4o

4o. Four Owners. The middle-aged couple.

                                       

                                               A short story by blemished2007.

Who am I? Am I the sum of my experiences in the past? One who has been so degraded and lowered before - am I thus so low? I remember the cage, where this minimum self-esteem simmered, decreased, for the length time I was kept within. I remember the cage and feel gratitude for this soft carpet beneath me, this house, this human contact so stark in contrast to the abject loneliness of my storage.

In normal society, it is wrong to believe one-self unequal. To me now, that is an alien concept. I had to strive to be the same as you. Equal. And this is why society deems slavery distasteful, wrong, and impossible. I would laugh, if expressions of such were allowed, and even the inward smile seems disobedient. Yet it points out my comfort in this life, this life of rules and absolute control. Here the conventions of society are null, and only the wishes of my owners can be the law.

Also, I am thankful. A slave ought be thankful, I am taught. I am thankful for the structure I am given, for the release from that foreign restriction of being equal, for the two cornerstones of my life, my guiding rails, which are my owners and the two dominant feelings of their desires mirrored within me.

       It’s true that the routine has subdued me. Now, my thoughts don’t often stray far from this track that my owners have always worked to keep me on. The boredom has begun to become something like an acquaintance, a distant figure - not a friend - who is always watching, ever near to come and enshroud me again. And when I am covered in his blanket, I feel something near contentment, as I remain focused on my physical position and simply wait, almost dormant, but of course alert for any sign from them.

Inside my head, it’s like there’s no war going on any more. I just follow the schedule, and the constant arousal keeps me eager, so that I really am the slave that they desire. Do I care for the past me, he of society with all its unreachable expectations and simply numbing goals? I think I care naught. The time has become flexible, and I feel my old personality slipping away, a little more, each day.

My master stirred, the thick blanket rolling like an ocean wave before settling again. I knew they were touching under the covers. He had just rolled to slip his arm under her neck, so that they could hug while sleeping. I can feel the romance, and it makes me a little jealous, which, of course, is good for me.

The excitement settles within me again, and I return to my dormant state, something like a trance. I do not look at the clock.

Now, he can alter me with a word. My attitude has become so malleable to him. He has trained me so well that he really has total control. I used to believe in an old-fashioned image of total control, as I experienced at the hands of the other owners that have had me. Control won by chain and beatings. But here, in this new life, yet three months gone, there is more than total control despite the often displayed image of freedom. And there are lots of chains and lots of beatings, of course.                

       

So, I will illustrate the bones of my life, the schedule and routine which keep me so focused and pliant.

I am awoken each morning by the vibration of the small plug which is usually within my anus, its blue receiver wire hanging without me like some stumped rat’s tail. It vibrates to wake me at five thirty with a constant fast thrumming, and if I am free to move I leave my sleeping position and go through my morning shower routine, which includes an enema and cleaning of my body accessories, such as the vibrator plug itself.

By six a.m. I must be in position beside my owners’ bed. I will have gagged myself with the fearsome large silver ball gag, a minor glimpse of eternal desperation with each donning of the heavy steel device, and my wrists and ankles are manacled so that I may not leave my kneeling position. All of this is fashioned with the same narrow but heavy stainless steel chain. I get into place silently, holding the chains of the manacles in such a way that they do no rattle, and thus I wait, patient in my boredom, until they awake.

It is kept cold in the bedroom, and this wait can vary immensely, but it is always punctuated by me crawling under the covers, at his soft spoken signal; the warmth a beautiful thing as I squeeze myself forward and place my head in the darkness upon my master’s thigh.

He gently removes the clasps of the gag, a lovely yet short-lived relief, and now I must perform my primary role for him. I am his little cocksucker, and this is how he prefers to start the day, every day.

It is not something I am yet able to put into words, but it is this simple repetition of this act which, in my old society would have been the most disgusting act imaginable, truly cements me in my place, so that I cannot doubt through the long, difficult day ahead how low I have truly been made.

It is here that I get my fill of self-repulsion.

Sometimes, my mistress wants her own pleasure, and in this case I can crawl to her and I fairly rejoice when I am able to give to her what is surely still my most satisfying gift to give. It is my pride and my greatest joy to use myself, trained so thoroughly to pleasure her. She takes no short measure to reach her pinnacle, and my pride is a beauty within me when she clamps her thighs about my face, her musk the only thing I can taste or smell, and groans her deepest sexual moans in the ecstasy I have been able to provide for her. She would pull my hair, had I any, and it is now that I imagine that should I die from the lack of air she would not know, just leave me forgotten, lifeless as to need kicking away into the cold. I am allowed sometimes to black-out, but usually - in her grace - she lets me lie atop her thigh for a time, and I am able to share her warmth, and truly love.

Then, I must carefully slide away; regain my place at my master’s side, chains careful again in case they are dozing. After a moment he may reattach the gag, locking it too, and I wait, shivering a little, until the time finally comes of an eight a.m. signal vibration in my anus that orders me to slip away to begin breakfast.

My owners will sleep for a while, usually, and then they will begin their main bout of lovemaking. He will make love to her, and often the slave girl will be called to be fucked, give pleasure, and then fucked again, for some mornings, he is rampant. In my strange dark place, that throw-back to old rules and a lost society, I sometimes dream about fucking the slave girl. It would be rough and merciless, for I seem to have lost my tenderness in that way, and I know best what my owners would like to see. A dream, only, of course, but a sign of my inability to fully embrace the sexuality chosen for me. I am to be a multi-sexual toy, yet I cannot yet feel such pleasure from giving pleasure to him as her. I feel only the conditioned edges of blunt disgust.

In my heart, I know that I still have not attained my master’s full expectations in this, and it is something which I know he will be able to remove one day, so that I may enjoy both sides of the coin, and that it will not be so light and dark for me.

But that is for the future, the future that is a million new emotions, a promise of such dread and such excitement.

Breakfast is served in the dining room, and the slaves kneel at owners’ sides, unable to eat due to the heavy gags they wear. These gags are too big, tight, rough and unyielding on our bald heads. Made exclusively from the same steel rings as the manacles and chains, they have quick release clasps atop the head, which are always padlocked before breakfast. They are more like head masks, due to the chains which fully encapsulate the head and only fit the former category due to the prominent shiny steel ball used as a mouth piece. It is polished by our unending trails of drool, and so shines a reflection of our own medieval countenance when we chance to see one another other closely.

It is my own personal hell, wearing this mask. In the beginning I had uncontrollable screaming fits. They had to sedate me. Panic attacks. It’s a nightmare having this thing so tight around your head, so that you can’t dream of using your jaws at all, cheekbones gripped to a near paralysis, which fought brings only pain. My ears are constantly sore and reddened due to the enforced restriction of a chain which dissects them horizontally, and loops across the bridge of my flattened nose, leaving lines of steel fire across my cheeks, forehead, scalp and neck.

It is during this meal - waiting patiently on knees, eyes down as we wait for the signal to pour more drinks or serve more portions-  that I concentrate on being able to endure the gag for another sixteen or so long hours, which is now most usually the case.

Once breakfast is over, we clean while they chat, then master will leave for his work, and the two slaves must scamper about him as dogs as he kisses his wife and leaves the house.

We will attend to mistress for a while until someone comes to pick the slave girl up. We kneel beside our mistress and she talks to us a little, the only time we really seem to have personalities to her, the rest of the time she treats us as play things only. Of course, we can’t respond, and this is how she wants it.

Then she usually has us perform tricks, or a display for her. Often it is something we have been taught during the regular evening sessions. It can be a run through of all one hundred and ninety body positions she has taught us so far, or a simple sexual game, or something more elaborate. Often, this show will be filmed and uploaded to the web-site later.

After this short period, someone usually arrives to pick up the slave girl. She leaves the estate every day, with one of about twenty or thirty various people. I have no idea what happens to her all day until she returns just before master comes home from work, or sometimes she doesn’t return for longer periods, in which case one of the other spare girls will be in her sleeping place in the morning. They all go out during the day, and I am quite confused often by which is which. It seems that they are simply shared, and since they have no name, does it matter what particular girl is the slave this morning, or this evening? Do they matter, at all, really?

It is only I, this slave that remains here who has continuation. I have seldom been out of the small gates of the walled estate since I arrived, and the past’s images are fading like old photographs in my mind barraged with this intensity. I remember the other world, my previous owners, but they are being erased, gently, firmly, by this onslaught of the training and conditioning. I know that my master will soon have made me complete, the perfect image he had of a slave will have been realised. Will he bore of me then, if he achieves this satisfaction, as he does when he achieves every other? But I am taught not to think about these things, so I do not, often.

Again, it is my master who has taught me that routine is the foil for errant thinking, and his choice of method for me to try to avoid the punishment. So my blessed schedule.

The rest of my mornings are taken up with chores. My mistress writes or uses her computer while I go through the complete cleaning list. I clean the entire house, wash the crockery, clothes and linen, and perform a various rota of other specific tasks. This exact and well practised job is always complete by twelve thirty, when my mistress likes to take her lunch. I shower and clean myself again, and then I join mistress while she prepares her own lunch, or waits for me to do it. Then I am back to my knees beside her while she eats, reading the paper or watching TV. She does like to tease me. She has me beg like a dog for a morsel, but she never lets me remove the gag to eat, she just enjoys knowing how hungry I am, constantly. Sometimes, she does remove the awful gag for a brief time so that she can have me run for items of food that she tosses across the dining room, allowed to pick them up in my teeth but never eat, my arms as usual still manacled behind me. I crawl back to my mistress’s toe and she stuffs the food inside me from behind, my bruised anus scratched by things as diverse as sugar cubes to spaghetti, pushed in with a celery stick.

This is usually the time when my hunger pangs can hit me the strongest, around1 p.m., along with a lighter bout at around 8 p.m. and I do struggle to hold down my grunts of pain when the dagger of my hunger stabs me in the guts. It would be wrong to interrupt my mistress in any way, so I do not voice anything, ever. But the pain is very intense, and if only they could come at night, then maybe I could cry.

She eats, and I wait, she relaxes, and I wait. Then, after a while she calls me to her and undoes the gag, and I am allowed to go to the water dish in the corner to drink. It is heaven to do this, plunge your lips into cold, clean water and drink. Never before did I relish it so much. And now I truly appreciate it, and so should everyone the same, as it is such magic, this freedom. I always rub the red marks on my head as I drink if the position of my arms allows it. I have never been forbidden to do so.

Then I return to my mistress as she sits on the sofa watching TV, or in the nook reading something. I kneel and she reattaches the hellish tormentor, pushing the heavy steel ball between my rounded teeth, stretch wrinkles at the corners of my mouth flashing white against the silver, filling the little rivers of pain. The flick of the clasp crushes my face and head in chains, and then the little padlock is closed with the key that dangles about her neck, and his too.

Again, I wait, and if we are to have guests, it will be now, and it becomes time for her to properly play with me. Sometimes she does it herself, other times other people do it. And there are so many different scenarios here that I can’t begin to tell them all, or even a general picture. Of course, my life is variable, and the routine can sometimes be broken, so it is not inconceivable that I am mummified, or lent to others in some way for a many days at a time, another spare slave girl taking my place in these situations, chores wise.

So, they play with me. They practise extreme bondage, pain, torture, humiliation, degradation, terror, and there is so much pleasure for them, provided by my main hole, my ass, or my secondary hole, my face. I try to feel pride in their pleasure, and my own poor reflection of it, but so far I cannot because it all just hurts too much. They don’t pity me when I scream, and they really don’t care when I am hurt so strongly it takes weeks to stop being painful.

She is always very cruel, and if the gag comes off it is only ever replaced with a more stringent one. She is very cruel. She hurts me a lot, and tortures every part of me, but she only concentrates on the physical. She mostly leaves the mental for him, or others.

There are a great many others. Some are the same as the ones who take the slave girl away, some are different. They come here to play with me. Sometimes they take me away, which is two journeys of long darkness sandwiching a variable period of the usual degrading sexual acts and humiliating punishments I get at home. The vibrator in my ass is usually set to explode if I move a hundred metres from the estate, so I would die if I ever left without my owners deactivating it. I cannot leave by myself.

So, people play with me. I see hell every afternoon, in one way or another, Her games are intense. She is very cruel. Slave girl returns and joins my pain. Time passes, and if the passing of the sun is going to end my suffering, it comes, eventually.

And there is relief when we rush to master when he comes to the door, our ears attuned to this joy. We pet and nuzzle him, rubbing our chained heads against his trousers and allowed to leave a drop of our spittle on his shoe, painted their by the ball, forever dripping with it.

There is a short relief at dinner, during cooking, often for guests and maybe more water and at last a little food, taken from their hands like dogs kneeling at their sides as they eat, maybe a simple meal or a near banquet with guests, and maybe their slaves, always gagged much like us, helping to cook, then kneeling with their own masters and mistresses and hoping for food.

After dinner, we are subjected to more games, and this continues, punctuated by removal of the gag to perform oral sex on someone, or many. Of course my ass requires no such unveiling, and I can even be fucked with the vibrating control device still in place which is usually the case.

More food is prepared and served, but not eaten by the slaves during the evening which has mostly become something of a party by now, with various owners and their slaves busy playing with the toys available beneath the house. Such pleasure they take from this, and from us, it gives me another near feeling of pride. The games are intense, and if there is to be punishment, it comes at the climax.

Punishment is heavy. My master believes that strong punishment for slight errors, coupled with the ideal emotional environment, can create a completely sculpted personality and behaviour in the toy.

Thus, I know that my performance is constantly watched by them, and they inform me only at punishment the reason for it, from the subtlest mistake in posture to thought crimes I am encouraged to consider and confess.

These crimes in my thinking are something I must probe when I am in a mummification position, for this gives me long meetings with my old acquaintance, boredom, and such treasures found here, in the often semi-drugged state I am put in, can be valuable tokens used to stave away punishments in the future. I must detail my ideas for what may be a thought crime, and my master will decide if he thinks it should be punished. A lack of ideas here is very serious indeed.

After punishment, there is toilet, and maybe more water, then usually I am put to sleep, still in the manacles, but the mask finally removed for another night. As my hourly vibrator tingle alerts me to one a.m., I am usually settling down to doze, at the foot of my owners’ bed, shivering slightly with the cold.