work you hard
toward the physical end. You look good, but I want you maxed out, what ever
that ends up being.  Lots of heavy chemicals for both mind and body are in
order. I have already begun your mental augmentation.  I'm sure you can
feel changes taking place in your thinking.  Increasingly the drugs I put
in you and my programming are causing a reordering of your thought
processes.  Needing to please me by how and what you think will become
instinctual, and taking any kind of exception will become lost."
	The man - now my owner - sat comfortably and told me how he was
going to essentially tune me and remodel me for his pleasure and purposes.
I would begin to confess - no matter the consequences - improper thoughts.
I would feel the need to be allowed to confess, and beg for help - for
correction - not forgiveness - as that is not something given to slaves.
	"With discipline, and drugs, and use, and programming," he told me,
"You will become exactly what I want." Lots of protein, chemicals, and
forced workouts, and the right amount of rest would be the formula for the
physical improvement, "There's enough time to get you really tuned up, for
your debut on the screen." He hit a button on the intercom and called to
Nick, "Nick fix a couple of shots for the toy here." He released the button
and continued on with me.  My lack of control had just been made more
obvious.  He said we had a few minutes to wait for Nick, "So let's -" he
said, "- take the time to talk about your plight."
	"Let's and we," I thought, "what new meaning those words had taken
on." They seemed such unlikely words for my new situation.
	"I remember," he began, "A cocky individual that actually thought
of himself on an equal footing with me just a short time ago.  He stepped
right up in front of me in the bar, presuming to block the view others had
of me.  You remember that person?" he asked.
	"Yes Sir," I answered as the obvious offender.
	"That was you wasn't it shithead?"
	"Yes Sir." I started to say I was sorry, but got cut off.
	"You remember being self determined, making your own decisions,
doing what you wanted, in other words, being your own person?" I answered
politely in the affirmative. "And how has that changed?" he asked.
	"This person is yours now Sir."
	"This WHAT?" he yelled.
	"This shithead - ashtray - slave is yours now Sir!  Sorry Sir!"
	"Better," he said.  "Before, even if you had something a little
uncomfortable, you would eliminate it, or change it.  Now, there you are,
sitting on that monstrous plug.  Your weight is pushing it so deep, and
it's hurting you so much.  Now, not only can't you take it out, you can't
even stand, or change positions to ease the pain till I tell you
to. Right?" He WAS right, and politely I concurred.  "Hell," he gloated,
"Now, you can't even express how you are hurting with natural strain in
your voice, because you've been told not to."
	"Stand up!" was the abrupt command.  I worked through the pain to
get to my feet but not to his satisfaction, "Were you favoring your pussy,
fist bitch?" Before I could say anything, he ordered me to repeat the
movement, "Do it again!  Sit, and stand. Quickly!" I practically fell back
onto the plug jamming it back in deep and immediately almost jumped up,
apologizing through the painful exercise thanking him for it as required.
	Though it hurt, the movement was almost a relief from the static
position of sitting on it - at least for a brief moment.  Nick entered with
two full three milliliter syringes in his hand, and his announcement,
"Here, Boss." They looked threatening with thick inch and a half long
needles attached.
	"What was it?" I wondered, "If it's steroids, it's quite a lot."
Fact was, I could only guess as to the contents of the syringes.  They
could be anything.  I remembered my angry reaction to something as
insignificant as the one pill Nick had given me when I arrived.  I was
indignant because I wasn't told what it was, or asked if it was ok.  Now,
what ever they wished to pump into me would be simply a matter of course,
over which I had no business to question.
	The Boss yanked me by the arm over to face the side of his big
cleared desktop.  He pushed on my back collapsing me at the waist face down
onto it.  My feet still on the floor, he told me to spread them, and relax
my ass and legs.  As I did, I felt both needles penetrating me high and to
the side of both my glutes.  I couldn't even imagine what my ass must look
like with the huge plug distorting it.  He pushed slowly on them until they
were buried in me - each deep to their hilts.  Holding them and using his
thumbs, he began the injections at the same time.  I could feel the viscous
fluid collecting inside my muscles.  I was going to ache from the volume of
the stuff, but that was the least of my worries at this moment in time.
	Just as he'd begun to inject me, the boss told him to go get him a
drink from "the fridge." "Right away Boss," he said.  He walked away from
me and left the room.
	"If this isn't a sight, I ask you," Bill said, sarcastically.  I
heard a few camera clicks as he continued.  "You hugging my desktop, naked
except for your harness and plug.  Your normally hot ass has angry red belt
welts on it, and is completely misshaped around your asshole.  All that can
be seen of what's causing it is the big thick black disk base of your plug.
Who would believe to look at it, whatÔs inside of you or the intense pain
you're feeling from it.  It would be fun," he quipped, "to have people you
know, gathered around when it gets pulled out.  They would be so aghast and
embarrassed for you.  And just imagine their reaction to your screaming
'thank you,' when it got shoved painfully all the way back in."
	He told me to look over my shoulder as he was snapping pictures so
he could get some identifiable face shots included.  "And as if you didn't
look ridiculous enough, there's two big hypo syringes sticking out of your
cheeks to boot.  Makes for some great pictures to post on the web though,"
he said, "We'll send out notices to your friends for a link they can access
to see pictures and you performing some of your new tricks - being asked if
you want to stop, & you begging so sincerely please for more.
	Nick entered with Bills beverage and slowly finished injecting me
as Bill sipped his drink and snapped a few last pix before putting the
camera down.  He had an idea, "Nick, go get the video camera lets try
something," he said, "also bring a duplicate of the plug in shithead's
pussy."
	As Nick left the room, Bill sat down in his chair right in my face
- my head lying on his desk facing him.  I tried not to look into his eyes.
"Look at me!" he said with a raised voice.  I looked into the same
beautiful steel grey eyes I'd seen before, but they were different now.
Before they were alluring and pulled me in.  Now they seemed to be piercing
me like knives and cutting out my spirit for sport.  Now, they were the
eyes of my fearsome terrorist/ tormentor - I his fearful victim.  The
powerful god man peered into my soul and spoke with utter gravity in his
voice.  "Get this, Tom.  If you never got anything before, listen, and get
this.  I like you.  I like how you look.  I liked from the start how
worshipful and focused you were on me in the bar.  Every time I looked
over, you were unaffected by anything around you, and zeroed in on me.  And
I liked discovering your interest in castration."
	As Nick had intimated, Bill said he was allowing for the
possibility of my replacing his house slave.  The one that had taken my
clothes, had been sold, and was being picked up by his new owner the
following week.
	"Some slip up's and mistakes on a limited basis I can tolerate.  I
will punish you for them, and that will not be easy for you.  But," he
continued with increased intensity, "If I ever think you are trying to take
back any degree of your self, or of control - if I ever believe you are
doing something that is not because it's FOR me, or because OF me, I will
give you a time out, that will make the one in the cage seem like a night
at the Hilton with room service."
	For a moment he just starred into me making me understand he was
claiming all that was here and daring me to challenge his authority. Then
he added, "Do we have an understanding?  Do we have a deal?" There was that
word again.  I began to realize this, is how, "we" WAS now.  "We," were
both here to make sure the Boss's comforts and preferences, his pleasures
and his needs were met, and if I ever did something to make him believe
otherwise, there literally would be Hell to pay.  His next words of warning
would echo in my head, "I promise, you will not be allowed to, but you will
beg to die."
	Yes, "we" had an understanding beyond any doubt.  And as I lay
there in his face, on his desk, another piece of his property, I was led to
make clear my understanding that His proposition - His deal - was indeed
and unquestioningly iron clad.
	"Good," he said off-handedly but with emphasis.  He sat back in his
chair effectively removing the immediacy of his face from mine. While
peering into my depths - my very soul - he had made his contract with me.
Until now he was just playing with me - testing me - presuming to "kick the
tires," as he'd so appropriately put it. From this moment on, things would
be different.  Now I was his formally declared property - his slave - and
while he'd allowed me the privilege to call him Master a few times before -
now, that was an inexorable fact.
	 Whether I was ever allowed to look into them again or not, the
look of his eyes close to mine would last with me a lifetime. His
intoxicating body scent, and that of his breath with the smell of his cigar
lingered in my mind as I stayed in place on his desk.  Those too would
remain.  Indeed a deal had been struck - an understanding established - a
contract cemented.  I would never forget how casually it had been sealed,
"Good." His one word was enough to establish that "we" had - a deal - an
understanding - a contract.  The deal - my person, my body, and my mind,
were now his property.  The understanding - that what happened to me, was
no longer my business, and if I tried ever to make it so, the punishment
would be more than I could imagine - the contract - that these conditions
were acceptable and agreeable to me as unquestionably permanent and
binding.
	Nick entered with camera in one hand and my plug's twin in the
other.  Bill took the camera, "Now lets see how well you can play this for
me.  I want a convincing and accommodating performance.  You know enough by
now to be able to do this in a way that will please me.  So impress me," he
warned.  He had me face out into the room and turned on the camera.  He
scanned my naked form from face to feet as I lay clutching his desk in
silence.
	He went to my ass and closed in on the base of the plug inside me.
He had Nick lay the plug's twin on my back - its base just above that of
the one buried inside me, and shot both framed together.  At Bills
direction, Nick - out of frame except for his hand - lifted the plug and
stood it straight up on my lower back.  He scanned slowly up its enormity
to the top.  He had Nick hold it near my face and moved into position,
"What is this?" Bill asked me.
	"It's a plug just like the one inside me Sir."
	"Really?  This whole thing is inside you?"
	"Yes Sir.  Thank you Sir."
	"Tell everyone what it's doing."
	"It's stretching and stuffing your fuckhole Sir.
	"Looks like it would be quite painful.  Can you describe how it
feels?"
	"It hurts so much Sir.  Its so deep and it's stretching and filling
everything so painfully Sir."
	"Would you like me to remove it?"
	"Oh no Sir.  Please Sir."
	"You sure you want to keep it in with all the pain it's causing
you?  Why is that?"
	"Because it pleases you Sir."
	"And it's more important to please me than to relieve the intense
pain?"
	"Yes Sir!" was said with emphasis.
	"How about if we just pull it out for a moment to prove to everyone
it's really in there & then we can shove it right back inside.  Then maybe
leave it in all night.  Would you like that?"
	"Yes Sir to please you Sir - You first Sir, always and in all
things.
	"Then tell me what you want."
	"Please Sir could you pull it out to show everyone, then shove it
right back inside your fuckhole - and can it be left in all night so I can
stay in pain for your pleasure Sir?"
	"I think that's a reasonable request."
	"Thank you very much Sir."
	Bill handed the camera to Nick who followed to the plugs base.
Bill unbuckled the harness strap and without warning, he grabbed onto the
huge base and pulled till it stretched my ass wide open.  As I screamed, he
held it playing it back and forth at its widest point exposing my raw pink
pussy lips in and out as he deftly pushed and pulled on the plug with the
obvious use of strength and control.  The inner cone was doing the same
thing unseen to my second sphincter.
	"Oh my god!" I cried out, as the camera moved to catch my tormented
expression and tears - before returning to the action end of the scene.
	"Ok," Bill yelled over my noise, "Bring it down so they can hear
me," he instructed.  With all my effort I mediated my noise as he addressed
the would-be viewers about what was happening.  He said the plug had been
in me for a long time and it would be hard for them to imagine the pain I
had been in for a while - that what he was doing was truly rather inhuman -
and explained about what was happening with the inner cone.  Satisfied with
the torment he'd accomplished he pulled the plug free of my tortured hole
and held it up for the camera's inspection as I yelled both in pain and
relief.  How I wanted to beg him not to replace it - how close I came to
pleading, "PLEASE NO MORE SIR!" Just as he spoke out over my noise.
	"I don't think I've heard a single thank you," he admonished. He
put the tip right back to the hole from which it had just been so
welcome-ly removed.  With the force of a jackhammer he shoved on the base
and it reentered even more painfully then it had exited. I never stopped
agonizing through the whole exercise.  Groaning and hollering, I issued my
strung out words of apology and screamed my exhorted gratitude through the
searing scorching pain of reinsertion, "THHAAANNNKK YOOUUU SIIRRRRRR!!!!"
	The harness was buckled back in place and the camera went to my
face to capture the agony as I was prompted to scream my obligatory words
again before it was shut off and put down.  Seeming self-satisfied, the
Boss, casually adjusted his belt line, and walked toward the door with Nick
at his heels.
	"Tell me the words you live by," he said, as he opened the door.
In my torment, I yelled my mantra as he left the room not choosing or
needing to hear it all.  It was for my benefit - a reminder each time I
would often speak it - of my existence as slave - service instrument - toy
- and object, "You first Master," As I yelled the next word Nick pulled the
door closed.  My owner gone - and all alone, I lay there and finished -
yelling out the words I hoped he could still hear, "Always and in all
things, Sir." Something was different about what I'd said.  I had called
him "Master," only now for the first time, that was a fitting address that
would come to involve untold ramifications.

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