The unlucky American.

 

A reader of some of my other stories challenged me to write one about a terrified boy enslaved by a girl. This is the outcome of my efforts.

 

Note: Tim’s private thoughts are marked by single inverted commas: ‘Shit’; direct speech by double: "Yes, Mistress".

 

Part one.

 

"I'm an American citizen, for chrissake. It's your fucking duty to defend me!" I shouted angrily at the embassy's legal secretary.

 

"You are and I have". She looked calmly back.

 

"But I was convicted by a fucking kangaroo-court!"

 

"Because you are guilty, Mr. Johns".

 

I stared incredulously at her. "Like Hell I am, and even if I were, it's still your fucking duty to get me out of this lousy country. You can't leave me in the hands of a bunch of second rate savages!"

 

"Mr. Johns!" Her voice held a sharp edge. "This country is not lousy and its citizens are no second rate savages. As you very well know, it's one of the oldest kingdoms in the World. A country and a people who were highly civilised long before our great nation emerged from the wilderness. Furthermore, they are among our closest and most loyal allies".

 

"So you're just going to stand aside and witness them degrading an American citizen?"

 

"I am, Mr. Johns. Not because I like to, but because you have only yourself to blame for your predicament".

 

"Me! I never did nothing wrong!"

 

"Yes, you did, Mr. Johns. You smuggled drugs into this country, you were caught possessing drugs, had a fair trial and were convicted according to the law". She held up a hand to quell another furious outburst. "And don't try telling me that you didn't know the risk. Like all other Americans, who apply for a visa, you were informed, very thoroughly, about the local drug laws".

 

"A couple of joints, for chrissake!"

 

She didn't answer.

 

"OK, OK, so I knew, but that doesn't give those morons the right to sentence me to five years of slavery! Five fucking years as a bloody slave! No American can be made a slave, it's against the Constitution!"

 

"In our own country, yes, Mr. Johns, but not over here".

 

I was fighting an urge to bury my face in my hands and cry from despair.

 

I was nineteen!

 

They were robbing me of my youth!

 

And not only that, of my fucking life!

 

Hell! I was a popular high-school basket star and had won a scholarship to one the best universities. I’d reckoned to spend some great years playing and partying and eventually graduate to become a lawyer, but had taken half a year's sabbatical to go trekking round Europe.

 

So far I'd been enjoying myself hugely, not least because my six feet four muscular black body never failed to attract a lot of those nice chicks hanging around cafés and discotheques.

 

Sure, I'm African-American and I'm fucking proud of it!

 

And now they were going to send me back to where my great, great, great something grannies started, as a bloody slave!

 

It just couldn't be real!

 

But it was and I 'had' been warned before arriving; that possession of drugs was considered a very serious crime.

Not that the country and its basically friendly, open-minded and easygoing population weren't liberal, pretty free on sex and alcohol, but an ever increasing problem with drugs had made them decide to rid themselves of that particular vice, for good.

 

With considerable success, not least thanks to the very special mandatory punishment: Slavery!

 

Actually it was considered more as a rehabilitation scheme than a punishment. Instead of rotting in jail, drug-offenders were given into the 'care' of private citizens. The idea was that they through hard work and subservience would be brought back on the straight and narrow track; emerging reformed instead resuming their criminal career when leaving prison.

Only minor criminals were enslaved like that; hardened professional smugglers and dealers got from twenty years to life of hard work.

 

And my crime? Hiding half a dozen joints, bought legally in another European country, when politely asked at customs if I possessed any kind of drugs.

 

Hell, they even offered to take them into safekeeping to be handed back when I left!

 

But I'd thought I could fool them, and I'd never got caught if not stupid enough to boast about it at that disco, just to impress a couple of girls, who promptly reported me.

 

"We can't interfere with justice, Mr. Johns". The embassy lady's voice expressed sympathy. "But we do try to ease the burden for fellow countrymen".

 

I looked up with a glimmer of hope.

 

"People sentenced to slavery, nowadays mostly foreigners, undergo a period of training, very tough training, I believe, and are then displayed publicly as a further warning, before being auctioned off".

 

I stared, dumbfounded!

 

"Locked naked in a pillory at one of the main squares, Mr. Johns, for a week".

 

"You can't be serious!"

 

"I can, and I am, Mr. Johns".

 

I hadn't come across anything like that, but she didn't need to tell me that I soon would be running around, perhaps not naked, but very scantily dressed. I'd seen enough of the poor buggers trotting around the city on errands for their fucking 'owners'. The boys most often in just a pair of shorts, the girls at least covered by a T-shirt, but for some obscure reason always barefoot.

 

Yeah, yeah, the fucking moron, that was me!

 

"We’ve managed to spare you that at least. After a short introduction to your new life, you'll be taken into care by a young lady, daughter of this country's ambassador to the US. Miss Christine Andersen has just returned home to resume her studies at university here".

 

"What! You've sold me to a fucking college girl!"

 

"I personally know Miss Andersen as a very level headed, kind and considerate young woman, Mr. Johns, but if you prefer the full training and the public display, then suit yourself".

 

She eyed me sharply and I lowered my eyes.

 

"Nah. OK, thanks, I guess".

 

"Good. Now take heed of your initial training and then serve Miss Andersen to the utmost of your ability. Good luck".

 

I was brought back to the cell where I'd spent the last week and sat down on the narrow cot, at last giving in to my despair. Buried my face in my hands and bawled like a baby.

 

Why the Hell did I ever enter this lousy, rotten country?

 

I saw myself at the last game I'd played before leaving home, lobbing the winning ball through the net to wild cheering from the packed bleachers.

 

Damn, I was something! I was great, no fucking slave!

 

And at the party afterwards, when those three hot cheerleader chicks dragged me to a bedroom, dropped their panties and knelt side by side on the edge of a bed, wriggling their arses and challenging me to block out all six of their holes with my twelve inch boner before shooting.

 

I managed!

 

Shit!

 

No more hot fucks for you, slave Tim!

 

It couldn't be true! There had to be a way out. Maybe I couldn't escape as long as they kept me in prison or during this 'introduction' thing, but later. They let you out on your own, didn't they? It had to be possible to sneak away, make yourself scarce and head for the border.

 

Yeah, right, smart guy!

 

But that fantasy did help me composing myself before the prison guard fetched me to an office where some bigwig read out my sentence, this time in English, not like at the trial where I'd heard everything through an interpreter.

 

"You have understood this, Mr. Johns?" He looked up.

 

"Yeah".

 

"That you for the next five years are a slave according to the laws of this country?"

 

"Yeah".

 

I sent him a surly look, but he seemed quite unperturbed.

 

"Very well, then. Please undress and pack you clothes with the rest of your belongings. They'll be handed over to your embassy for safekeeping". He indicated my backpack. They allowed prisoners to keep their own clothes until sentenced.

 

"What?" I stared. "No fucking way! I'm not gonna run around bare-arse naked".

 

"Mr. Johns!" He sent me a tired look. "It seems that you after all have not understood your position. You no longer have any say neither in how you dress nor in any other matter. Now do as I tell you!"

 

I stared defiantly at him, crossing my arms.

 

"Very well". He turned to the guard, a woman, if you can believe that, actually the reason why I refused to show off my bare butt. "Fetch the handlers, will you, Ms. Olsen?"

 

She opened the door to let in another two guards; burly military types.

 

"He's all yours, gentlemen, but we need his clothes".

 

"Sure". Without warning, one of them slammed his nightstick across my shoulders. "Undress, slave, now!"

 

It hurt like Hell and stunned me for a moment.

 

"Move, slave!" Before I as much as had opened my mouth to protest, he hit me again.

 

I looked at the raised stick and hurriedly toed off my sneakers, then hauled off my T-shirt and stood on one leg to get rid of my socks.

 

"Be quick about it!" The stick slammed down again.

 

"Hey!", I protested.

 

"Slaves don't speak out of turn, so keep your trap shut!"

 

He hit me a fourth time!

 

That was my introduction to the guys who handled slaves. No-nonsense professionals, who looked and behaved like Marine drill sergeants.

 

With trembling hands I got naked and packed my things. Then they cuffed my hands behind my back and unceremoniously dragged me, still naked, from the office, down a long corridor, past open doors to other offices, where all sorts of people were working, and downstairs to a courtyard where a van was waiting. I was thrown in the back, had my right ankle cuffed to a chain, and was left sitting on my bare bum on the cold metal floor while they drove off.

 

Prospects didn't look good and it got worse.

 

The trip took a long time. I don't know how long and neither where we went, there were no windows in the back. Eventually they stopped and hauled me out to a bleak, pebbled square surrounded by low buildings. It looked like a military camp and perhaps it had been once.

 

A row of guys were marching around the perimeter, dressed in faded khaki shorts and nothing else, hands cuffed behind their backs and chained together by those collars I’d seen on other slaves.

 

The handlers dragged me over and their colleague supervising the prisoners, a fucking bull of a man wielding a short whip, stopped the march for a moment while I was joined to the slave coffle by a chain padlocked around my neck, then sent us along again with a viscous lash across my arse.

 

Bloody deep shit!

 

At least I had an advantage. I'd always done most of my training barefoot, even the long runs through the woods, it gives you a better grip, and was of course very fit, but it was still pure Hell to be driven round and round that damned place for hours. Three to be exact, I found out later, the usual afternoon training to whip us, literally, into shape and harden the soles of our feet.

 

It's not on their owners' whim that slaves are kept barefoot; it's mandatory, to tell them apart from free people.

 

No one said anything, except the drill sergeant when he ordered us to march, trot, run, trot, march and so on. I stumbled a couple of times, it was difficult to get into the rhythm of the coffle, and earned some lashes across my shoulders.

 

It was one subdued American slaveboy, I tell you, who at last was released from the chain and led away. And he got even more subdued when taken to a room filled with ominous equipment.

 

I was told to kneel on the concrete floor in front of what looked like some kind of medieval stocks and place my neck in a slot. Didn't like the look of it and hesitated, but dived for it when the whip cut across my back. They closed the thing, trapping my head, and I heard a whirring noise, then felt something encircling my neck.

 

"There!" The drill sergeant, the Bull, I named him, in my thoughts of course, never learned his real name, opened the trap and freed my wrists. "All secure".

 

My hands flew up to feel the tight, but flexible steel mesh collar and he laughed derisively.

 

"It can't come off without special equipment and it won't for the next five years, slave! You'll get used to it, but not to this".

 

A fraction of a second later I was writhing on the floor in excruciating pain.

 

When it at length eased off and I'd regained my breath, the Bull waved his left wrist in my face, showing off a tight armband.

 

"You wear that collar for two reasons: To make escape impossible and to control you. It connects to a GPS satellite, which can pinpoint your position within ten metres and, more important, will activate the shocking device you've just felt if you try crossing one of our borders. But that's not the only way to activate it".

 

He made a fist and for the second time my neck and chest exploded in pain.

 

"See?" He was grinning hugely when I was able to look up again. "I just have to do like this!"

 

The sadistic swine closed his fist again before I'd even had time to regain my breath and plead with him not to.

 

"Very efficient, don't you think, slave?"

 

"Yeah", I moaned.

 

"It's: Yes, Sir!"

 

He did it again!

 

"Learned your lesson, slave?"

 

"Yes, Sir", I croaked.

 

"I don't need this to control you. But...". He thrust the damned wristband in front of my eyes and I cringed in fear of a fifth blast. "For a nice little lady, who's no match against a big boy like you, it solves any disciplinary problems. Your collar can't come off, neither can her band, and she just has to close her fist to make you behave. Understood?"

 

"Yes, Sir", I croaked again, thinking: 'These people aren't human, but some sort of cunning devils from the lowest regions of Hell'.

 

A five-year old girl can control a heavyweight champion with that hellish thing! She doesn't even have to make a fist, just flex the muscles in her wrist. I suffered more than one unprovoked blast before my mistress learned not to stretch herself too luxuriously in the morning.

 

"She may use it to punish you, but owners usually prefer other methods. Get up, slave!"

 

I rose on trembling legs and he grabbed my arm to drag me to a kind of sawhorse. Before I knew of it, he'd strapped me across it, arse raised high, and seconds later slammed something down on my unprotected globes.

 

"This is a paddle, slave. A small day to day reminder".

 

Small! My ass felt on fire.

 

"Something your mistress may use when you've just annoyed her. Tell you to bend over to receive a few slaps".

 

I'd already got ten!

 

"And you'll do that, slave, won't you?"

 

"Yes, Sir", I moaned.

 

"Or she'll close her dainty little fist, yes. Now this is what she may use when you've been a bad boy".

 

Shit, man, if the paddle hurt this was tenfold worse. A bloody cane!

 

I got another ten and was then released, but only to be dragged to the wall and chained spread-eagle against it.

 

"A flogger".

 

The swine announced it dispassionately while slashing at my bare back.

 

"A crop".

 

He targeted the back of my thighs and I whimpered.

 

"A cat-o-nine".

 

I screamed.

 

"And a bull-whip. Not that a delicate lady possess the strength to swing this properly, but she can just make a phone-call and we'll be there".

 

I fainted dead away and woke up chained by my right ankle to a hard wooden shelf, without any kind of covering or blankets, in a dormitory with the other slaves. The guy next to me was watching and as soon as I opened my eyes, trying to focus, put a finger to his lips, shaking his head vigorously. I got the message, no talking, and turned on my stomach to try catching some sleep.

 

Shouting and a cane across my sore arse woke me up next morning and two handlers went round to release and then drive us slaves to a communal shower with kicks and slaps. We had ten minutes to wash under the cold spray, pissing and shitting down the drains if we had to go, and we did. After that we knelt by a kind of cattle trough to dig op lukewarm porridge with our hands and gulp down tepid tea from tin mugs. We finished the morning ritual by washing our hands and brushing our teeth with a few shared toothbrushes. Using soap instead of toothpaste!

 

I was still confused and not a little frightened after the previous day's events and cringed in fear when the sadistic swine from yesterday dragged me off, while the other guys were driven to whatever they had to do that morning. At least they were allowed putting on their shorts. I was still naked.

 

"You're a very special slave". The Bull sneered while hauling me across the square. "Going to a very special lady, who wants you delivered within a week. Normally we train new slaves for at least a month, so we'll have to give you a crash course. Yesterday you had the first taste of what to expect if not serving your mistress to perfection, today we'll begin teaching you how".

 

We entered one of the buildings, apparently the slave handlers' quarters and went down to where the Bull opened a door to an untidy, not to say downright dirty sitting room. He shouted something I didn't understand and was answered by a female voice from the next room. It was an even worse looking kitchen, where a woman was eating her breakfast at the table, reading a magazine. Sink and kitchen counters were cluttered with dirty pots and pans, cups, plates, and glasses.

 

"Here's just what you need: A slave to clean out this pigsty!"

 

The Bull pushed me towards the woman, who looked to be in her forties, with greasy hair and dressed in a food-stained housecoat and slippers.

 

"Your temporary mistress, slave, and my wife. Do what she tells you or face the consequences. That's your housetraining".

 

I looked startled from one to the other and he slapped the back of my head.

 

"On your knees, slave!"

 

Stunned, I did as told and the woman, whom I privately named the Sow, rose to stand in front of me, kicking off her slippers.

 

"Kiss your mistress' feet, slave!"

 

I stiffened, looking at the grubby, gnarled toes. A hard lash across my back drove my head down and I tentatively touched the disgusting things with my mouth.

 

Not that I think feet, female feet at least, disgusting, as you’ll soon learn, but the Sow’s did turn me off.

 

"Now get to work, slave, make this kitchen sparkle!" The Bull's strap hit me again and I stumbled to my feet. "And just so you won't forget. Take a look at the mistress' wrist".

 

Grinning, she held it up so I could see another of those cursed armbands.

 

"Now a special precaution. Spread your legs". He crouched down in front of me, grabbed my dick roughly and stuffed it down a curved metal tube, then fastened the thing with leather straps and a padlock around my ballsack.

 

A fucking chastity device!

 

Not that it was necessary to control my lust, it’d be a nightmare to fuck that slut, but he didn’t trust her, I guess.

 

It took me more than two hours just to wash up. The Sow stayed, but never said a word to me, just kept reading that stupid magazine and drinking her coffee. When I finally had dried the last pot, she told me to start cleaning the cupboards and left.

 

I thought I'd earned a break and sat down, helping myself to the last few drops from the coffee pot, but before I even had a sip, she was back in the door.

 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, slaveboy?", she demanded in heavily accented English.

 

"Taking a break", I answered, surly.

 

"A lousy slave doesn't have no breaks!", she screamed, "and you say 'Mistress' every fucking time you speak to me!"

 

And then it was my turn to scream.

 

When she after what seemed like hours finally unclenched her fist and I lay gasping on the floor, she aimed a vicious kick at my heaving chest.

 

"Get up, slave! And bend over the back of that chair".

 

I just groaned and she kicked me again.

 

"Up! That's ten extra".

 

'Extra what?', I thought, stumbling to my wobbly feet.

 

How stupid can you be?

 

She disappeared for a moment to come back with a fucking cane!

 

"Bend over!"

 

She waved her partly closed fist at me and I dragged myself into position, on my toes, stomach across the back of the chair, hands grabbing the seat, and arse high.

 

I got twenty and, believe me, that bitch knew how to use a cane. When it was over and I lay there, desperately trying not to cry like a baby, she snarled at me that slaves always thank their mistress for a punishment.

 

"By kissing her feet".

 

So back down on my knees I went, fervently slobbering over them and mumbling how grateful I was that she'd taken the trouble to correct me.

 

I sure was learning, and fast!

 

She left again without another word and I jumped to clear out the first cupboard. Three hours later the kitchen really was sparkling and I as tired as if I'd run a Marathon. After a last look around, I was just about to sink down on the chair when footsteps announced that the Sow was returning, so I stayed on my feet in a sort of parade rest. A clever choice! She sent me a surly look, but didn't say anything while inspecting my work. Apparently satisfied she looked at her watch.

 

"Almost noon, time to learn the duties of a bodyslave. This way".

 

I had no idea about the time of day, but my stomach confirmed it. I was starving! They had to feed us sometime, but apparently not yet, so I shuffled after the slut, who hadn't bothered to dress, guessing that she expected me to lay out her clothes while she was having the bath she needed. Badly!

 

Boy, was I wrong!

 

She headed for the bedroom, which was just as untidy as the rest of the place, with an unmade double bed and clothes strewn everywhere. Once there, she kicked off her slippers and dropped the housecoat. She was naked underneath and I stood frozen to the spot, staring at her.

 

It was a damn good thing that my cock was locked into that tube, because even the flabby body and sagging tits made it stir.

 

Hell, what do you expect? I hadn't had a girl for almost two weeks!

 

"What are you waiting for, slave?" Her rasping voice woke me up. "Run my bath!"

 

Shit! She couldn't mean that I was supposed to wash her!

 

She could, and stood impatiently tapping her foot, while I filled the tub, found bath salt and tested the temperature, then she climbed in to soak, ordering me to wash her hair.

Had she been one of the chicks I usually dated, it would have been great. But even my cock stopped bothering me while I washed the greasy locks, before she climbed out to let me soap up the loose flesh, even her flapping cunt lips and the disgusting crack of her arse.

 

She never stopped cursing me, telling how clumsy and useless I was, but we did get her cleaned up and towelled off. Next I blow-dried her hair and followed her to the bedroom to dress her. The whole lot, panties and bra, jeans, shirt, socks, and shoes. She never did a thing, just went on cursing me. At last she swept off, ordering me to sort her clothes, change the bed linen, and clean bed- and bathroom.

 

Smells of cooking wafted in from the kitchen and my stomach growled, but I didn't dare go looking. Surely she would call me to lunch soon!

 

She didn't. A while later I heard someone talking and clinking of cutlery. Her husband had apparently come in for a break.

 

They were still talking, when I at length couldn't think of anything else to do and went to the kitchen. I'd hardly shown myself in the door, before the Bull bellowed: "On your knees, fucking slave, always on your knees if your master or mistress is seated!"

 

I dropped down and he bellowed again: "Hands behind your back, cross your ankles and keep your eyes to the floor!"

 

'Shit, man, stop ordering me around and give me some lunch!', I thought, but did as told.

 

And then they just ignored me, left me there on my aching knees, slowly getting the cramps.

 

Just you try kneeling with your ankles crossed. After less than ten minutes it's pure agony!

 

I don't know for how long they made me stay like that; it seemed hours later when the Bull finally looked at his watch. "Back to work; better feed the animal first". Grinning evilly, he fetched two bowls and placed them in front of me. One of them contained plain water, the other some sort of brownish mush.

 

'Looks like dog-food', I thought.

 

Yeah, right!

 

"Eat and drink, but don't you dare move your hands or feet".

 

I hardly trusted my own ears. Did he expect me to eat like a fucking dog?

 

He did, and I did. Never felt so humiliated in my life, but what else was there to do, starving as I was? So I munched the smelly substance and lapped up the water, listening to their comments about how pathetic I looked.

 

Then it was back to work, for the Bull, and for me, cleaning the sitting room. The Sow didn't allow me to rest for a second so I was drop dead tired when her husband fetched me, but only to chain me to the slave-coffle like yesterday and force us on a new march. I felt more dead than alive when we at last were released, chased into the showers to wash, piss and shit, and eat stew from the common trough.

 

I was already asleep before they'd chained me to the 'bed'.

 

It went on like that, day after day. Housecleaning, doing the laundry, ironing, even serving at table and making simple meals, like breakfast. And of course serving my mistress: Washing, drying and dressing her, even painting her fucking toenails!

 

Me, the big, handsome stud, who never raised a finger at home!

 

But I learned, the hard way. Not a day went by without the Sow telling me to bend over to get my arse striped for some trumped up reason or complained to the Bull, who promptly dragged me to the punishment room for a whipping.

 

You wouldn't believe it, I wouldn't, that one-week's crash course was enough to make a perfect little maid out of me.

 

They kept me bare-arse naked the whole time, except for that devilish chastity tube, so when I finally one morning was relieved of it and told to wash extra carefully, even handed decent soap and shampoo, and the Bull threw a pair of ragged shorts to me, I guessed that I'd completed training and finally was going to meet my mistress.

 

The fucking college girl, who would rule my wrecked life for the next five years!

 

Anyway, she would hardly be worse than the Sow and the Bull, so I couldn't get into the transport van fast enough, when they’d cuffed my hands and he gave me one last stripe across my shoulders to send me on the way.

 

Boy was I glad to leave his private little Hell on Earth and his ugly wife! Even if my new 'home' might turn out to be only slightly better.

 

Shit man! Was I in for a surprise?

 

A fucking shock!

 

Nah, a whole series of shocks, going from bad to worse and back again, until...

 

I’ll come back to that later.

 

Once again we drove for hours, me back there in the dark, towards God knew where. I guessed that it would be back to the main city, but couldn't be sure, there had to be more than one university, even in a lousy little country like that.

 

I'd guessed right, even knew the place where the two handlers finally unlocked my ankle chain and hauled me out. We were in front of a row of old houses by a quaint little harbour in the centre of town. I'd been there a couple of times when still an innocent tourist, enjoying myself and the gorgeous, blonde beauties at the crowded row of outdoor cafés. This was opposite, on the more quiet, residential side.

 

Shit, but it was hard to stand there, in handcuffs and barely dressed, looking across to see all those people having a good time!

 

Not that I got more than a glimpse before they hauled me into a hall. The receptionist, a nice little piece of arse, smilingly asked something in their local language and then picked up the phone, spoke and pointed to a lift. One of the handlers dragged me along, but opened a narrow door beside it. Behind it was a winding concrete staircase.

 

"Sixth floor. Get a move on, slave, and don't even think of trying to escape!" He gave me a hard shove and turned to the lift.

 

'Shit! Why can't I ride up with you?' I thought, and answered myself, 'Because a lousy slave can't be allowed to contaminate the lift, that's why!'

 

So I got a move on and reached the top floor just seconds after the doors to the lift opened, even if it's fucking tough to run with your hands cuffed behind your back.

 

I stood there on the landing, breathing hard, with a handler on either side, gripping my upper arms, when the only door was opened, and there she was: My mistress!

 

I almost lost what little breath I’d left.

 

She was, is, a goddess!

 

A fucking miracle!

 

A... Shit!

 

Words can’t even begin to describe how beautiful, delicious, exquisite, utterly desirable she is!

 

Almost as tall as me, I've only got four or five inches on her, shoulder length blonde hair, deep blue eyes, a perfect set of tits, 34 C, don't I know, flat stomach and loong legs tapering down to the cutest feet I've ever seen, not to mention kissed.

 

Shit, man!

 

Sucking on those long toes, sliding your tongue up the soft soles, that's like being in Heaven.

 

Yeah, a heaven ruled by a bitch!

 

Shut up, fool, by an angel!

 

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

 

Christine, who was barefoot, as she prefers it at home, and casually dressed in a pair of shorts and a belly shirt, stood aside to let us enter a pretty little hall.

 

The handlers let go of me and I carefully kept my head bowed while they discussed something in their own language, me I guessed, and she signed some papers. One of the men produced a black box and she offered her left arm, decorated with one of those cursed armbands. He touched the box to it and pressed a button, then said something, pointing at me.

 

I'd just time to think: 'Shit, he's updated the fucking thing and now she's testing it', when a jolt sent me to my knees.

 

It sure worked!

 

I was still shaking my head in shock when a grave face appeared in front of mine and I looked into a pair of troubled eyes.

 

"I'm sorry, but I had to test it".

 

"Yes, Mistress", I croaked.

 

"I don't expect to use it again".

 

"No, Mistress".

 

One of the handlers sneered something and she hissed back, getting up again.

 

"Now please release his hands and leave!"

 

I was yanked to my feet and uncuffed, before the two surly looking brutes stomped off.

 

"Follow me".

 

My new mistress opened a door and I trotted after her into a large combined sitting- and dining room with an open kitchen. We were in the attic. A slanted roof with skylights, supported by wooden pillars and hammer-beams, soared high over a gleaming hardwood floor. The far wall was one big window with a sliding door.

 

We passed through to a fairly large roof garden, where she headed for a deck chair at a shaded, paved patio, beside a low table with a glass and a bottle in a cooler.

 

I began to sink to my knees, when she sat down, but was stopped by a raised hand and instead stood submissively at parade rest, head bowed. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her taking a sip, studying me.

 

"Drop those shorts!" Her voice was soft, but left no doubt that she expected to be obeyed, and instantly, so I hauled off my only piece of clothing and stood there, cock at half mast.

 

"Hands behind your neck and spread your legs".

 

'Inspecting the merchandise, are we now, lady?', I thought, 'Quite impressive, huh?'

 

My cock jerked.

 

"Turn around".

 

I presented my broad shoulders and firm arse.

 

"Get dressed again".

 

I quickly covered my now ramrod stiff boner and turned, dropping to my knees in the uncomfortable position I'd been taught. This time she didn't stop me, just sat there, sipping wine until the glass was empty and she put it down on the table. I hesitated for a second, shuffled closer on my knees to refill it, and went back.

 

"What's your name?"

 

That startled me. 'Didn't those morons even put my name in the papers?'

 

"Tim, Mistress. Timothy Johns".

 

"Age?"

 

"Nineteen, Mistress".

 

"Hmm". She fell silent, sipping wine and the cramps set in.

 

'Can't you at least allow me 'sitting' on the fucking ground, bitch?'

 

As if she'd read my thoughts, she broke her silence: "It must be uncomfortable, kneeling like that".

 

"A bit, Mistress".

 

"Then why do so?"

 

"Because I, because they told me that's what a slave has do if his mistress is seated, Mistress".

 

"Not unless so ordered. Please feel free to sit".

 

With a sigh of relief I turned on my bum and drew my feet up beside me.

 

"What do, did you do, before this happened?"

 

"Played basket, Mistress, and studied law".

 

She fell silent again.

 

"And chased girls, I bet".

 

'What are you picking at, lady?'

 

"I, eh, sometimes, Mistress".

 

"Any luck?"

 

"Some, Mistress".

 

'Shit, are you mocking me?'

 

"Do, did you have a permanent girlfriend?"

 

"Not just now, Mistress".

 

'Because the last bitch kicked me out, that's why, and that's why I took that fucking holiday', I cursed to myself.

 

"Were they satisfied with your, eh, performance, those girls?"

 

'Where the Hell is this leading, lady?'

 

"Never had no complaints", I answered cockily.

 

She caught me at once. "Mistress!". Her voice had a sharp edge.

 

"Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress". I kept my head submissively bowed, but could feel her eyes on me.

 

'In need of some black cock are we, lady?', I thought, cheering up a bit. My future suddenly seemed a lot brighter.

 

I'd more or less come to terms with the prospect of limiting my sex life to using my right hand.

 

She crossed her legs and changed the subject.

 

"Lick this!"

 

Her right foot was waving in my face and I gulped, staring at it for a second, then took a gentle hold of the slim ankle and tentatively stuck out my tongue to let it slide down the top of the delicious thing.

 

"Suck on my toes!"

 

I closed my lips around the first.

 

'Bet you think this is humiliating, but I fucking like it, at least feet like yours, lady!', I thought, changing to the next toe.

 

"I'm generally a quiet and amiable person".

 

Her foot jerked, and she giggled when I stabbed my tongue in between her toes.

 

"But I'm used to handling slaves, we had some at home before my father was stationed abroad again, so take care not to get uppity with me or try cutting corners".

 

"No, Mistress". I let her pinkie toe slip out of my mouth. "May I raise your foot, Mistress?"

 

"Go ahead".

 

I grabbed her ankle carefully to reach the sole. It was a bit dusty, but ever so soft, and tasting of fine soap.

 

"I'm a very tidy person and expect you to keep this place in perfect order".

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

"You have been housetrained?"

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

I was licking around her heel; even that was soft and smooth.

 

"Trained to serve your mistress' person as well?"

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

'Shit, man, does that mean that I'll get my hands on that gorgeous body of yours, lady? Wow!', I thought, slobbering away.

 

"I have one vice, though".

 

She uncrossed and recrossed her legs and I started on the left foot.

 

"I like to tie up other people, especially big hunks like you".

 

'Oops, and if this hunk doesn't share your idea of fun?', I thought, but meekly answered: "Yes, Mistress?"

 

"So you can expect to spend quite some time in bondage. Relatively comfortable if it's just for fun, but we'll use it for punishment when necessary".

 

'Shit!'

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

"I do have a cane and a crop, but don't get a kick out of hurting people. I actually hate it!"

 

'And just you stick to that, lady!'

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

"Don't mistake me. I know how to use them and I 'will' use them on you, if necessary".

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

"How do you feel about that?"

 

"I won't like it, Mistress, but am not supposed to, I guess", I dared.

 

"Not the punishments. Licking my feet?"

 

"I, eh, I'm your slave, Mistress".

 

"I know, but do you feel humiliated, think it disgusting?"

 

'How the Hell do you expect me to answer that, lady?'

 

"I, eh, it's humiliating to be forced to do it, but I've always taken a fancy to women's feet, Mistress, and yours are very beautiful".

 

"You licked your girlfriends' feet?"

 

"Sometimes, Mistress". I slobbered away without raising my head.

 

"I bet they liked it. You can stop now, but will do this again, often. You're pretty good".

 

"Thank you, Mistress".

 

She put her damp feet to the tiles and rose and I jumped up beside her, hands clasped behind my back and head bowed.

 

"What do you think of my little paradise here?"

 

"It's very nice, Mistress".

 

And it was, the roof garden. Potted flowery plants were everywhere, even trees, around the pleasant patio, partly shaded by a white canopy and furnished with comfortable chairs and sun beds.

 

"Do you know anything about gardening?"

 

"Not much, Mistress".

 

"I'll have to teach you then".

 

She went back to the main room and I shuffled after her.

It was just as pleasant, tastefully decorated, with modern furniture and paintings and vases with fresh flowers.

 

"I don't expect you can cook?" She nodded towards the shining kitchen unit, all glass and chrome.

 

"Not much, Mistress, whip up some breakfast".

 

"Doesn't matter, I love cooking, but not washing up".

 

'Won't have to, now, eh, lady?', I thought, 'My job'.

 

We toured the rest of the flat. Her bedroom had a large double bed and an adjoining luxurious bathroom. There was a spare bedroom and bath and a study, very businesslike and equipped with the latest computer technology.

 

And then there was the scullery. Washer and dryer, ironing board, and in a corner, a shower cubicle.

 

"This is for you". She opened the door to a cupboard and indicated stacks of white shorts and what looked like white T-shirts. "Later on we'll buy some jeans for you and a windbreaker, it can turn rather cold here in winter".

 

"Thank you, Mistress". I looked at my bare feet and she read my thoughts.

 

"If, or rather when we get snow, slaves are allowed clogs".

 

"Thank you, Mistress".

 

'Some relief!'

 

"Drop those shorts and see if this fits you".

 

She handed me a black jockstrap. My cock had luckily gone soft again, because it was a tight fit, very tight.

 

"Good! I do appreciate your equipment, but don't want it waving in my face all the time, so keep it strapped in".

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

‘Uh, huh!’

 

"Up here you use that and shorts, unless I tell you otherwise. Outside you put on a shirt".

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

"Take care to keep yourself and your clothes clean". She indicated the shower cubicle. "That's for you, the bathrooms are for me and my guests only. Understood?"

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

'Now you could ask if I feel humiliated, lady! Pissing and shitting in the shower is dehumanising', I thought, and it got worse.

 

"You sleep here". She showed me a rolled up camping pallet.

 

"Yes, Mistress".

 

'Thank you, lady, you're ever so kind. Next you'll make me eat dog food out of a bowl on the floor, I guess'.

 

 

Part two.

 

She didn't and, given the circumstances, she was kind enough, even at the beginning of our relationship, but pretty demanding. I learned quickly that she meant what she said when telling me that I was expected to keep everything perfect.

But I didn't become a perfect slave overnight, that's for sure. It took time, lots of hard work, and a very sore arse from day one.

 

My stomach told me that it was close to lunchtime when Christine had shown me around, but apparently hers didn't agree, because she ordered me back to the main room, showed me where to find the bucket and brush, I learned to hate, and told me to wash the fucking floor.

 

"Better undress, slave, you won't want stains on your clean shorts".

 

"Yes, Mistress". I took them off and filled the bucket.

 

"I believe that I told you to undress", she said sharply.

 

'What! You want me to crawl all over your fucking floor bare-arse naked, with my cock flapping around, lady?', I thought.

 

She did and I did.

 

Shit, man, talk about being humiliated!

 

She followed me on my painful crawl, sipping her wine and scolding me whenever I didn't live up to her standards.

 

Which was most of the time.

 

I was forced to start over again five fucking times!

 

When she ordered me for the third time, I could have killed her and I think she sensed my fury, because her left wrist was suddenly waving in my face.

 

'Shit!'

 

At some point she went over to start lunch, but I could feel her eyes upon me, my thrust up bare butt, and dangling cock.

When I at last reached the farthest corner and sat back on my heels, she was beside me in a flash, now with a cane in her hand.

 

"Now let's see if you're any good".

 

I sighed, getting to my feet.

 

"Crawl!"

 

The cane slashed across my shoulders and I stumbled, shocked, and fell back on all fours.

 

That lady did know how to use the blasted thing!

 

So I crawled along beside her, like a lousy dog, while she scrutinised every damn square inch of that fucking floor, occasionally telling me to move a piece of furniture.

 

"What's this?" Her right big toe tapped a spot under the armchair I'd just pushed aside.

 

I stared at the tiny speck of dust.

 

"Eh, dirt, Mistress".

 

"Wipe it off!"

 

"Yes, Mistress". I rose to fetch the rag.

 

"With your tongue!"

 

'You gotta be kidding, lady!' I could hardly believe my own ears.

 

She wasn't and, with a glance at her left hand, slowly curling into a fist, I lowered my head to lick the spot away.

 

"Stay there!"

 

My bum exploded in pain when she slashed savagely across it and I yelped.

 

"Keep silent and stay still, big boy!"

 

She painted another stripe.

 

"As I told you".

 

Third stripe.

 

"I don't like hurting people".

 

Fourth.

 

'Shit, but don’t you know how, lady!'

 

"But will do it".

 

I yelped again.

 

"If forced. Raise that arse!"

 

I did and received another seven stripes, before she continued her inspection without another word.

 

'Twelve lashes! For overlooking a speck of dust, hidden by a chair! Shit, this lady is worse than the Sow', I thought, scurrying after her on hand and knees, arse on fire.

 

She didn't find more to criticise and I breathed a sigh of relief when allowed to put my jock and shorts back on, even if it hurt my burning bum, but was stunned when told to wash and polish the fucking floor every single morning!

 

But I did, of course I did, and learned to do it to perfection. Eventually. After she'd hit me with that damned cane about a thousand times.

 

Well, OK, perhaps a bit less, but it was always a dozen a time, which meant that it was a major crime. Minor ones earned me six of the best and if it was real bad, she used the crop.

Guess you don't know, unless you're a hardcore masochist, but compared to that, the kiss of a cane is like the touch of a butterfly, even in the hands of an expert.

 

Something I learned that first night.

 

She made us lunch. Yes, I mean 'us'. I was always allowed to share her meals, no matter how refined or expensive they were. Only rarely the wine she had with them, though; there were limits to what could be spent on a slave. And she was, is, a damned good cook, even if I did miss the greasy burgers and pizzas I grew up with. At first I didn't even know what it was we were having half the time.

 

Anyway, I got a break, eating in the kitchen, standing, of course, not that I would have wanted to sit down at that particular time, and in between serving my mistress.

 

Then all Hell broke loose!

 

After washing up and clearing away, she told me to iron the things in the airing cupboard and put them away. There were about ten shirts and a bunch of frilly panties and bras. I folded the latter neatly and took them to her bedroom, where she caught me stowing them into the closet.

 

"Didn't I tell you to iron what was in the airing cupboard?"

 

"Yes, Mistress". I looked bewildered at her.

 

"Well, did you iron that?" She nodded at the underwear.

 

'What! Iron those flimsy things that already are as smooth as a baby's arse. You can't mean that, lady!'

 

She could.

 

"Firstly, when I tell you to do something, you do it, without exception. Secondly, in this house everything washed is ironed. Bend over and grab your ankles!"

 

'Aw shit, lady, give me a break!', I thought but looked at her armband and did as told.

 

That time I got six, on the back of my thighs.

 

Ouch! Far worse than on the arse.

 

OK, so I ironed the damned things and then came the shirts. Remember that I'd never used an iron in my life, until I met the Sow, so although it was slow going I thought I was doing a pretty good job and Christine didn't say anything when she came by on frequent inspections.

 

Until I reached the last, one of those blasted things with lots of lace all over the front.

 

She loved, loves them, and so do I, but not then.

 

I ripped the damn thing with the tip of the iron, right in front of her eyes.

 

She stood for a moment looking from the ruined shirt to me and back again, then turned to leave, calling over her shoulder in a toneless voice: "Throw that away, tidy up here and report for your punishment".

 

She was waiting when I, somewhat nervous, returned to the main room, with a crop in her hand.

 

'Shit!'

 

It looked bad, real bad. That thing fucking hurts. I’d not forgotten how it felt when the Bull used it on me.

 

"I don't expect you to keep still for this. Undress and embrace that". She nodded at one of the wooden poles supporting the roof.

 

"Yes, Mistress", I answered meekly, peeled off my shorts and jockstrap, and went up to press my chest against the pole, reaching round it.

 

Click! She'd cuffed my wrists and now bent a knee to shackle my ankles with the chain run around the pole.

 

I wasn't going anywhere soon.

 

"Do you have anything to say before we begin?"

 

"I'm sorry, Mistress. It was an accident". I tried to turn my head and look pleadingly at her.

 

"Slaves don't have accidents. They make mistakes because they're careless!"

 

Still the same toneless voice!

 

"Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry that I ruined your shirt because I was careless, Mistress".

 

"You will be. Count out loud and thank me!"

 

I gasped when the crop slashed across my shoulders with tremendous force.

 

"One, Mistress. Thank you Mistress", I hissed through clenched teeth, trying to absorb the searing pain, while bracing myself for the next lash.

 

It was late in coming, but hurt just as much as the first when it hit my shoulder blades.

 

"Two, Mistress. Thank you Mistress", I croaked, fighting my tears.

 

It continued like that. She deliberately waited for at least a minute before delivering the next lash, to make the pain sink in. It was torture, plain and pure, and far worse than what I'd suffered at the Bull's hand. This lady was an expert and she had me in tears when I at last sobbed: "Twelve, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress". She didn't answer, but I sensed her moving away. The punishment was apparently over, for this time, and I rested my damp brow on the pole, trying to control my heaving breath.

 

She left me standing there, chained to the pole, lost in my own little world of pain and misery for what seemed a long time, while I slowly came to my senses. The smell of coffee woke me and a moment later my left ankle was freed, but only to be cuffed again. My handcuffs were removed.

 

"To the patio!"

 

I shuffled after my tormentor, who sat down at the table, laid for coffee, for one of course.

 

"Kneel down there, arse towards me". She indicated a spot in front of her chair. "And put your hands between your legs".

 

I was chained up again, frogtied with the ankle chain caught in the link between my handcuffs. I’d just time to think: 'Why the Hell does she want with me like this?', when her bare feet came to rest on my bum.

 

She was using me as a fucking footstool!

 

Rage and shame washed over me. 'The bitch, the sadistic little bitch! At that moment I hated her like no one before in my life.

 

I stayed there for hours, my back in shreds, with her damned, nah, cute, feet resting on my smarting bum, slowly getting the cramps, while she drank her coffee, read a book and occasionally got up to do something in the kitchen.

 

That night, the first in my new 'home', I cried myself to sleep.

 

And it only got worse. Christine stayed at home all day, except for short trips to buy groceries. She never spoke to me, apart from curt orders, or I to her, except to acknowledge them.

 

Day after bleak day I worked. Cleaning, washing, ironing, serving the bitch at table, as a footstool, with her bath, when dressing and undressing. The only breaks I was allowed were at meals and those I had to eat standing at the kitchen counter. She kept me naked and hobbled, I never got out of those damned ankle cuffs, and caned me every day, more than once, on my arse, my thighs, even the soles of my feet. I was cropped thrice; every single time reduced to a sobbing wreck.

It was pure Hell and I sank deeper and deeper into despair.

 

There seemed no end to the cruelty of this she-devil.

 

But there was.

 

One morning, after I'd bathed and dressed her, Christine relieved me of the shackles and told me to take a long hot bath in her tub. I was so far-gone that I hardly registered anything unusual, just did as told, like a zombie. When I left the bathroom, somewhat refreshed, there was a jockstrap, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt on her bed. Only vaguely wondering why she'd put them there I hurried out to find her at the patio beside a well-laid breakfast table.

 

'Shit!', I thought, 'Twelve of the best for being lazy!', dropping to my knees in front of her.

 

"Why are you naked?"

 

"Naked, Mistress?" I looked bewildered at her, "But you haven't told me get dressed, Mistress".

 

"I do now. Put on what I've laid out for you and come back to eat your breakfast".

 

"Yes, Mistress". Still not fully aware of what was going on, I ran back to do her bidding and come back to kneel.

 

"You may sit, slave, on a chair".

 

"Thank you, Mistress", I mumbled.

 

"Miss will do, and eat your breakfast".

 

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

Not until then did I notice that she'd laid the table for two, even made a mug of café au lait for me. She pushed the basket with her home made buns and a jar of butter towards me and picked up her newspaper.

 

Even more bewildered, not to say shocked, I reluctantly ate a couple of buns and drank my coffee. Actually I preferred cereal and cold milk in the morning.

 

Finished, I sat quietly, eyes downcast, uncertain about what to expect, but long past hoping that my life as her slave would ever improve.

 

"Congratulations!" She put down the newspaper.

 

"Miss?" I looked up, surprised to see her smiling sweetly to me.

 

"That you so quickly have adjusted to your new job. I'm satisfied with you, very satisfied. You are a perfect slave. Well, almost". Now she positively grinned.

 

"Thank you, Miss", I mumbled, staring at the floor and wondering to myself: 'If I'm so fucking perfect, then why do you beat me all the time, bitch?'

 

"But I don't have to tell you that; you must have realised it already".

 

"What, Miss?" I stared uncomprehendingly at her.

 

"How satisfied I am".

 

"No, Miss. To me it seems that I can't do anything just right, Miss. I'm sorry, Miss".

 

"But why should you think so? I haven't punished you even once for more than a week!"

 

"Oh!" I was dumbfounded, but of course she was right. I simply hadn't noticed! That's how deep I’d sunk into my misery. "No, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"And been happy about it. I don't like hurting you one little bit, but do believe that corporal punishment is the best way of obtaining good and quick results, and have been proved right, haven't I?"

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled again, avoiding her eyes, not daring to say out loud what I was thinking: 'Easy for you to say, bitch! I'm the one at the receiving end'.

 

"Yes", she happily confirmed, apparently oblivious of my dark mood, "Only six weeks and right on time. Autumn term starts next week, so you'll be on your own most of the day, but not idle".

 

"No, Miss".

 

"You have only one more thing to learn: Shopping. That's why I told you to dress like that. Clear away and be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. I'll show you the shops I prefer and how to get there".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

It turned out to be my best morning since I'd been enslaved. It was great to be out and about, exercising. Christine rode her bike and I jogged along beside her from shop to shop, being introduced to the owners.

 

It wasn't even embarrassing, once I realised that I was just one among many barefoot slaves, nothing special, except for the colour of my skin, that is.

 

Free people hardly took any notice of us, as I learned when Christine met a friend in the street and they decided to have a cup of coffee. The other mistress, Miss Anne, a delicious little brunette, gave me a cursory glance when they sat down and I knelt beside their chairs, but otherwise ignored me, as they did a gangly boy with flaming red hair, who knelt beside me. He looked a bit younger than me and I guessed he was Scots.

 

Half an hour later, when I was really suffering the cramps, forced into the strained position, on our knees, ankles crossed and hands clasped behind our backs, the two girlfriends decided to lunch together at a fancy new restaurant and the four of us trooped halfway through town.

 

Not that I understood a word they were saying, but I found out when we arrived at the place and Christine after questioning the waiter, turned to me.

 

"They haven't got a slave-room here, so you'll have to wait with lunch".

 

"Yes, Miss", I of course answered humbly, but thinking: 'Figures. Lowly slaves can't eat with free people, but in some bleak hole behind the kitchen'.

 

But Miss Anne was frowning and the two ladies had a short discussion. Then Christine turned to me again.

 

"My friend won't be back home until fairly late tonight, but doesn't want her slave starving, so the two of you can run down to my place and grab a couple of sandwiches. Be back here in two hours".

 

"Yes, Miss". I glanced at my fellow to see him drop to his knees to kiss his mistress’ shoes and followed his example with mine.

 

"No talking", he whispered when we jumped up to jog off and I nodded my understanding.

 

Once safely at the penthouse we shook hands and introduced ourselves. He was indeed from Scotland and appropriately named Gordon. He'd become Miss Anne's slave about sixteen months ago.

 

"Forgot all about a small lump of grass I'd bought in Amsterdam. Bloody stupid of me!"

 

"Same here, only more stupid. Thought I could fool them. I've been a slave for less than two months".

 

"Tough?"

 

"Yeah, my mistress is a real bitch, demands the impossible and beats the shit out of me if I can't do it".

 

"Actually she isn't".

 

"What do you know about that?", I retorted angrily.

 

"Served her for three weeks before she got you, mate. Miss Anne was on holiday abroad and Miss Christine borrowed me to get settled here", he answered calmly, "Pretty demanding, but fair. Only warmed my arse a couple of times, when I deserved it".

 

"Nobody deserves to be beaten and humiliated!"

 

"Calm down, man. You're a slave, we are slaves. That's how it is and the sooner you stop whining and face facts, the easier it'll be for you".

 

"I hate this!"

 

"Don't you think I do, mate, but it's my life now and for the next more than three years. What I tell myself is: This is your job, Gordie, try doing your best so you have something to be proud of".

 

"How can you be proud of being a lousy slave!"

 

"By not being a lousy, but a good slave".

 

I kept scowling at him while we made sandwiches and ate them, standing at the kitchen counter, of course. No slaves on the furniture, not even when they're on their own.

 

My dark mood didn't bother Gordon, who prattled on, quite unperturbed, about his mistress, who apparently was the direct opposite of mine, extremely untidy.

 

"Hard work, mate, picking up after her, and does she get screaming mad if she can't find her things because I've stowed them away. Mighty sore slave arse!" He grinned hugely. "But sometimes it's worth it".

 

"You're a pain-slut?", I sneered.

 

"Nah, but she's one hot fuck, I tell you, especially after caning my arse as foreplay".

 

"You fuck her?" I stared, hardly believing my own ears.

 

"Sure, a good little slaveboy always does as told, or else...". His grin widened. "Hard it is, a slave’s life!"

 

"But why", I demanded, "Are you telling me that she has fallen for you?"

 

"Nope, I'm her slave, not her boyfriend, in or out of bed, no doubt about that. She calls the tune and I obey, but in bed I do get something out of all my hard work".

 

"Slut!", I sneered.

 

"Me or my mistress?" He grinned again. "Naw, she ain't, just needs sex, don’t we all, but doesn't want to get emotionally involved until she feels ready for a permanent relationship and doesn't want to ruin her friendships with one night stands. So what does she do? Uses her slave, of course. Reasonable enough and this slave doesn't mind, I can assure you!"

 

I shook my head in wonder. "My mistress would never do that!"

 

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but it's quite common. Most of the slaves I've met tell the same story. Mighty unfair for the boys, the owners, I mean, because there are very few slavegirls around. Girls tend to be a lot less stupid than us guys".

 

"I still don't believe that my mistress would". I hesitated. "Or would she; I mean, have you had her?"

 

"Nope, and a slave doesn't 'have' his mistress, it's the other way round. But I've served a couple of other free women, who don't have slaves of their own. It's normal, as I said". He looked away. "Fine with me, but not that Miss Anne has a very close gay friend".

 

"You mean?" I stared, horrified at the prospects he suddenly sprung upon me.

 

"Yeah! I'm a fucking slave, ain't I? Don't like it, but what can I do?"

 

"I'd never!"

 

"Yes, you would, or your mistress would close that cute little fist of hers".

 

I shook no, but knew that he was right.

 

Gordon chatted on, giving me some useful information and tips about a slave's life. It was good talking to another guy, or just to another person, something I'd missed sorely, and I told him so.

 

"Don't I know, it was the same for me in the beginning, but it'll get better, once you and your mistress have grown used to each other. Me and Miss Anne, we’re like an old married couple". He grinned. "And I don't mean in bed. My mistress loves a good heated debate and so does yours, that I know for a fact. If you just always remember what you are and to be very polite, you can disagree and argue all you want. No hard feelings and no sore slave arse". He grinned again. "And besides, you'll have other company".

 

"Who?"

 

"Me for one and other guys. Our darling mistresses go visiting each other all the time, bringing their good little slaveboys along. Sometimes that means a long boring evening on your knees, forced to listed to their brainless chatter, but quite often we're allowed to sit by ourselves and have a quiet talk".

 

I really hoped that he would be proved right when predicting that we would see more of each other in the future, but had my doubts. Maybe Christine had behaved reasonably when Gordon served her, but I simply couldn't imagine that she could change her attitude towards me that much, even if she had shown a bit of kindness that morning.

 

But she could.

 

We trotted back to our mistresses, who soon after broke up, Gordon’s to browse art galleries and mine to take her slave for a run in a park. It was great to run all out again, frantically trying to keep pace with the furiously pedalling bitch, but shocking to discover how much out of shape I'd become during the last weeks. Christine noticed it too and promised to take me for some good long runs during weekends and told me to work out for an hour in the garden every day.

Back home again, I'd relieved her of her sandals and was licking her dusty feet clean, when the first shock of that afternoon hit me.

 

Literally, in the shape of her shirt!

 

I looked up, surprised, and there she was, sitting on her bed, grinning like the fucking Cheshire cat, naked from the waist up.

 

"Undress me, slave". She stretched and raised her bum to allow me to draw down her jeans and panties.

 

"Lick up my legs". She spread them invitingly.

 

I gulped, staring mesmerised at her shaven sex, and had to take a strong grip of myself to concentrate on licking up the left.

 

Not that I hadn't seen it before, her pussy.

 

Hell, I'd washed between her legs for weeks, even shaved her!

 But that was a slave's work, this was sex.

 

Shit, but did she taste good, sweaty as she was after riding her bike.

 

I was in Heaven and she liked it too, judging from the way she was squirming and giggling.

 

My tongue was washing the inside of her thigh, when I was told to change to the other leg and, when it once again was inches from her sweet smelling pussy, to her left hand.

 

Fingers, arm, shoulder, neck.

 

"Now the other".

 

Fingers again, up to neck, and she rolled over, presenting her lovely back.

 

"From my neck down".

 

Fucking Heaven on Earth! How can anyone have such perfect skin?

 

"Mmm". She sighed when I reached her pert little bottom and tentatively stuck my tongue into the crack. No protest, so I ever so carefully opened it to reveal the little rosebud. She screamed when I licked around it and jumped when I pressed the tip of my tongue into it. "Oh, my God, but you're good!"

 

"Thank you, Miss".

 

Yeah, pervert that’s me. I not only have a foot-fetish, but also just love rimming arse.

 

She rolled over again. "Stomach up to tits".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

Long, lingering licks, tip of tongue into bellybutton and then, OH MY!

 

I'd washed those gorgeous mounds lots of times, so I knew how they felt, but licking them was something else. Her nipples were hard as rocks and she was breathing heavily when I softly closed my lips around the left nubbin, sucking gently.

 

"Finish me off, Tim, please!"

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

'OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD!', I just had time to think before almost fainting dead away, when I’d scrambled down between her legs.

 

She was dripping wet and her juices tasted like honey!

 

I could’ve spent the rest of the day, nah, week, there, just tasting and smelling her, but had my orders, so up and down on the outside of the sweet lips my tongue went, then in between them to stab briefly into the entrance to her creaming tunnel, and then up to her love button.

 

She lasted only seconds after my lips closed around it.

 

Shit, but she was loud! She screamed and thrashed around so I had to cling to her thighs for dear life.

 

When she at last went limp and lay there, breathing heavily, I carefully licked her soaked thighs clean, before resting back on my heels, trying to forget my painfully erect cock.

 

"Tim?", she mumbled.

 

"Yes, Miss?"

 

"That was simply the best orgasm I've ever had!"

 

"Thank you, Miss. I'm happy to have served you well".

 

"You must have practised oral sex quite a lot".

 

"Some, Miss".

 

"Lucky, for me".

 

'And for me too', I thought, 'God knows what you would have done if not satisfied!'

 

"Do I run your bath, Miss?"

 

"No, we'll shower. Together".

 

'Oops! Hope my boner won't bother you, lady'.

 

"Yes, Miss". I got up to start it and was a moment later joined by a rather worn-out looking naked goddess.

 

"Mmm". She stepped under the spray, raising her arms and soaking herself. "Wash me". She turned her back and I quickly shed my sweat-soaked clothes, grabbed the bar of fine soap and began lathering her up.

 

I was on my knees, washing her calves and feet when she turned to let me do her front.

 

"What's this now?" A dainty little foot touched my ramrod hard cock.

 

"I, eh, my, eh, penis, Miss".

 

"Hmm".

 

I washed up her legs and between her pussy lips, then had to rise.

 

"Big, isn't it?" She stared and I followed her gaze.

 

"About twelve inches, Miss, when erect".

 

"Hmm, give me that soap". She rubbed it vigorously between her hands then handed it back and I started on her tits, but stiffened when she suddenly grabbed my cock.

 

"Miss, I, ooh, please, Miss!", I begged, horrified that I would come all over her.

 

"Please what?"

 

"I... OOH... Miiss...", I moaned, "I can't ... I...!"

 

"Am going to spurt. And who told you not to?" She gave it another few strokes and I exploded. In my misery I hadn't felt any urge to relive myself, so my balls were loaded as never before.

 

"Goodness!" She took a step back, staring at the six long spurts of come splashing against the far wall of the shower.

 

My legs gave way under me and I sank to my knees, breathing heavily and mumbling: "Thank you, Mistress. OOH. Oh GOD, thank you, thank you!"

 

"My pleasure". She turned this way and that, rinsing off the soap, then stepped out to dry herself, while I remained there on my trembling knees. "Wash yourself when you've recovered and come out to the garden".

 

"Yes, Miss", I croaked, watching her leave.

 

Obeying my orders to the letter I was clean and naked when I found her sitting at the patio with a glass of wine in one hand and a pair of handcuffs dangling from the index finger of the other.

 

'Aw, shit!' I thought, 'Why spoil such a nice day?', but of course didn't say anything, just knelt submissively.

 

"Ready for a little game, slave?" She smiled seductively.

 

'And if I'm not?'

 

"If it may please you, Miss".

 

"This is for fun, not a punishment. I think I've told you that I have a fancy for tying up men".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

'Your fun, bitch!'

 

"Back up to that". She indicated one of the poles supporting the patio awning.

 

"Yes, Miss". I guessed what she wanted and put my arms behind the pole to let her cuff me to it.

 

"Mmm". Her hands slid across my chest. "You ‘are’ a handsome stud".

 

"Thank you, Miss". I squirmed when she pinched my nipples lightly.

 

"Can't you keep still, slave?" She pinched them again, harder.

 

"I do try, Miss, but it ain’t easy when you touch me like that, Miss".

 

"Better secure you, then". She fetched several lengths of rope and proceeded to tie my ankles and knees to the pole, added a rope around my chest and finished by lashing my elbows together.

 

It was not exactly comfortable, but didn't really hurt.

 

"Mmm". Now her hands were all over me and my spent dick sprang to attention. "Oh! Saluting me, are you, slave?"

 

"I, eh, I... Yes, Miss".

 

"Nice compliment!" She sat down, sipping her wine and apparently appraising my naked body.

 

It was a weird afternoon with me trussed up and on display and Christine sitting there with her wine, while asking all sorts of questions about me and my previous life.

 

She seemed genuinely concerned that I’d been cut off from my family, but was reassured when told that I didn't have any.

My parents were killed in a car crash when I was three and I grew up with my widowed grandmother, who had her own business, enough for us to have a comfortable life. She'd died the previous year, leaving me a small trust fund to supplement my basket-scholarship.

 

Which of course was gone now!

 

That fact suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. Up until then I'd been either too preoccupied or too down and out to think about my future and now I realised that I didn't have any. At least not the future I'd planned. No college, no degree in law, no fancy job, no nothing!

 

I was on the verge of tears and didn't pay attention to Christine's questions.

 

"Hey, slave, where are you?" She was suddenly in front of me, snapping her fingers. "Are you feeling sick? Have I tied you too hard?"

 

"No, Miss. I'm fine, Miss".

 

"Here, have a sip". She held her glass to my lips. "And now tell me what's wrong".

 

"Nothing, Miss", I mumbled.

 

"Rubbish! Tell me!" The bitch grabbed my balls and squeezed them, so I did.

 

"Tough, but you have only yourself to blame". She allowed me another sip of wine and sat down again.

 

"I know, Miss, but that only makes it worse".

 

She looked speculatively at me. "Perhaps we can do something about it".

 

'Yeah, and pigs may grow wings', I thought bitterly.

 

But we could. I'll tell about that later.

 

She shared the wine with me and later made herself a cup of coffee, but left me as I was until it was time for preparing dinner, and quite obviously enjoyed it.

 

When she at last rose to untie me, she once again felt me up and this time included my dick, which grew rock hard the second her hand closed around it.

 

"My, my! Hungry, are we?" She grinned mischievously.

 

"At bit, Miss, it's been a long day".

 

"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it!" She squeezed my pole.

 

"Argh!" It hurt, but the damned thing just grew harder.

 

"Are you lusting for me, slave?"

 

‘And just how do you expect me to handle this, lady?’

 

"No, Miss".

 

"No? You don't find me attractive?"

 

‘Shit!’

 

Now she grabbed my balls.

 

"Yes, Mistress, very attractive, but I'm a slave. Your slave, Mistress", I babbled nervously.

 

"And slaves are not lusting for their mistresses. Correct answer". She let go and I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

"But mistresses...". She took a step back, looking speculatively at me, and began freeing me of my bondage.

 

Shit, but I hurt after hours in the same position, yet hardly noticed it.

 

'No, she can't mean that!', I thought, 'She can't let me fuck her!'

 

Then I remembered what Gordon had told me about a mistress fucking her slave.

 

'Perhaps, but how?'

 

I found out later that night.

 

For the first time as her slave I was told to lay the dinner table for two. And what a dinner! They'd always been good, as I've already told, but this was exceptional. A truffle omelette followed by steak with baked potato, and pancakes. And I was allowed a glass of wine. Incredible, after what I'd been through!

 

Christine chatted throughout, mostly about herself and urged me to eat my fill of the omelette, because I’d need the eggs to build up my strength.

 

Yeah, right!

 

After I'd cleared away and washed up and we'd had our coffee, both of us, me on the floor, of course, she told me to strip the bed in the spare room and put a clean sheet on it.

I'd just finished when she showed up, stark naked and with four lengths of rope in her hand.

 

'Shit, what now? Back to tormenting me?'

 

You may say so.

 

In a way.

 

I was told to strip and lie down, spreading my arms and legs to be tied up again, this time spread-eagle. Like earlier, firmly, but not painfully.

 

Christine stood for some moments scrutinising my naked body and my already hard cock, then straddled my face.

 

"Eat me out".

 

I stared into her beautiful pussy, raised my head and ever so slowly slid my tongue up along the outside of her right labia lips. She sighed and sank a bit further down, making the task easier for me and I responded by giving her a thorough wash before parting the tantalising lips and start on the inside.

"Oh, my God!", she moaned and then squealed when the tip of my tongue briefly stabbed into the hot opening.

 

"Yess, oh, yess", she sighed, but now I was in control and went for her clit instead, flicking it.

 

That made her scream and jump, and the whole thing became a blur. I licked, I sucked, I stabbed and she screamed and rocked and jumped until my face suddenly was bathed in sweet juices and she sank down, smothering me.

 

She fucking ejaculated!

 

Something I'd heard about, but never experienced before and actually believed to be a male fairy tale. It sure wasn't and, my God, that drink of pure nectar almost made me spurt. Only the unpleasant fact that I was more or less suffocating prevented another ejaculation on that bed.

 

Helpless as I was, I couldn't do much more than try bumping her a bit, mumbling: "Please, Miss, please, I can't breathe!", but it seemed ages before she'd gathered enough strength to roll off me.

 

"Goodness!" She stretched out beside me. "Goodness, Tim, you are a fantastic lover!"

 

"Thank you, Mistress. I'm happy to have served you well", I croaked, heaving for breath and waiting for her to untie me.

 

She didn't, just lay staring at me and then began running her fingertips up and down my flanks.

 

Heavenly!

 

But pure torture and it got worse when she began kissing up and down my sweaty body, nibbling at my rock hard nipples and sticking her tongue into my bellybutton.

 

"Mmm", she mumbled, "Delicious, but what is this now?" She grabbed my angrily waving member.

 

"My, eh, my penis, Miss", I answered stupidly, like earlier in the shower.

 

"I know and you’ve told me before, I think, but why is it hard?"

 

"Because...".

 

'Damn you bitch, stop teasing me!'

 

"Because I'm in bed with the loveliest woman I've ever met, Miss, and because she's just allowed me to taste the sweet juices of most delicious pus.., eh, vagina I've ever ea..., been allowed to lick, Miss. Thank you, Mistress, thank you".

 

I closed my eyes, trying to think of something else.

 

"You're welcome, Tim, and to this too".

 

OH! MY! FUCKING! GOD!

 

She straddled me again, guiding the poor thing up the hottest, silkiest, narrowest pussy I've ever entered.

 

She was killing me!

 

Well, not quite, but it came close.

 

I tried, I really did try, but it was too intense. She'd only bumped up and down my poor cock twice before I exploded.

Luckily she was all worked up too, so she slammed down, hard, and joined me in a chorus of screams, while our juices drenched her love tunnel.

 

I passed out for a moment or it felt as if I did, and when I opened my eyes I looked up into Christine's stern face.

 

"Did I give you permission to shoot your dirty sperm into me, slave?", she hissed.

 

"No, Miss", I moaned, "I'm sorry, Mistress".

 

"You’ve just earned yourself two dozens with the crop. Every night for a month!"

 

'Aw, gimme a break, lady!'

 

"Unless". Her face split in a shit-eating grin and I felt her cunt contracting around my limp tool. "Unless you repeat the performance".

 

"I, ah, ooh, I...".

 

Man, oh man; what a girl!

 

"I'll do my very best, Mistress".

 

I didn't have to.

 

Never in my life had I met a woman like her. She was just sitting there, firmly planted on my rod, motionless, except for the muscles in her cunt.

 

It was unbelievable, but my tired member came to life again, slowly, but it did grow stiff and I felt my juices rising.

 

When I opened my mouth to tell how fantastic it was, she put a finger to my lips to silence me and then began playing with my nipples. Feather-light touches interchanged with pinching and scraping. From pure joy to agonising pain and back again.

 

And she told me, even then, that I’m a fantastic lover!

 

If that’s true, then she’s sublime!

 

It was so intense, so wonderful, so horrible, that I feared for, if not my life, then my sanity. And it just went on and on.

 

I completely lost control. From that moment on she really owned me, body and soul!

 

I was no longer an angry and bitter convict, maltreated by a bitch he hated, but the most devoted, snivelling, salivating slaveboy a goddess has ever owned.

 

And not for just five years, for life!

 

Thus endeth my time in Hell and I went straight to Heaven.

 

A slave's Heaven, true, but still Paradise.

 

 

Part three

.

A slave's Heaven is mostly hard and boring work and he's punished, humiliated, exploited, but that is all but forgotten the second his goddess sends him a smile.

 

And erased completely from his brain when he lowers his mouth to the entrance to the seat of his desires or when his manhood disappears into the place of his ultimate joy.

 

So from that glorious first day of my life as Christine's well-trained slave, I was never brooding over my fate for long.

 

Not that we were fucking like rabbits all the time, not even every day, but not one went by when I was not allowed to worship my goddess one way or the other. And she knew many ways.

 

We always began our day with a good foot-licking, before she got out of bed, and sometimes my tongue was required in another place, even all over the lovely body if she had the time for it.

 

The next opportunity was when bathing the beauty.

 

When the slave is on his knees, soaping you up, well, his tongue is right where it is needed, isn't it?

 

And if you turn your back and grab the edge of the tub, he knows what to do.

 

That girl comes like a firecracker, screaming, when I rim her arse.

 

Yep!

 

Or we postponed the fun until we were eating our breakfast.

 

The mistress of course.

 

Her slave was eating something else.

 

Out that is and ever so slowly, while we sipped our coffee and read our newspapers.

 

Humiliating?

 

To be on my knees between those gorgeous legs, hands cuffed behind my back?

 

Lapping up the sweetest nectar ever produced in this world?

 

No way!

 

Cuffed, yes. We did like our bondage games, a lot, and played them, a lot. Many an evening went by with the poor slave tied up or chained after dinner. And did he love it!

 

OK, not always. It's so damned boring if you're just trussed up to serve as a footstool and get the cramps.

 

But that is forgotten the second a bare foot steals down between your legs and your limp cock is grabbed between two agile toes.

 

She was fantastic! Knew exactly how to stimulate without driving me over the edge.

 

It was plain torture!

 

It was wonderful!

 

Even if I wasn't allowed to spurt.

 

Of course it was weird to lie hogtied on the floor or stand chained to a pole while we discussed all sort of things, like Gordon had predicted, but she loved it and I can't say that I was totally against it either.

 

Not that I became a bondage fan or pain slut, but to have a gorgeous girl's admiring eyes fastened upon your naked body does boost the male ego.

 

And then there were those glorious nights when she told me to make the bed in the spare room ready!

 

I was always tied spread-eagle when she fucked me; never any doubt about who was calling the tune. But did I mind? No way! It was the best sex I'd ever had and it only got better and better.

 

Sometimes, like when she blindfolded me, it was almost too intense. When you can't see, you concentrate so much more upon what you feel.

 

Nope, no protests from this slave. None!

 

Except once, about a year into my slavery, when she produced a tube of jelly and began to lube up my cock and her own arsehole.

 

"No, Miss, please don't do that. You'll hurt yourself! I'm much too big for you. Please, Mistress!"

 

"Shut up, slave!" She squatted over me, grabbing my slippery cock to guide it in.

 

"No, Miss!" I twisted and turned my bound body this way and that, trying to unseat her.

 

"Stop that, now!", she yelled angrily, waving her wristband in my face.

 

"No, Miss. You can zap me, you can whip my back to bloody pulp, but I won't let you hurt yourself. I'll split you in two. Please, Mistress!", I begged.

 

That at least made her stop trying.

 

"You've never fucked a girl in the arse?"

 

"I have, Miss, more than once, but never anyone as narrow as I know you are, Miss".

 

"So you’re resisting for my sake, not because you find it disgusting?"

 

"I am, Miss. I rather like arsefucking, and I'll do anything for you, but never hurt you".

 

"I, see. OK, then". She guided my cock up the other tunnel and I breathed a sigh of relief. "But we'll come back this". She screwed herself down. "Aah, ooh, yes you are a big boy. So I'll have to buy a number of differently sized dildos, won't I, and train with them". Grinning evilly, she began humping me and I as usual lost myself in the sweet sensations.

 

And, yeah, she was serious, as always, and she did buy those damned dildos, even made me stuff them up her hole, but, thank God, it was after all too uncomfortable, so we abandoned the stupid idea.

 

But of course she did have it her way, just not with me.

 

We borrowed Gordon.

 

I had tears of rage and jealousy in my eyes, when she forced me to hold his long, slender cock while she sat down on it.

 

I fucking hated the damned bitch then; how could she be so cruel?

 

Luckily she didn't like the real thing any better than the dildos, so she only did it that one time, but it hurt, it hurt a lot, me that is.

 

I knew I didn't own her, it was the other way around, but I loved the bitch and couldn't bear sharing her.

 

That didn't bother her, sharing me, that is. But of course she wasn't in love.

 

And, frankly, it didn't bother me either. I wasn't being unfaithful, was I, when ordered to fuck some of her friends, and enjoying it, well, mostly.

 

Yep, once I'd been trained, we began entertaining or going out. She had a wide circle of friends, mostly girls, but a few boys and couples as well.

 

Some, but far from all had their own slaves.

 

It was mostly dinner dates with quiet conversation afterwards, where I wasn't required for anything but serving and clearing away.

 

If she went out or a guest brought her own slave, we were often allowed to stay in the background and talk, as long as it was quietly and we kept an eye on our mistresses to see if they needed anything.

 

So I met and made friends with about a dozen fellow slaves and sufferers. Mostly boys from all over the world, but there was a gorgeous, long-legged Australian beauty among them, who could wrap her young master around her little finger, and a petite Japanese girl, who had a hard time serving a real bitch of a lesbian mistress.

 

Most of them were treated fairly well, though, given the circumstances. Their mistresses and masters were more or less like mine: Demanding, impatient, quick with the cane if dissatisfied, but no sadistic monsters. Some of the relationships were purely businesslike; some of the mistresses used their slaves for sex.

 

We were not a happy lot, you can't be happy as a slave, less you're a lovesick guy like me, but not miserable either.

 

Of course it wasn't all cosiness and happy reunions for us slaves. Some of the owners were pretty strict, which meant that we would spend hours on our aching knees in the classic slave position or rolled into a ball to serve as footstools, something I really hated.

 

It was so damn pointless, made you feel like a lousy slave, a thing!

 

Ah, well, that was the idea, I guess. And there were worse things. Like when you fucked something up and your mistress angrily told you to drop your shorts and bend over to have your arse striped, right in front of her friends and your fellow slaves.

 

Shit, but it was humiliating!

 

So, in a way, was my studding her friends.

 

I was shocked, I tell you, the first time, which was a few weeks after she'd begun fucking me.

 

Christine had three girlfriends for dinner that night and I'd really been kept busy serving them, luckily without any mishaps and was looking forward to a bit of rest when I'd served their coffee at the patio.

 

Resting my ears not least. The four of them had been giggling incessantly throughout the meal, if not shrieking with laughter like a bunch of teenage girls and it was rather tiring to listen to, especially as I at that early stage of my slavery didn't understand a word.

 

Annoying too, it was, because I was pretty sure they were talking about me some of the time.

 

And were they!

 

I'd just finished washing up and looked out to see if they needed anything when Christine told me to make 'our' bed ready.

 

Bewildered, because it didn't look like her guests were planning to leave anytime soon, I was smoothing out the fresh sheet when my mistress entered with the familiar four lengths of rope.

 

Now completely dumbstruck, 'Was she going to leave me there until the party was over?', I wordlessly lay down to be tied spread-eagle.

 

"Now make me proud, slave", she chuckled, while blindfolding me with a scarf.

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled and heard her leaving.

 

'What the Hell is she up to?', I thought, straining my ears, but the only thing I could hear was muted giggling. A moment later she came back and damn if she didn't kneel over my head.

 

'Cuntlapping! Right in the middle of a dinner party?', I wondered, getting my tongue ready, 'How depraved is that?'

 

It was, but not in the way I thought.

 

Seconds later a hot pussy sank down on my mouth and I went to work, but stopped abruptly after the first tentative lick.

It most certainly was not my mistress' juices I was tasting!

Not that it was bad, just different, but I was so shocked that I withdrew my tongue and closed my mouth. A muffled protest from above was the answer and a moment later someone grabbed my balls, squeezing gently.

 

"Make me proud, slave!", Christine repeated warningly and I reluctantly resumed licking.

 

It wasn't long before very different sounds came from the riding girl and she smashed her wet sex down hard, smothering me. I panicked for a moment, wriggling in my bonds and trying to unsaddle her. She either got the message or couldn't wait, because she scuttled back and a second later sank down on my stiff cock.

 

Oops! The head banged against the entrance to her womb and I wasn't halfway in!

 

Even robbed of my eyesight I guessed that this could only be the diminutive brunette with the warm brown eyes, who’d kept staring at my crotch every time I served her at table.

 

She mumbled something and pressed down harder.

 

'Careful, lady, or you'll hurt yourself', I thought and kept absolutely still to prevent that I'd be the one to blame if she did.

 

I needn't have worried; she did know how to compensate for her short tunnel. Instead of riding up and down, she began screwing me, literally, turning this way and that on my cock.

 

Christ, but it was intense!

 

Yeah, more'n intense.

 

Plain torture, that's what it was, grinding on my poor boner like that.

 

She had me moaning and whimpering in seconds, begging her to go slower, but instead she went completely wild, spun around like a beast possessed until I screamed and spurted into her.

 

I swear that the sheer force of my ejaculation lifted her off me and the next three spurts went straight up in the air, or landed on her tits and stomach, I guess, because I heard a girlish shriek and then she jumped off me and ran out.

 

'Shit!' I thought, trying to regain my breath, 'Now my mistress' gonna get mad at me!' But she didn't come storming in. I was left alone for what seemed a long time, helpless in my bondage, until someone entered and I felt a wet cloth cleaning my cock and crotch.

 

"Ready for the next round?" Christine whispered into my ear, giving me an encouraging peck on the cheek, then was gone.

 

'Oh, no, not again!', I whined, but my cock was stirring at the vision of another of the guests, a fiery redhead with incredibly long legs.

 

She wasn't next, though, the third guest was.

 

A rather plain, plump girl, who had bossed me around very impatiently whenever I was trying to serve her. She kept that up now, straddled me, like the first girl, that's how I guessed who she was.

 

Shit, but she was heavy, and shit that's what she offered me.

It wasn't her pussy she lowered to my face, but her arsecrack.

 

Yuck!

 

Not that I’d never tried rimming an arse before plunging into it, but only when I’d made sure that it was reasonably clean.

 

This bitch didn't offer me any choice, just ground herself down on my mouth, and grabbed my balls, hard! I got the message, loud and clear, and began licking up her crack, around the puckered hole and finally stabbed into it.

 

She farted!

 

Yuck again!

 

Double yuck!

 

Damn the bitch if she didn't, after a good deal of moaning and squirming, crawled forward and stuffed my cock up her backdoor!

 

I rather like arsefucking, as I've already told, but this was ridiculous!

 

I don't know if she'd been overfucked or used too large dildos, but her brown hole was as sloppy as an old whore's cunt. I hardly felt any friction, but she apparently got something out of it, grinding my poor tool frantically, wheezing like a steamroller until she sort of slumped forward.

Guess she had an orgasm, but her shenanigans didn't make me shoot.

 

Not that I missed it.

 

Anyway, the bitch crawled off me and left without a word and I waited again for the third round. I was pretty sure that the redhead wouldn't forego her turn.

 

She didn't.

 

Came in, washed my dick thoroughly, I could smell that it wasn't my mistress, made sure that it was hard and then sank a very nice pussy down on it.

 

No foreplay, but, boy, did she know how to play!

 

She'd been dressed in slacks and short boots when I last saw her. Now she was naked, of course, or so I thought until I felt her leaning back on her hands, sinking even further down on my cock and then...

 

Heaven!

 

I guess my sweet mistress must have told her about my fancy, because suddenly something damp touched my mouth. The smell didn't leave much doubt. It was one of her feet, still covered by a well-worn woollen sock.

 

Oh, Golly!

 

I eagerly pressed my nose into the damp sole, inhaling deeply. This was one thing I'd missed, smelly socks. Christine mostly stayed barefoot, even in her winter boots.

 

Mmm. I revelled in it until a toe was pressed to my mouth and I followed the unspoken order to haul off the sock.

 

It was one of the weirdest fucks I'd ever enjoyed. She just sat there, quietly, while I worshipped her feet, giggling every now and then, when my tongue tickled her soles, until I suddenly felt my dick squeezed, ever so softly.

 

The minx!

 

She was using her cunt muscles like I'd never known a girl doing it before, except Christine, that is.

 

Incredible!

 

She hardly moved, just sat there, getting her feet slobbered all over, slowly increasing the pressure until I exploded into her and she apparently went over the edge with me.

 

It was a thoroughly worn out slave whose mistress later that night complained that his performance was not up to standard.

 

I clenched my jaws and concentrated on remaining stiff for her.

 

Shit, it was hard, but I did manage to deliver a few weak spurts when she at last closed her eyes and shivered through a small orgasm.

 

"Hmm". She let my red and shrunken cock out and stared at it. "Hmm, four fucks on one night seem past your limit".

 

Three, actually, but I didn’t correct her.

 

"I'm afraid so, Miss. I'm so sorry, Mistress".

 

"Hardly your fault, but we'll keep that in mind".

 

I did continue serving her friends in bed occasionally, but never more than one at a time. Always tied and blindfolded, sometimes I never even saw the girl.

 

Weird, but mostly OK, as I've told.

 

Not my toughest task, far from it. I worked as hard as any slave in the cotton fields back home in the good ole days, yet always seemed to have my hands full.

 

Yet I didn't complain, not at all.

 

Well, about being enslaved perhaps, but I grew used to it, just as Christine and I grew used to each other. More than just used, some people would say. Maybe grew together is more precise. After two years, we were like an old married couple, just like Gordon and Miss Anne.

 

Well, almost, she was my mistress and I her slave.

 

And then came that glorious day.

 

It began like any other: My alarm clock went off at six and I dragged my weary body into the shower to squat down for my morning piss.

 

Sounds weird, but that way only your feet get sprayed, and the ankle chain of course.

 

Yeah, I was chained at night. Not to prevent me running away, but because the bitch wanted me to remember what I was, always.

 

As if I ever forgot.

 

Well, OK, sometimes.

 

Almost!

 

I routinely hobbled myself before retiring to bed.

 

Retiring! Bed! Ha!

 

At that time of night I was not retiring, I was so drop dead tired that I was just about asleep on my feet, and my 'bed' was still the thin pallet on the hard scullery floor.

 

Anyway, I slept naked, and I stayed naked until such time it might suit Her Ladyship to unlock my ankle cuffs. So I pissed, showered, dried off, shaved, brushed my teeth and rolled up my 'bed' with that stupid chain rattling around my feet.

 

With a last look in the mirror and around the scullery to make sure that all was sparkling clean, I grabbed the chain to tiptoe out to the hall. No rattling there or my mistress might wake up, and then there'd be Hell to pay.

 

Ever so carefully I sneaked out the door to the landing and shuffled down the stairs as quickly as I could, hoping that none of the other tenants were up and about that early.

 

It was so damned embarrassing if one of them was there when I reached the hall to fetch my mistress' newspapers, all five of them, and I had to kneel, bare-arse and chained until he, or even worse, she had left.

 

Back up to tiptoe to the main room, put down the newspapers and fetch bucket and brush and then down on my knees to wash the floor.

 

Yep, I was still doing that fucking large expanse of wood every single morning.

 

On my knees!

 

With a hand brush!

 

And polished it with a rag until the hardwood was gleaming.

 

No wonder that I was so damned tired at the end of day. Took about an hour, it did, and then there were the tiles of the patio in the roof garden.

 

Finished with that, I'd just enough time left to take a quick look at the pots to see if anything needed watering, or, horror of horrors, some little unwanted weed had stuck up its head during the night!

 

Tidy, that's what we were.

 

Yes, Sir, or rather, Mistress.

 

Then it was time to wake up the sleeping beauty, at eight o'clock sharp, very sharp.

 

I fixed her early morning tea tray, picked up one of the newspapers and shuffled to her bedroom.

 

Stopped in the doorway, frozen to the spot.

 

Shit, but that girl was, is lovely!

 

Not least like that, sleeping peacefully, with a small smile playing on her lips and her blonde mane spread on the pillow.

I wouldn't mind staying there for days on end, drinking in her beauty, but there was work to do, hard work, so I dragged myself out of my stupor and shuffled closer to put down the tray.

 

And then to work.

 

I knelt by the end of the bed to draw away sheet and blanket, ever so carefully, to reveal two small bare feet. Whispering: "Good morning, Miss Christine", I bowed over them, inhaling the faint odour of sweat and letting the tip of my tongue tickle the tender soles.

 

She stirred, mumbling in her sleep, and I repeated: "Good morning, Miss Christine", tickling her some more.

 

"Good morning, slave".

 

The goddess was awake and I quickly shuffled on my knees to fill and offer her teacup, head bowed. She accepted it, sitting up, and I carefully arranged the pillows behind her back, then offered a plate of sweet biscuits. She took one and I looked up briefly to see her nod.

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled and crawled back to uncover her legs.

 

She spread them invitingly and I stared at the clean-shaven entrance to my private Paradise.

 

But it wasn't my cock she needed, so I cupped her sex with my mouth and was rewarded with a steady stream of hot, pungent morning urine.

 

What! I can almost hear you cry. What happened to the big, self-conscious stud? Had this evil bitch really reduced him to a snivelling little submissive slaveboy?

 

Yes, she had, as I've already told, but that wasn't why I was drinking her piss.

 

By then I hadn't just accepted her as my mistress, whether she worked me to exhaustion, hurt me, humiliated me or offered me endless joy.

 

I'd fallen for her, flat on my face, to lie shivering, fervently kissing her feet, literally and metaphorically. I loved the cruel bitch, with all of my heart, and, sentenced to slavery or not, I'd be her slave for life.

 

If she'd have me.

 

Would she keep me, when I, after another three years, was free again? I couldn't know, only hope and pray.

 

I dared not, but she had done it, whispered the L-word, more than once, in moments of great passion. So, perhaps! And at least she had no boyfriend. Lots of friends, guys too, but she hadn't had one of them in her bed, not for the past two years, that I knew for a fact.

 

So, yeah, I ‘was’ a lovesick puppy.

 

OK, not for the first time in my young life. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. But never before had it been like this, not even close!

 

Yeah, yeah, you think. The poor guy was just blocking out his misery by fantasising about a non-existent love. He had no other choice but to submit to this evil girl, let her humiliate and exploit him, so he compensated by making himself believe that he did it out of love. Subconscious stress-relief, that's what it was, pure and simple.

 

Believe me, I’d asked myself the same.

 

I'm not stupid.

 

But it was not.

 

Not at all.

 

Sometimes I hated the bitch.

 

Hated the way she treated me, hated that it was always: "Do this, do that, slave", and: "Yes, Miss". Never: "Please, Tim" and very rarely: "Thank you".

 

But I 'was' in love with her. Couldn't help it.

 

And what do you do when you're in love and don't know if it's mutual?

 

You play the good old game, try wooing the dream girl. Buy her dinner, take her to the movies, a disco, bring her flowers, whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

 

Yeah, right!

 

And if you're a lousy slave?

 

None of those options are open to you, that's for sure. You can't even go down on your knees for her. You're already there. Offer yourself to her? Ha, she owns you, literally! No, the only thing you can do is serve her hand and foot, make her comfortable, wipe away every little stone or piece of straw from her way. Only a slave's duty, but you can try adding that little extra and hope that she’d notice, that she realises why you’re doing it.

 

So, that's why I was between her legs, swallowing her waste.

It was my idea, a suggestion when she'd sprained her ankle and complained how painful it was when she had to go to the loo. She thought it disgusting, told me that I was disgusting, but in the end gave in, so I did it, and went on doing it, not every morning, but often, and hoped she knew why.

 

The stream stopped and I licked her clean, flicking the tip of my tongue at the sweet little nubbin above her love tunnel.

 

"Don't start me!" That came from the other end of the bed.

 

"No, Miss", I mumbled, grinning to myself.

 

"I haven't got time for that this morning".

 

"No, Miss. May I leave for a moment, Miss?"

 

She nodded and I shuffled out to arrange her breakfast: Freshly pressed orange juice, yoghurt, café au lait, her own buns from the freezer, home-made marmalade, on a sunny morning like that neatly served at the patio.

 

I hurried, almost forgetting to add a vase of flowers, and was back in the bedroom before my mistress got impatient. Hurried on to run her bath, back to bring away the tray and the newspaper, while she brushed her teeth and soaked herself.

 

That damn ankle chain slowed me down, but I knew better than to make her feel it annoyed me.

 

Back again to wash her mane of silky blonde hair.

 

Pure joy!

 

Spread a fresh bathmat, help her out of tub, soap up her body.

 

Heaven!

 

Back in the tub to rinse, new bathmat, up again, heated towel to cover her wet hair, another to wrap around her lovely body, rub and dry her, don't forget the crack of her arse or the spaces between her toes, wrap her in another towel, brush and blow-dry her luscious locks.

 

Boy, oh, boy!

 

I offered her the robe. No? Hurried to take heated buns out of the oven, start coffee and heat milk, while she applied her make-up.

 

Naked goddess swept by on her way to the roof garden.

 

Shut gaping mouth and hurried after her with the orange juice and bowl of yoghurt.

 

Down on knees to serve, while telling myself to stop salivating.

 

Back for coffee and buns. Stopped by sweet voice: "You may breakfast with me this morning".

 

On a fucking Wednesday? Oh, Glory!

 

Half an hour's blessed rest at the feet of my naked mistress while she consumed her breakfast and drank her coffee, and I my cereal and milk.

 

She looked through her newspapers and I looked at her, surreptitiously of course, while buttering her buns or topping up her coffee.

 

"Do you need to go out today?", she asked innocently.

 

'Shit, now she's gonna leave me naked and hobbled!'

 

"No, Miss", I mumbled.

 

"So we have plenty of fresh asparagus?"

 

I looked up into her teasing eyes. "No, Miss, but...".

 

"You couldn't know that I needed some", she finished my sentence. "So you've better fetch that key, haven't you?"

 

"Yes, Miss". Greatly relieved, I got up to shuffle to her bedroom and return to drop to my stomach, offering my ankles for her convenience.

 

Her nails slid across the sole of my left foot and my leg jerked.

 

"Can't you keep still, slave, or don't you want these off?"

 

"Please, Miss!", I groaned while she tickled my other foot.

 

"Please what?"

 

"Please, I'd very much like them off, Miss".

 

"Then stop squirming!"

 

"Yes, Miss". I reached back to grab my shins firmly and heard the clicks when she at last unlocked those damned cuffs.

 

"Let me see. Red jeans, white shirt with lace trimmings, long red scarf and my white high-heeled sandals".

 

"Yes, Miss". I jumped up to lay out the clothes. She'd look ravishing, as always, but why that particular shirt? It took me at least an hour to iron the damn thing.

 

Ah, well.

 

I made a quick detour to my cosy little home to fetch a jockstrap, fresh shorts and a T-shirt.

 

Christine swept in just as I was rummaging in her closet to find the desired footwear.

 

'Damn! Where are they?'

 

"You haven't mislaid my favourite sandals, have you, slaveboy?"

 

"No, Miss. I mean, yes, Miss. I can't find them, Miss".

 

She stomped her foot angrily. "Clumsy, useless fool!"

 

"Yes, Miss". I lowered my eyes, silently cursing myself.

 

"I can't waste time on this. Bring me the other pair".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

They were flat, but otherwise the same design, leaving her practically barefoot, with just thin straps around her slim ankles and across her dainty toes.

 

I loved them!

 

She was still tapping her foot impatiently so I quickly slid a pair of French-cut red panties up her long legs, jumped up to cover her perfect tits with a frilly white bra, but she shook no and I dropped it to help her into the shirt.

 

Her pert little brown nipples were rock-hard and pressing against the thin fabric when I buttoned up the shirt.

 

Heavenly!

 

Down on my knees again and up went the red jeans. She sat down to let me lick her dusty soles clean before strapping on the sandals. I draped the scarf around her neck and arranged the ends hanging down front and back.

 

"Fetch my things. And the cane!"

 

'Aw, shit, this was such a nice day, until now!'

 

"Yes, Miss". I ran to the study to grab her briefcase, which I’d packed last night and her laptop, and the blasted thing.

 

She was in the hall, checking herself in the mirror, when I returned and dropped to my knees, offering the cane. She took it and made a trial swing, while I got up to grab my ankles.

I hated it, when she caned me, and not just because it hurt like Hell. It was so fucking humiliating to bend over and have your arse striped like some snivelling little schoolboy, but had to admit that she never punished me unfairly.

 

‘What the Hell did I do with those damned sandals?’

 

"Not like that. Feet!", she ordered.

 

Aw, shit!

 

I'd have to run halfway through town to the greengrocer's, but OK, I mislaid her footwear so my feet would suffer, fair enough.

 

Down on stomach, grab ankles again, point toes.

 

"You know".

 

The cane slashed across the sole of my left foot.

 

"One, Miss. Thank you, Miss", I moaned.

 

"How I hate this!"

 

Right foot jerked in my grasp.

 

"Two, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"So why".

 

Left again, harder.

 

"Three, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"Do you force me?"

 

Ouch! She hit my toes.

 

"Four, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"By being so".

 

Left instep.

 

"Five, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"Stupidly careless!"

 

Right toes again.

 

"Six, Miss. Thank you, Miss!"

 

This time I screamed.

 

The cane was dropped beside my head.

 

"Hurry up or I'll be late".

 

"Yes, Miss. Thank you Miss". I got on my knees to press my lips to her feet, kissing them reverently as thanks for my punishment.

 

She was already out on the landing, calling the lift, before I'd tugged on my few garments and grabbed her bags. Thank God, it was slow coming, so I had a sporting chance of getting to the hall by way of the slave steps before she reached it.

 

But, shit, man, my feet hurt. It was like walking on glowing embers!

 

At least I managed to be at the entrance door, keeping it open when my mistress swept from the lift, calling a cheerful "Good morning" to the receptionist on her way out.

 

I ran ahead towards the car park, fishing the keys out of her briefcase on the way, cursing my carelessness every time my burning soles or toes hit the pavement.

 

Luckily, she'd found a spot to park near the exit last night, so I flashed the locks open, put her bags in the boot and ran round to get the car started and backed out, ready for her.

 

I wrenched the front door open and froze there, staring.

 

"What's keeping you, slave?" Christine came striding towards me. "You're getting worse and worse! Move away, I'll do it!"

 

"Yes, Miss. I'm sorry, Miss". I took a step back and she brushed past me, grabbing the keys, and stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the white sandals on the floor in front of the driver's seat.

 

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God!"

 

"I'm so terribly sorry, Miss". I knelt, reaching for them. "Would you want to change, Miss?"

 

She sat down heavily, stretching her legs, and I worked fervently, unstrapping one pair and putting on the other, licking a speck of dirt from her left big toe on the way.

 

"I'm so terribly sorry, Miss". I sat back on my heels, bowing my head. "That I forgot to fetch them last night".

 

Yet I couldn't for the death of me remember her coming up barefoot.

 

"But you didn't!" She grabbed my head to force me to look into her troubled eyes. "You couldn't know I'd left them here. I phoned on the way and told you to run up to get some more cream. You weren't there, when I got home, and I took a shower because I felt all hot and sticky".

 

Oh, yeah, that's right. She was at the patio, with a drink, when I came back.

 

"Oh, my God!", she repeated, "Can you forgive me?" Her eyes looked pleadingly at me, melting my heart.

 

"There's nothing to forgive, Miss". I turned my head to kiss her hand.

 

"Yes, there is, but not now". She composed herself and swung her legs into the car. "We'll talk this over tonight".

 

"Yes, Miss". I got to my feet, slammed the door shut and stepped back to give her room. With a wave of her hand she drove away and I stood there, looking after her, the discarded sandals dangling from my fingers.

 

I ought to be cursing her, on the way up and down the rough steps with the sandals or when jogging along through town on my aching feet.

 

Slaves don't walk, they run, if on their own on an errand.

 

But I was not.

 

OK, I got an unfair punishment because of her, not my carelessness.

 

And so what!

 

I was a fucking slave, right?

 

No, I wasn't. I was the lucky slave of the kindest and most lovely mistress imaginable. Who was just now troubling herself because of me!

 

And of course it wasn't her fault, not at all. She'd changed and, tidy as always, hung up her clothes or put them in the laundry hamper, when I returned with the cream, but I should have checked if anything was missing, shouldn't I?

 

If my fucking feet weren't hurting so much, I'd enjoyed being out jogging, especially on a fine day. At least in summer. It got freezing cold there in winter, not least when you're a slave in thin jeans and windbreaker, barefoot in clogs.

 

Best in the morning, though, with few people around.

 

Free people, of course, I wasn't the only slave out shopping. Later on you'd have to be damned careful not to bump into a freeman, or, far worse, a free woman. If you were lucky, he'd kick your arse or she'd slap your face, but they might demand to know who your owner was and phone her to complain.

 

Once I rounded a corner too fast and nearly overturned a pram.

 

Christine got raving mad and caned me every night for a week.

 

Twelve of the best across my poor arse.

 

Ouch!

 

So you learned to look out and not only for people.

 

The slave collars and armbands had a third function, besides keeping us under control and prevent escape: To keep track of us when we were on our own.

 

Whenever a slave's collar and his owner's armband were more than one hundred metres apart and he was on the move, the GPS system automatically began tracking him. Times and routes were mailed to his owner, so she could check if he was dawdling or sightseeing, and every half hour a message was sent to her mobile, telling where he was and she had to confirm that he was acting under orders by pressing a button.

 

Tedious for the owner, but the authorities didn't want slaves roaming around unnecessarily.

 

And if she did not press that damned button, he was in deep shit!

 

The police was alerted and he was tracked down and arrested.

 

Happened to me once and it wasn't pleasant, that's for sure!

 

I came trotting peacefully down a street in the middle of town on the way home with our groceries, when these two big brutes suddenly grabbed and cuffed me. I protested that I was only doing my duty, but was quickly silenced with a couple of hard slaps to my face. They never gave a reason, just took me to a police station and threw me into a cell, where I sat for hours, bewildered and scared, without a clue to what I'd done wrong.

 

At long last I was fetched out to meet a very angry mistress, who had come home to an empty house and found a message on the phone, telling where I was and why, and stormed out to fetch me and demand an explanation.

 

She was practically screaming at the sergeant, when I was brought in, calling him and his men incompetent fools, among other, far more explicit things.

 

The poor man was trying to convince her that they'd had to bring me in, since she'd failed to confirm that I was on a legal errand and they'd been unable to raise her on her mobile.

 

That calmed her down a bit, not least when she found out that she'd forgotten to recharge the battery.

 

She actually excused her carelessness, but went into a new, and worse, fit of rage, when the sergeant told her that she couldn't have me back until two days later, after I'd recovered from the obligatory whipping I stood to receive the next day.

 

She screamed at him that I was completely innocent and that the whole thing was her fault, but he maintained that rules were rules and that he had no authority to make an exemption in this case.

 

It was early in my slavery, before I learned the local language, so I didn't understand a word, just stood there, looking at my furious mistress in awe, happy that it wasn't me she was cursing, but got the story later that night, after a solid caning for neglecting to check the mobile.

 

Yes, she did manage to spare me the whipping, by phoning her father, the ambassador, who phoned the chief of police.

 

I'd recharged that damned mobile every single night since then and made sure that it was switched on and ready in her purse whenever she left the house.

 

Today was no exception and I reached the greengrocer safely.

Like with most other things, Christine was very particular with our groceries. No cheap stuff from a supermarket here!

So most days I was running all over town from one special shop to the next to get what we needed, and only the best and freshest.

 

But that was fine with me, I liked getting out for a good run.

I had to wait in line at the greengrocer's.

 

Outside, they only let in one slave at a time, and any free customer was of course served first. There actually were no rules about it, I don't think, but we slaves always waited in the correct position, on our knees, hands clasped behind our backs, ankles crossed and heads bowed.

 

Damned uncomfortable!

 

Just you try kneeling like that on the edge of the pavement, for an hour, in the rain.

 

Yes, Sir, a slave's life is hard.

 

Anyway, I was third in line, so hopefully I wouldn't have to wait for too long, unless some stupid bitch of a free woman stayed gossiping with the greengrocer.

 

A child was screaming something I didn't catch, but I kept my eyes to the ground, hoping that it wasn't me she was screaming about.

 

It was so damn humiliating.

 

You see, there weren't that many black slaves around, actually very few black people in that country, and we, not least a hunk like me, often attracted unwanted attention.

 

Especially children tended to be curious about this strange man, asking their mums questions, which sometimes lead to me being told to get up and present myself, so the little monsters could have a good look at or even touch the phenomenon.

 

Slaves only have to obey their owners, but it was very unwise to refuse a 'reasonable request' from a free person, like: "Keep still so my daughter can feel your skin" or "Show us your hands and feet so my son can see that you're not black all over".

 

What the Hell did they think we were? Some kind of animals? Couldn't they imagine that a slave had feelings, that he might be shy? Apparently not, he was just a slave, wasn't he?

 

Shit!

 

Luckily, that child wasn't interested in me, or her mother wasn't in the mood to answer her questions, this time.

 

"Next!"

 

Oops, that was me, so I got up to enter the shop. They did have some very fine asparagus and I noticed a pile of oranges that looked very tasty, so I came away with two bags.

 

Christine had accounts at all the shops we used and they knew me there, so I didn't need to pay, but by then I was running behind schedule and had to hurry, sore feet or not.

 

Back home I got busy changing mistress' sheets, start the washer, clean her bed- and bathroom and run all over the flat, including the unoccupied spare room, to dust every surface.

 

Yep, literally!

 

We 'were' very tidy and my mistress ran frequent checks, so I didn't miss anything.

 

Hurry up, man, time for your workout. I really took myself through the wringer for one hour every day in the garden. Fucking great to keep in shape! Quick shower, no lunch break. Sometimes I could spare half an hour, but on that day I just made a couple of sandwiches to bring with me to the study.

 

Surprised? A slave studying!

 

Well, I did, in a kind of indirect way. Christine was specialising in international law, so one of my duties were to prepare her readings, make abstracts, edit her notes, correct her essays. Very convenient for her and heaven-send for me. As a slave I couldn't continue my education, of course not, but in that way I kept up with my subjects and would be prepared to finish in record time, once I got back home.

 

Another stroke of luck for me, but you see that I really had my hands full.

 

Right then I was making abstracts from a Harvard professor's new book about human rights. Very interesting, especially because he analysed the slave laws of that country and found that whereas they undoubtedly constituted an infringement of the slaves' human rights, they served a higher purpose and therefore were permissible. He actually recommended that other countries considered introducing similar laws.

 

So I spent the afternoon on the floor of the study, slaves didn't use the furniture, unless so ordered, reading or kneeling upright in front of the computer, tapping in my notes.

 

When I wasn't busy filling or emptying washer and dryer, ironing or stowing clean clothes away, that is.

 

It was plain incredible how much of her extensive wardrobe that girl managed to run through. Sometimes she changed three times a day and woe betide her poor slave if the shirt she wore one evening wasn't clean and crisp the next.

 

Ah, well, it was good for a lazy stud like me to be kept on his toes, I guess.

 

The phone rang. I wasn't allowed to answer it, unless I could see that it was my mistress calling, in that case I just picked it up and listened.

 

"Did you get the asparagus?"

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

"Good, we'll have them with fried eggs and ham".

 

I quickly ran through the contents of the fridge in my mind. "But we have no ham, Miss".

 

"What? I'm sure that there was some left over".

 

"I had it for lunch, Miss. You told me to".

 

"I did?"

 

"Because it was three days old, Miss".

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

'Shit, now I'll have to run across town to the butcher's, right in the middle of the rush hour!' I cursed myself for eating that damned ham, but she did order me.

 

"Well, OK. How's your feet?"

 

'Whadda you think, bitch? Hurt like hell!

'

"Fine, Miss".

 

"Don't lie to me, slave! They hurt like hell, don't they?"

 

'Fucking mind-reader!'

 

"I, eh, perhaps a bit, Miss".

 

"I should think so. I'll be home in about half an hour".

 

"Yes, Miss. How much ham do I buy, Miss?"

 

"Did I tell you to buy any?"

 

"No, Miss".

 

"Don't anticipate my orders!"

 

She hung up.

 

'No, Miss. Sorry, Miss', I thought, 'Short tempered, aren't we, Miss?'

 

I tidied the study and took a quick shower before putting on fresh shorts. We wouldn't want sweaty slaves around when our mistress came home.

 

Quick check to make sure that nothing was amiss, open a bottle of white wine, glass and cooler on table at patio, second check and then down on knees in hall, ready for mistress.

 

Door was opened and there we were.

 

"Good afternoon, Miss".

 

Crept forward on knees to kiss feet.

 

"Good afternoon, Tim".

 

'Hey! Tim! Not, 'slave'. What's this?', I asked myself.

 

"Will you take these for me, please?"

 

Her laptop and briefcase were placed on the floor in front of me and I looked up to see her offering a parcel.

 

"I went by the butcher's on the way home".

 

I grabbed it automatically and she turned to her bedroom.

 

'What 'is' this?' I wondered. 'Tim! Please! Doing her own shopping! What's gone into the lady?'

 

Shaking my head I hurried to the kitchen with the ham and to the study with the other things, then to the bedroom.

 

Where the next shock was waiting.

 

My strict mistress was hanging up her jeans! And had already put away her sandals!

 

Shit! My poor arse. That meant at least six of the best for being lazy and inattentive. But she just sent me a sweet smile, while unbuttoning her shirt.

 

"Could you find a pair of shorts and a top for me, please, Tim?"

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled, jumping to the closet and rummaging feverishly to find the desired items, but turning back, all I saw was her lovely naked back. She was putting her shirt away for washing. All by herself! Even if her slave was there, ready to serve.

 

At least I was allowed to dress her and lick her dusty feet clean, something I really liked. Not the dust, but the smell and taste of leather and sweat on her soles after a long day.

Yeah, yeah, I know I'm crazy, but there are lots of foot guys around, just have a look at the net.

 

And I wasn't the only one there. It turned on Christine too. Doubly, I guessed, the foot licking as well as the humiliation of her slave.

 

Not that I shared her pleasure in the latter with her, or did I?

 

"I'm clean enough, I think". Her sweet voice jerked me back to reality and she gently dragged her foot out of my grasp.

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled, getting up from my knees to follow her to the roof garden.

 

She left damp footprints on my gleaming floor.

 

"Two glasses, Tim", she told me, when I was offering her pre-dinner drink.

 

'Tim again! And wine for me. She must be up to something', I thought while fetching the glass and adding a bowl of olives.

 

"You may sit, on a chair".

 

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss".

 

"Cheers, then". She saluted me and I took a small sip, quickly lowering my eyes.

 

"Look at me, please!" Her eyes were grave and strangely pleading. "Tim, I've tried to be a strict, but fair mistress to you".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

"I've punished you, but only when you deserved it".

 

"Yes, Miss. You've always been fair, Miss".

 

"Not today!"

 

'So that's it. We're full of remorse. No way, lady', I thought, answering: "Today as well, Miss. I was careless, didn't check on your clothes, now you so kindly had hung them away for me yesterday, Miss".

 

She stared at me. "You can't mean that!"

 

"I do, Miss". I looked calmly back. "I got only what I deserved, Miss".

 

She changed tack: "But you hate it when I cane you!"

 

"I do, Miss, it hurts and it's humiliating, but I'm a slave and slaves must be punished".

 

"You can't mean that!", she repeated.

 

"I do, Miss, seriously. How else can the owner of a slave express her dissatisfaction? She can't fire him and she can't reduce his pay, Miss".

 

She looked away. "How you must hate to be a slave".

 

"I hate that I've lost my freedom, Miss, but that was my own fault. I don't hate to be 'your' slave, Miss".

 

"Even if I boss you around all day, demand the impossible, hurt and humiliate you?"

 

"Any owner does that to a slave, obliged to by law in fact, but some owners treat him as kindly as circumstances allow, Miss. My owner does, Miss, I've been very lucky".

 

"That's your honest opinion?"

 

"It is, Miss".

 

'And we don't mention the fact that I've fallen in love with you, Miss', I added to myself.

 

"Hmm, hard to believe". She sent me a rueful smile. "This kind owner has a model slave".

 

"Thank you, Miss, he tries to be and it's not hard because he's been trained well. But, please excuse me, Miss, even model slaves inevitably do something to warrant a fair punishment".

 

"Perhaps, but that's not what I was hinting at. A model slave deserves a just reward. Come here".

 

Bewildered, I followed her to the spare room.

 

'Oh no, Mistress, not that', I thought, 'I don't want your body as some sort of compensation. I want to serve you with mine for your pleasure'.

 

But that wasn't what she had in mind.

 

"As of today, you move in here".

 

I stared at her, unable to believe my own ears.

 

"This is from now on your room, where you'll sleep, study and spend your spare time".

 

'Spare time!' flashed through my mind, 'But I ain't got none!'

 

She sent me a lopsided grin: "I really don't need a footstool every evening and, to be honest, the one I've got isn't all that comfortable".

 

"Ah, no, Miss. Sorry, Miss", I stuttered.

 

"Not that we won't have some fun from time to time, but you deserve a bit of freedom".

 

"Thank you, Miss, thank you". I dropped to my knees and kissed her feet tenderly.

 

"You may use the second bathroom".

 

"Oh, Miss, thank you, Miss!" I looked up at her with wet poodle eyes.

 

"And stop using that ankle chain unless I tell you to".

 

"Miss, I...", was shaking my head helplessly.

 

"Move your things and come back to help me preparing dinner".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

She swept out and left me staring round the pleasant room, the soft bed, the armchairs, the TV.

 

'Shit, Miss, if that's what it takes, you can cane my fucking feet three times a day!'

 

True to her word, after dinner she told me to take the evening off when I'd served her coffee and washed up. So I went to ‘my room’ to relax with one of the international sports-channels, something I hadn't been allowed for two years.

 

Christine only seldom watched anything but a film.

 

It was weird and I found my thoughts straying constantly, wondering whether my mistress might need something, if I had finished all of my chores, forgotten something. But she'd been very firm when telling me to stay away and eventually I lost myself in a baseball game.

 

"Tim!"

 

Shit! It was almost midnight.

 

"Tim, will you come in here a moment, please?"

 

'In where?', I thought and jumped out to the hall. Soft light shone from the half-open door to her bedroom.

 

'Shit, has she gone to bed, all by herself, and I haven't heard a thing?'

 

She had. When I pushed the door open, she was there, on the bed, naked, spread and smiling seductively.

 

'Oh, God!' I stared, completely forgetting to sink to my knees.

 

"Make love to me, Tim, please!" She stretched her arms towards me, with a strange pleading look in her eyes.

 

"Yes, Miss. I'll make the bed ready at once, Miss", I stammered.

 

"Here, Tim, now!"

 

"Yes, Miss, I'll fetch the ropes, Miss".

 

"No, I want you to take me, like a lover, not a slave".

 

"But, Miss Christine!" I took a grip of myself. "I 'am' your slave, Miss, and slaves don't ‘take’ their mistresses".

 

"Unless ordered. Now get naked".

 

"Yes, Miss". I frantically ripped off my shorts and the jockstrap, freeing my already stiff cock.

 

"And take me, hard, no foreplay, I'm already soaking wet". She spread her legs further and lay back.

 

What could a poor slave do, other than obey, crawl between those marvellous thighs and touch the engorged head of his monster to the pink slit.

 

"Ram it in, Tim. All the way at once and fuck my brains out!"

I did and she screamed: "Harder! Faster!"

 

I almost couldn't make myself do it, but closed my eyes and imagined that it was not my goddess but one of the sluts I'd known in my earlier sorry life.

 

So I hammered her relentlessly, with all of my strength, while Christine bucked and screamed in ecstasy under me until she with a last high pitched scream went limp and I felt her juices gushing around me. My cocked convulsed, spurting buckets of hot seed into her and I all but passed out, but with a last effort rolled off before I crushed the delicate body.

 

"Tim?"

 

I came to my senses to find myself stretched out on the floor.

 

"Tim, where are you?"

 

"Here, Miss". I heaved myself to my knees and saw the limp, sweaty body of my lovely mistress on the bed.

 

"Hold me, Tim", she mumbled without opening her eyes.

 

So I crawled up to embrace her and felt her shivering in my arms.

 

"That was fantastic, Tim! We’ll have to do this again, often".

 

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss". I dared try to give her a small peck on the cheek, but she turned her head and did something she'd never done before, even in her wildest throes of passion: She kissed me, hard, stuck her tongue into my mouth and played with mine.

 

"Often!", she whispered and went limp again.

 

We fell asleep, both of us, in her bed, and woke up, still entwined.

 

Actually she woke me up, by rubbing her thigh against my half-erect member.

 

"Again, Tim", she whispered when I opened my eyes.

 

"Yes, Miss". Once again I dared a soft kiss and stole a hand down to find her wet and ready, gently rolled her on her back and heaved myself on top, resting on my arms, then wormed my rapidly stiffening cock into her.

 

"Ooh!", she closed her eyes, shivering in pleasure, "Hard, Tim!"

 

I would have none of that, so I began pumping her ever so slowly, while my mouth found her lovely breasts, sucking on the hardening nipples. She mumbled something a couple of times, but I pretended not to listen, just went on with the long, soft strokes and little kisses.

 

This time we lasted for the best part of an hour before both of us with a sigh, not a scream, let go and our love juices once again mingled in the hot tunnel.

 

Part four.

 

No, we didn't fall head over heels in love and lived happily ever after.

 

Well, I already had, but both of us knew that Christine couldn't allow herself the same.

 

If there was any chance of that!

 

I had no idea.

 

She did whisper the L-word sometimes, but always in the heat of passion, of which we had a lot; I rarely slept in my new room, yet in the light of day she was what she had to be: My mistress.

 

But she did change her ways a bit, wasn't as strict and demanding as before. Small steps, but noticeable, like doing some of our shopping, helping me lay and clear the table and even wash up, keeping the study tidy, putting away her own clothes.

 

One day she really shocked me by buying a fucking floor-polishing machine!

 

I was often allowed to sit on a chair and now it was always 'Tim', not 'Slave', and 'Please' and 'Thank you'. Most nights she sent me to my room to enjoy a couple of hours’ free time before going to bed, together.

 

It was of course great, but I felt as if balancing on a knife's edge.

 

I mean, I was calling the tune in bed, the slave was having his mistress, not the other way round, and she enjoyed it, no doubt about that, but found it difficult to be my passionate lover one moment and my strict mistress the next.

 

Which meant that she was trying to suppress her dominant side and that was dangerous. She might explode one day and our delicate relationship would be ruined, for good.

 

After a fortnight I felt her simmering. She hadn't tied me up even once, hadn't used me as a footstool, hadn't punished me. Not that the latter happened very often and I did believe her, when she maintained that she didn't like it, yet it was an inevitable part of a slave's life. So I decided to do something about it.

 

The next evening, when she had settled down with her coffee and a book, and told me to go to my room, I left docilely, but listened, hoping that she would need the loo. When I heard her, I was back in the sitting room in a flash and when she came back, she found her slave curled up in front of her chair, naked and chained with his arse towards it.

 

"Tim! What are you doing!"

 

"Making my tired mistress comfortable, Miss".

 

"But I'm not uncomfortable, and I told you to relax!"

 

"Yes you are, Miss. You were dead tired when you came home and I 'am' relaxing".

 

She crouched down in front of me and I raised my head to look into her soft eyes.

 

"Tim, why are you doing this?"

 

"Because I miss feeling my mistress' lovely feet on my hide, Miss".

 

"No you don't!"

 

"Yes I do, Miss. Please, Miss, please humour a poor slave, Miss".

 

"Trying to force your mistress' hands, are you, slave?"

 

"No, Miss. Her feet, Miss".

 

Luckily, that made her laugh and sit down, resting her left foot on my bare back. The other appeared on the floor in front of my head. I understood the message and pressed my mouth reverently to it.

 

"You really do like my feet, don't you, Tim?"

 

"I do, Miss, very much. You have the most beautiful and delicious feet in the world, Miss".

 

"Hardly", she chuckled, but gave me the other foot, "but you know that you're welcome to enjoy them without being hurt and humiliated".

 

"I'm not hurt and humiliated, Miss".

 

"Trussed up naked in a painful and obscene position to serve as a piece of furniture?"

 

Now there was an edge to her voice. Careful, Tim!

 

"It's not painful, Miss, unless I'm like this for a long time, and I've grown a fancy for bondage".

 

"You have?"

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

"Hmm, hard to believe, but as your kind mistress I’ll try humouring you".

 

"Thank you, Miss".

 

Her feet rested heavily on my arse and I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

That went fairly easy and we resumed the bondage games, she liked so much, but the next step back to normal was far more dangerous.

 

I contemplated provoking a punishment, but decided against it. Christine wasn’t stupid.

 

The opportunity came all by itself, even if I'd preferred that it didn't. Not because I got a solid whipping out of it, but because it really hurt my beloved.

 

She had one of these Chinese clay horses, more than a thousand years old and worth a bucket. It had been in her family for generations, brought home by one of her ancestors, a sea captain, and she was extremely fond and proud of the damned thing. It was mounted on a heavy little pedestal and placed on a high shelf in the sitting room.

 

From my first day as her slave, I'd been told always to use a stepladder when dusting the thing and never move it from the shelf, but that slowed me down and I could just reach it if standing on tiptoe, so I only fetched that ladder when my mistress was around.

 

Well, she shouldn't have been, but came home while I was at my endless dusting and hadn't heard her until she suddenly stood in the door, just as I was replacing the horse.

 

She didn't say a word, but startled me anyway and of course the fucking thing slipped out of my grasp.

 

Wham! There it was, on the hard floor, smashed to pieces.

I stared, horrified, at the mess and heard a strangled sound from Christine.

 

Seconds later, before I had time to come out of my stupor, she was on her knees in front of me, fingering the small pieces of painted clay.

 

My mouth opened and closed, but I couldn't get a word out when she picked up the miraculously undamaged head of the horse, got up and ran out of the room, sobbing loudly.

 

I was damning myself to the lowest regions of Hell while trying to pick up the pieces. It was hopeless, there was nothing else to do but fetch the vacuum cleaner.

 

The door to master bedroom was ajar and the sounds of her helpless sobbing stopped me dead in my tracks.

 

I cursed myself for being seven kinds of fool, but dared not go in to see if I could comfort her.

 

Where did that leave me? What the Hell could I do?

 

When she eventually returned to the sitting room, red-eyed from crying, she found her naked slaveboy chained to the whipping-post, a crop between his teeth.

 

She froze for a moment in the door, then came over to confront me. "No, Tim, absolutely not!" She wrenched the crop from my mouth and turned to leave.

 

"Please, Mistress. Please whip me!"

 

She spun round. "Why?"

 

"Because I deserve a whipping, Mistress".

 

"That's for me to decide and I said no!"

 

"I disobeyed you, Mistress, destroyed something that meant a lot to you, hurt you".

 

"You did, but whipping you won't bring it back or make me feel any better".

 

"But it will me, Mistress".

 

"You!"

 

"I don't know if you can ever forgive me, Mistress..".

 

"I already have!"

 

"But do know that I cannot forgive myself, Mistress, at least not until I've got what I deserve".

 

"So you ask for a whipping for your own sake, not mine?"

 

"Yes, Mistress, please!"

 

She stared me fixedly in the eyes and I tried to make them cry out my sorrow and devotion. "How many?"

 

"At least thirty, every day, for at least a week, Mistress".

 

Her eyes flashed and her lips curled into an evil smile. "Very well. As you wish. Count!" She went behind me.

 

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress. Augh!"

 

The crop cut across my thighs, just below the arse.

 

"One, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress".

 

I got what I'd asked for, thirty welts, evenly spaced from shoulders to calves and with a long pause between each lash to make the pain sink in.

 

"Thirty, Mistress. Tha...thank you, Mistress". I was sobbing helplessly and my cheeks were wet with tears.

 

She didn't answer, just walked past without looking at me and left the room, still clutching the crop.

 

After what seemed an eternity for her pain-wracked slave, who was half hanging in his chains, she returned with a bottle of lotion to begin anointing my back gently.

 

"I've destroyed the crop".

 

"Why, Mistress?", I moaned.

 

"Because I won't risk your forcing my hand again. We'll keep the cane, but I and only I decide if and when you deserve a punishment. Understood?"

 

"Yes, Mistress". I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

'At least some good had come out of this catastrophe'.

 

And then she shocked me!

 

Her soft hands travelled down my back, over my arse and she crouched down to soothe my thighs and calves, then suddenly grabbed my cock, grown stiff by her ministrations, and closed her lips around the head.

 

"Mistress! What are you doing?"

 

Stupid question, but she'd never even hinted about oral sex. Well, from me, of course, but I thought she either disliked blowjobs or didn't want to degrade herself by blowing a slave.

 

Boy, was I wrong!

 

She slobbered away like a fucking expert, even tried deep-throating me! Gagged, of course, I'm too damned big, but apart from that, her technique was fantastic and she had me squirming in my chains, moaning and humping her sweet mouth.

 

"Mistress!" I was about to explode. "Miss Christine, please I....".

 

She took no notice, just swallowed frantically when my hot sperm threatened to drown her.

 

"Hmm". She let go, smacking her lips, when she'd gulped down the sixth spurt. "Nice taste, but please shave off that bush".

 

She looked up, plucking one of my coarse pubic hairs from her lip.

 

I stared, breathing heavily, my aching back all but forgotten.

 

"Now hang tight". With a grin she got up and left me clinging helplessly to the pole.

 

Well, that brought us back to normal. I got the stripes I deserved, got tied up, worked hard, served my mistress, made love to her.

 

She stopped lending me to her girlfriends.

 

Perhaps because she didn't want to risk that I was too tired when we went to bed, perhaps she didn't like the idea that the cock she developed a fancy for sucking had been up other girls' holes.

 

I didn't miss them, but did shave my crotch and balls, very carefully.

 

And we resumed our quiet life together, as mistress and slaveboy.

 

Only once did she scare the shit out of me by announcing that she had to go to the US for six weeks to holiday with her parents.

 

I'd been spared that so far, but knew from other slaves that it could turn out badly, for us, that is.

 

Slaves could of course not be left on their own, so another mistress or master took them over temporarily. Which meant that you were in grave danger of annoying them because you didn't know their habits, not to mention that they could be a lot harder than your own mistress.

 

That was bad enough, but I almost yelled at her when told that one of her closest friends, a guy named Tom, would 'slavesit' me.

 

I knew him of course and he seemed kind enough, but he was gay, for God's sake!

 

I could already feel his cock going up my arse or into my mouth.

 

"You don't seem very happy about my choice, Tim". Christine gave me a surly look. "To me it seems very kind. Tom will be staying here, so you won't have to learn new tricks, and he's by far the least demanding of my friends, unused to having slaves as he is".

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled, eyes downcast.

 

"But if you prefer that, I could send you to...", she mentioned one of her female friends, a sadistic bitch, whose slaveboy sported a striped back every time I met him and was never allowed a moment's rest, unless you think kneeling in the correct slave-position beside your mistress' chair, if you haven't anything else to do, is relaxing.

 

"No, Miss. Please, Miss, it's just...". I almost slipped, but took a grip of myself. "It's just, I'm going to miss you, Miss, terribly!" I bowed to kiss her feet.

 

"Hmm". She apparently wasn't convinced. "I should think so, but Tom will be a good substitute".

 

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss. I'll do my best to serve the master well, Miss". I kissed her feet again.

 

So it was a very nervous slaveboy, who on the morning before his mistress was due to leave let in his temporary master and two slave handlers.

 

And not because his collar had to be tested to see if it worked with Tom's new wristband.

 

"Sorry about that, mate". He helped me to my feet after I'd been zapped. "Seems bloody barbaric to me. There must be a less painful way of doing this".

 

"Does these criminals good to have a reminder", one of the handlers snarled. "Careful owners give their slaves a good long zap at least once a week. I trust you do that, Miss".

 

"As a matter of fact I haven't zapped Tim deliberately even once. He does not need any reminders". Christine's eyes flashed. "And if you have quite finished, you may leave, officers!"

 

They did, mumbling something about 'Stuck-up bitches' and I got busy bringing up Tom's suitcases and unpack his things.

He would stay in the spare bedroom, now 'my room', but I hadn't been banned to the scullery again. Christine had decided that I could sleep on the couch in the study.

 

While I stowed away the small assortment of T-shirts and jeans he'd brought, not much washing for him, my mistress and my ‘slave-sitter’ enjoyed a glass of wine in the garden.

 

Finished, I went out to top up their glasses and kneel beside her chair.

 

She handed me a sheet of paper. "Run through this and tell me if I've missed anything".

 

"Yes, Miss".

 

It was a list, a very detailed list of my daily chores. The only thing she'd omitted was what we did in bed.

 

Shit!

 

"I can't find anything, Miss".

 

She got it back and gave to Tom.

 

"This is Tim’s daily schedule".

 

He read through it, twice, then looked up. "Quite a workload isn’t it?"

 

"What he’s been trained for and only good for a slave. Promise me not to spoil him!"

 

‘Bitch!’ I silently cursed her.

 

"I do, darling, cross my heart and wish to die, but I think I'll refrain from using him as a bodyslave. It'd be much too tempting to have a naked stud like him around in the bathroom".

 

'Hey, what's this?', I thought.

 

My future suddenly seemed less glum.

 

"He's yours to command in any way you like, dear, I've told you so before".

 

'Hey, you have what?' I hardly trusted my own ears. Had the bitch actually offered me to a faggot?

 

"And I declined your generous offer, darling".

 

She had!

 

"That was before you broke with Martin. You don't have a steady partner just now, dear".

 

'Bitch!'

 

"Martin actually wasn't the reason, darling, he would have understood, but my conscience forbids me raping a defenceless boy".

 

'Thank God!'

 

"It wouldn't be rape, dear. Using a slave for sex is not only legal, but accepted. I do, and some of my friends have borrowed Tim".

 

'Still trying to get me butt-fucked, bitch?'

 

"And enjoyed it, I don't doubt, and so has he, because he's straight and you a bunch of delicious babes, darling. He most certainly wouldn't enjoy sucking my cock or having it up his arse".

 

'Too right, mate!'

 

"A slave is not supposed to enjoy, but obey!"

 

'Shut the fuck up, bitch!'

 

"Perhaps not, darling, but I am, and I wouldn't enjoy what in my opinion is rape".

 

'Have you ever been told you that you're the greatest guy on Earth, mate?'

 

"Very well, do as you like, dear, but don't spoil him, please".

 

'Whew!'

 

"I won't, but does that mean: 'Don't spare the rod'?"

 

"It does, but I don't have to use it very often. Tim really is a very good slave. Actually so good that I trust him to tell you himself if he deserves a punishment. Right, Tim?"

 

"Yes, Miss", I mumbled.

 

"I use the cane, on his bare arse, back of thighs, soles of feet, but rarely, as I said, not even once a week".

 

'Thanks ever so much, Mistress!'

 

"OK, we can handle that, can't we, Tim?"

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

'And I bet you'll like striping my poor arse, even if you don’t want to sodomise it!'

 

"Try not to make me use that bloody cane, will you. I don't like hurting other people".

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

'Wrong again, he really ‘is’ a great guy', I thought.

 

And he was, though not without surprises.

 

I got a long, passionate kiss from Christine, a whispered: "I'll miss you, Tim", and I swear that she had tears in her eyes when I closed the car door and Tom drove her off to the airport.

 

So had I and I missed her already.

 

He came back, loaded with several packs of beer, something Christine didn't like and never served, and invited me to share a couple while we ran through my schedule.

 

I liked this guy already and even better when told that he was a morning person who'd get up with me and take a good long run before breakfast. I excused that I couldn't cook much more than that, but he was used to make do with take-away and frozen dinners so he'd bring home what we needed. Actually he preferred to do all of our shopping, so I wouldn't have to leave the house unless he was with me.

 

"Don't want to be bothered with all those stupid messages", as he said.

 

Fine with me.

 

We soon grew comfortable with each other. Got up, took our run, had breakfast. Tom left for the School of Economics where he studied business administration and I worked through my chores, somewhat reduced now I didn't have the usual load of washing and ironing, did some reading or simply relaxed, until he came home.

 

Of course I served him as a good slave should, but he was not very demanding, actually never bossed me around, just asked politely, studied pretty hard until dinner and then relaxed until going to bed fairly early.

 

My anxiety proved unfounded. He seemed completely uninterested in me, as a man that is.

 

But was very interested in my country, though, and we spent many evenings discussing politics and economics, not that my knowledge was that detailed, but I was after all a native.

 

I'd talked about my, now spoiled career as a basket-player and sighed how much I missed the games.

 

He listened politely, but didn't tell that it was his favourite sport too.

 

Until he one morning towards the end of the first week casually asked if I'd care for a game or two with him and his fellows in one of the local clubs.

 

If I would! But I hesitated. Could a slave join freemen? I mean, what if, or rather when I flattened one of them?

 

No problem, he assured me. They'd talked it over and would very much like to try playing with a professional. I'd of course have to behave as a slave, polite and humble and all that, but when not when a game was on.

 

I was very apprehensive the first time we went, but they were great guys, really impressed with my technique, which I luckily hadn't forgotten.

 

Two weeks later Tom told me that they wanted me as their coach and that he had cleared it with Christine. He apologised that I hadn't been asked my opinion, but I knew how it was.

 

Of course and did I care? No way, I was in Heaven! And I did get a great team out of them and their friendship back in turn. Slave and freemen, OK, but buddies as well, as long as we were at the club. During those afternoons I felt like an ordinary human being again.

 

But it wasn't Tim happy in slavery all the time.

 

Tom did shock me one night during our second week together.

 

"Chris ties you up, I suppose?" He asked casually when we were sharing another beer after dinner.

 

"Yes, Sir", I answered warily, suddenly fearing the worst.

 

"Guessed so. She's always been a great bondage enthusiast, even tied me up once or twice".

 

"You, Sir, but...". I stopped myself in time.

 

"I'm gay", he laughed, "Through and through, yes, but bondage does not have to lead to sex, mate".

 

He called me 'mate’ or Tim, never 'slave’, and had asked me to say Tom to him, but I'd persuaded him that it was safer for me to stick to 'Sir'.

 

"And I'm just as enthusiastic as she, so when I've been without a partner, we've played a bit together, to out mutual satisfaction".

 

I didn't doubt it, he was something of a stud, if not as large as me.

 

He paused and seemed to contemplate something, then made up his mind. "How about tying me up, Tim?"

 

I was shocked to the core, I tell you. It was bad enough that a slave pushed around some guys playing basket, but to hurt his master!

 

Shit!

 

In fucking deep shit, that's where he would end up, but what could I do other than answer: "If you so order, Sir".

 

"I don't, Tim, I ask". He looked calmly at me, but his eyes seemed to be pleading.

 

"I wouldn't like it, Sir".

 

"But are willing to do it?"

 

"Of course, Sir".

 

What other choice did I have?

 

"Thank you, Tim", he said quietly, "Will you please find some rope".

 

"Yes, Sir". Mentally shaking my head I went to the scullery.

 

When I returned, he was naked and flat on his stomach on the floor.

 

"Hogtie me, please".

 

I expected him to cross his wrists, but instead he kept his hands back to back while I hesitatingly tied them loosely.

 

"Harder, please, much harder. I need to feel it cutting into the skin".

 

'Shit!', I cursed, but tightened the rope.

 

"That's better. Now tie my elbows, hard, try making them meet. And don't be afraid, I'm quite flexible".

 

"Yes, Sir". My hands were shaking, but I did manage to do as bidden.

 

"Aah, fine, excellent. Now my feet".

 

This time he crossed his ankles, something I hated when Christine tied me like that, because it puts a greater strain on you legs when they're forced up against your arse.

 

And it got even worse when I was told to lash the rope from his feet, not to his wrists but to his elbow-tie, forcing him up in a painful back-bend.

 

"Great!" He tested his bondage. "All I can move is my hands and feet. Now leave me like this for, let's say one hour".

 

I sank back on my heels. "But, Sir, it's much too tight. The ropes may cut off your blood circulation. It's dangerous!"

 

"I know what I'm doing, Tim, has done it often enough. Now just leave me to enjoy this".

 

'Enjoy it!', I thought, 'Man must be crazy'.

 

Christine had hogtied me more times than I cared to remember, but never as painfully as this, not even when it wasn't to amuse herself but to punish me, and I hadn't fucking enjoyed it, that's for sure!

 

OK, I didn't mind, as I've already told, to have her attention focused on my strained body, and not at all when she played her sex-games with me, but just being bound left me cold, and bloody uncomfortable.

 

Perhaps because I was a slave.

 

Guess that real bondage-subs get their kicks out of being rendered helpless, left to another person’s mercy, giving up their freedom.

 

I had no fucking freedom in the first place, my life was completely in the hands of my mistress, and I didn't have to be tied up to feel helpless.

 

Anyway, I knelt there watching my temporary master sinking into sub-space.

 

His breathing turned shallow and his body relaxed in spite of his sufferings. He didn't fight his bonds, only occasionally wriggled his fingers or toes, so I supposed he did enjoy it.

 

And it was confirmed, very clearly, when he after some time grunted and tilted over to rest on his side.

 

I thought that he'd had enough and rose on my knees to untie him, but he didn't utter a sound or open his eyes, just sighed and went limp again.

 

Guess it had been a bit too uncomfortable to lie on that boner!

 

Red and throbbing, with small drops of pre-come dripping from the piss slit, it looked as if it would shoot any moment without any further stimulation.

 

Yep, the young master did get a kick out of his bondage, big one!

 

So I was left there with nothing to do but looking at this naked, strained male body.

 

Not the worst I'd ever seen.

 

Hey, I'm no faggot, but even straight guys do take a good look at each other when they can, to compare and such, don't they?

I'd seen enough naked hunks in the showers after training or a game to know that I've nothing to be ashamed of and neither had Tom.

 

Three or four inches shorter than me, with a slender, athletic body and a fine all-over tan. I knew from our runs and games that he was in great shape, but hadn't really looked him over before and never naked.

 

He used Christine's bathroom and the first couple of times this humble slave didn't shower with the freemen at the basket club.

 

Now I caught myself studying every inch of him and liking what I saw, even his cock.

 

Not a monster, like mine, but a nice slender one, fitting his body.

 

'That won't block out a guy when he rams it up his arse', I mused to myself, 'Wonder if he's ever tried fucking a girl in the other hole. Don't know what he's missing if not. Pretty dumb'.

 

My thoughts strayed to the tight, hot, silky tunnel I'd been banging lately.

 

Heavenly!

 

And shit, how I missed it!

 

My own cock stirred in my shorts and I was tempted to leave for a moment to beat off, but decided against it.

Tom's was still throbbing and dripping.

 

Looked fucking painful. Perhaps I should offer to beat him off. Didn't have to be a faggot to do that. Done it with some of my mates when we were young and horny but still scared of the girls. Most straight guys have tried that, haven't they?

'Better not give him ideas though', I thought, just as he opened his eyes and looked bewildered at me.

 

"Oh, it's you Tim. For a moment I thought...". He didn't finish, but closed his eyes and for the first time seemed to fight his bonds.

 

"Do you want to be untied now, Sir?"

 

"No, I want.... Damn! Shouldn't have started this when I can't finish it properly".

 

"Can't finish what, Sir?"

 

"This session, but I can't ask that of you, so please untie me".

 

"Yes, Sir". I scuttled round on my knees to reach the rope between his ankles and elbows. "Can't ask what of me, Sir? I'm yours to command".

 

"And I'm a decent person who doesn't force someone like you to do things he doesn't want to do".

 

"What exactly, Sir?" I'd removed the rope to allow him stretching his body for the first time in an hour.

 

He rolled on his back, nodding at the throbbing cock: "That!"

 

"Beat you off, Sir?" I worked on the ropes at his ankles. "But I wouldn't mind that, Sir. I've fooled around with my mates".

 

"Wait a moment!" He raised his head to look searchingly at me. "You're not telling me that because I'm your master, are you, Tim?"

 

"No, Sir. I really mean it, honestly!"

 

"OK, then. Please jerk me off now, while I'm still tied". His head sank back and he closed his eyes.

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

His cock was smooth as silk, not knotty like mine, actually quite pleasant to hold, and he wasn't circumcised, so I held it gently with one hand and used the other to rub the foreskin up and down the head. It didn't take more than a few strokes before he arched up his body and moaned loudly while four long spurts of come splashed over his stomach and my hands.

 

"Ooh, that was great! Thank you, mate, thank you!"

 

"My pleasure, Sir". I jumped up to fetch some paper towels in the kitchen and get us cleaned off before proceeding with his ankles.

 

He rolled on his stomach. "Hardly!"

 

"It ‘is’ my pleasure to help you, Sir".

 

The last ropes came off and he tried to sit up, but sank back.

"In that case, please run me a hot bath and help me out there".

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

He still wouldn't allow me to wash him, so I got a chance to take care of my own needs in the other bathroom, before going to bed, wondering if Christine had 'helped' him finish a session too when they'd been 'playing'.

 

'Guess so', I thought, 'Probably learned that fantastic BJ technique with some help from an expert'.

 

I was a bit worried that Tom would be too grateful and overstep the line between master and slave, but he was his usual friendly self the next morning at our run and when we chatted about the latest news at breakfast.

 

Yesterday's 'game' wasn't mentioned, but when he got up to leave for the day, he hesitated. "Would you mind doing it again, Tim?"

 

"Tie you up, Sir?"

 

"Yes, and I'm asking, not ordering you".

 

"No, Sir, I won't mind".

 

"Thank you". He patted my shoulder and left with a smile.

 

We did it about a dozen times during the weeks he was 'slavesitting' me, in just as many different ways. He was very innovative and even fetched some special equipment.

 

I hung him from one of the rafters in the sitting room, feet well off the floor, stretched him hard on the bed, tied him to a pole, on tiptoe, or bent over a chair. It was always not just uncomfortable, but painful. Bondage wasn't enough for him, he had to be hurt in the bargain.

 

Once I got to know his naked body better, I discovered faint marks that could only have been make with a whip, and feared that he’d ask that of me, but apparently he realised that a slave couldn't possibly whip his master.

 

One night, though, when he was lashed to the pole, he did take a step further, asking me to put clothespins on his nipples and ballsack.

 

That same night I, too, took a further step.

 

I'd jacked him off at every session, but when he was standing there, writhing in pain, his stiff cock waving, well, OK, I knelt down and blew him.

 

Guess he was too shocked to protest, but afterwards very firmly told me not to do it again.

 

Fine with me, I didn't like it, not because it was faggotty, but because I almost choked on the damned thing.

 

Heaven knows why some girls do it so willingly, but bless the little darlings.

 

Anyway, we had a great time, and had we not been master and slave, we would have become firm friends, but that’s difficult when you have to tell your buddy to bend over and get his bare arse caned.

 

At least when you don't like it and he really hates it.

 

But Tom kept his word and dutifully gave me what I deserved those three times I fucked something up, and did it well, shit! Maybe he was a sub, but he did know how to swing that damned cane.

 

The first time was the worst.

 

He was sitting at the patio in shorts and flip-flops, reading his newspaper, when I came out with the breakfast tray. And fucking dropped it, smashing cups and saucers and all!

The coffee-pot ended up on his bare feet, scalding them, and did he jump howling around until I'd fetched a basin with cold water and some lotion to treat his burned hide.

 

"I'm so sorry, Master Tom, so deeply sorry".

 

"So am I, but it was an accident".

 

"Slaves don't have accidents, Sir, they make mistakes and are punished for them".

 

"Not this time!"

 

"You promised Miss Christine, Sir", I quietly reminded him.

 

"I did, but she wouldn't...".

 

"Punish me, Sir? Yes, she would, severely, very severely".

 

"But that's unfair and unjust!"

 

"With respect, Sir, it is not".

 

"Argh, shit! OK, so I'll give you a few slaps".

 

"A dozen on my arse, another on the back of my thighs and then on the soles of my feet, Sir". I couldn't betray my mistress' trust.

 

"That's how Chris would punish you?" He looked stupefied at me.

 

"Yes, Sir. Do I fetch the cane now or would you want to whip me later, Sir?"

 

"I, eh, later. Tonight".

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

He went to his bedroom to get dressed and left for the day, leaving me to do my chores and contemplate my fate.

 

Shit!

 

When he came back in late afternoon, he called me to the sitting room. "I, eh, I phoned Chris, Tim".

 

"Yes, Sir?"

 

'Shit!'

 

"She, eh, she confirmed that the punishment you suggested was appropriate".

 

"Yes, Sir?"

 

"But asked if you specified that it was twelve on each foot and that it should be spaced out over three nights, leaving you on display for three hours each time".

 

'Bitch!'

 

"I would have told you, Sir".

 

"Displayed how?"

 

"Trussed up as your footstool when you've caned my arse or thighs, Sir, if it may please you, and stand on a washboard when you've caned my feet".

 

He stared. "That's what Chris told me, but you can't be serious!"

 

"That's what Miss Christine usually prefers, Sir".

 

He shook his head in wonder. "Well, OK, or damn it, it's not OK, but fetch that bloody cane, Tim. I'm sorry".

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir"

.

"Do I have to tie you down, mate?"

 

I'd handed him the cane and was hauling down my shorts. "If it may please you, Sir, but I can take it".

 

"OK, and keep that jockstrap. I don't want to humiliate you unnecessarily. Your buttocks are exposed enough as it is".

 

"Yes, Sir".

 

I bent over, grabbing my shins, thinking: 'Thanks, mate. You 'are' a great guy', but changed my mind when he slashed savagely across my poor behind.

 

"One, Sir. Thank you, Sir", I hissed between clenched teeth.

 

"Too hard?"

 

"No, Sir. Argh!"

 

Shit, but it was, not too hard, but hard enough, and I had trouble not screaming out the counting while he delivered the next ten just as hard lashes.

 

I served dinner and as usual shared with Tom, but kneeling upright at table, flaming red buttocks on display. And of course even more so when I had chained myself up and he rested his feet on them.

 

Humiliating as Hell and the next evening as well, when my thighs had suffered even worse than my poor arse.

 

Shit, but that guy had a mean stroke, not least considering that he knew how it was to be at the receiving end!

 

Maybe that was why.

 

'I'm a bloody slave, man, not one of your fucking playmates! I don't like this one little bit', I felt like screaming at him, but of course didn't. Though it was hard not to on the third day, when he was laying into my feet with gusto.

 

I really, really hated that! Even on my leather hard soles it hurt worse than the crop across my back.

 

And twelve!

 

On each!

 

Why the Hell did that fucking coffeepot have to hit his bloody feet?

 

I grabbed my ankles so hard that I thought they were going to break.

 

And the hours I spent standing flatfoot with my hands on top of my head on that fucking washboard afterwards!

 

Pure agony!

 

At times like that I wished my mistress banned to the lower regions of Hell.

 

But shit, how I missed the cruel bitch!

 

And was I glad that glorious day when I knelt in the hall to kiss her delicious feet again and again and again, until she, giggling, knelt to give me a lingering kiss on the mouth.

 

Life returned to normal, hard work mixed with pure pleasure.

Yeah, even harder work.

 

The little cheat had herself enrolled at one of the most prestigious universities over there, which offered a special long distance course for foreign students. Two years studying via the net followed by one or two in situ and you would have an American degree in law.

 

Or she would, while I did all the work in her name.

 

Cheat, perhaps, but I didn't mind, of course not, and worked like a fucking horse, or rather a plantation slave under the whip, while she continued her own studies.

 

Anyway, it was a happy Tim who slaved along for his beloved mistress, while one year and then another went by. The end of my five-year term was slowly drawing to an end.

 

Nah, all too fast for my taste. I didn't know what would happen when I was free again.

 

Well, I learned.

 

I hadn't kept count of time, so it came as a complete surprise when Christine one morning announced that I now had served four years and therefore would be brought before a judge to have my case re-examined.

 

She was strangely quiet and thoughtful at breakfast and looked quite forlorn when two slavehandlers fetched me.

 

"Goodbye, Tim, and good luck". She turned abruptly and disappeared into the sitting room, but not before I'd seen the tears in her eyes.

 

I did wonder why, while rumbling away in the usual van, chained and with my hands cuffed behind my back, but forgot about it when my guards and I after a short wait were called into, not a courtroom, but a judge's private office.

 

Well-trained slave I was, I sank to my knees in the correct position as soon as they let go of my arms.

 

"Timothy Johns". She addressed me in English. "Miss Christine Andersen has, as she as your mistress may, when you’ve served four fifths of your sentence, petitioned your early release".

 

My head flew up and I stared bewildered at her.

 

She was actually smiling!

 

"I have studied her, very glowing, report of your change of attitude, and the recommendations from some of her friends, Mr. Thomas Rasmussen not least, and decided to reduce your sentence. As of this day you are a free man again, Mr. Johns".

I could hardly believe my own ears, 'The darling girl! And Tom too', and was already bubbling with joy, when brutally struck down by the judge's next words.

 

"When you have left this country, that is".

 

'No! No! No! NO!' I almost screamed in protest, but of course didn’t utter a sound, rigorously trained as I was.

 

"You will be brought directly from this court to the airport, where a representative of your embassy will give you back your passport and other belongings, and will then be escorted aboard an aircraft bound for the US. Until then you are still a slave, so behave as such and don't do anything you'll have cause to regret later". She sent me a warning look. "If misbehaving, your pardon will be annulled and you will serve the last year of your sentence in a work camp for unruly slaves".

 

"Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am", I managed to mumble, bowing my head submissively.

 

"Former slaves are banned from re-entering this country for five years after their release. As you have been a model slave, you may apply for a visa after one year, should you wish to visit us again. Goodbye, Mr. Johns, and good luck".

 

Stunned, I stumbled to my feet and was led back to the van.

 

At the airport I was taken through a side entrance to a bare, cell-like room. The only piece of 'furniture' was a set of stocks similar to what I'd first seen at the training camp.

I was told to kneel and put my neck in the slot, there was a whirring noise and when I rose on my knees again, my collar was there, open.

 

I was free!

 

Well, not quite. My hands were still cuffed behind my back and I still felt a slave, so the idea of getting to my feet didn't even enter my mind.

 

As a matter of fact nothing did.

 

It was blank!

 

I simply couldn't fathom the enormity of what was happening.

 

Didn't feel happy, didn't feel sad, just empty.

 

Shell-shocked, that's what I was.

 

The two handlers stood looking out of the window, discussing football, studiously ignoring me, until there was a knock on the door and they let in a young man, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a small suitcase and a briefcase. He shook hands with them, glancing briefly at me.

 

"Timothy Johns, I suppose?"

 

"Yes, Sir", one of the handlers answered before I had opened my mouth.

 

Fucking stupid of me to think that a stuffed shirt like him would lower himself to the level of a cuffed, half-naked slave on his knees.

 

Fuck him!

 

"I have his passport and flight tickets here. First class, if you can believe that. A Miss Andersen met with the Ambassador yesterday and insisted on paying. I do wonder why!"

 

"His mistress, Sir. Former mistress, very soon".

 

"I see, but still wonder why. He's just a criminal, isn't he? Anyway, she left what she called pocket money, §1.000, too and this suitcase with new clothes for him. She packed some of what we've been safekeeping for him with them, but took his old clothes and backpack. Guess he won't miss them. The briefcase contains some papers and a laptop".

 

"OK, Sir. We'll let him change just before we bring him on board and give him the briefcase there".

 

"Well, that's all, then. Back to work. Good day, gentlemen".

 

They shook hands and he left, ignoring me completely. Not that I missed his attention, but he could have shown a minimum of courtesy, couldn't he?

 

The handlers turned their backs on me again and I knelt there, desperately trying not to think about Christine and why she had asked for this pardon.

 

Had she tired of me, wanted a new slave, a new bedmate?

 

Or was she just being kind, like when buying new clothes for me?

 

And why hadn't she told me?

 

She'd hardly said goodbye!

 

No, she just wanted to get rid of me, for good!

 

When they at last released and told me to get properly dressed, I found that she'd bought underwear, socks, jeans and T-shirts, even a nice suit and a coat. Sneakers and shoes too, of course.

 

It was weird to be dressed like an ordinary young man again and even weirder not to be barefoot after four years.

And my neck felt strangely bare!

 

They escorted me all the way to the cabin door before turning away with a sneered: "Off you go and don't come back!"

 

And then I was suddenly transformed from a miserable slaveboy to a valued first-class passenger who was shown his seat by an air-hostess, offered a newspaper and handed that day's menu.

I sat watching the town and country below us after take-off until we headed out across the sea, then accepted a glass of white wine and opened the briefcase.

 

The laptop was the one Christine had insisted that I used for her American study and the papers looked like gradings of her, my, work and diplomas for the different courses she, I, had finished.

 

On top was a letter.

 

The first part told that she in fact had me, not herself, enrolled at the university and that I’d passed with flying colours. I was now ready to start the next semester in a week's time. That was why my plane ticket was for the university town.

 

Through her father, she’d even arranged accommodation for me, a small bedsit, something I could afford because when my trust fund had been released to me when I turned twenty-one, he’d taken hand of it and invested it wisely so I now had enough to live fairly comfortably for a couple of years.

 

The clever little minx! Doing all this behind my back, without revealing a thing.

 

Shit!

 

Maybe she cared for me after all.

 

She did!

 

The last part of the letter was her goodbye:

 

 

"Dear Tim.

I don’t want to, but do realise how you must hate me.

Hate how I have exploited you, humiliated you, abused you, hurt you, during your years as my slave.

I can only hope that you, when your fury has died down, will remember that there were moments of laughter, of joy, of passion.

I will.

Of course you will try to erase this nightmare from your mind, forget me.

I understand and expect that, but will never forget you.

Goodbye and good luck.

We will never meet again.

I miss you.

Yours forever and ever

Chris'

I cried like a baby, reading those few words again and again.

 

Why had she never told me this?

 

Why had she never asked about my feelings?

 

Because she thought she knew the answer and didn't want to hear it.

 

And now it was too late!

 

Or was it?

 

The next year went by in a daze.

 

I worked like a madman, skipped all social life, even basket, didn't try to make friends, spent all my time either at university or at home, studying. But I reached my goal. Graduated, second in class and was ready to re-enter the world.

 

And to return to the country of my ‘nightmare’.

 

I sent in my application for a visa, expecting to obtain it without fuss, and was surprised when summoned to the Consulate.

 

And shocked when I arrived to find, not some underling, but a man I'd never met, but whose face I knew only too well from the framed photo at Christine's bedside: The Ambassador, her father!

 

He didn't beat about the bush. "You wish to return to my country, Mr. Johns. Why?"

 

"To see my mistress again, Sir". I tried to give him an open and frank look.

 

"To take revenge?" He looked sternly back and I took a deep breath.

 

"Because I love your daughter, Sir, deeply, endlessly, eternally".

 

"I see, and if she doesn't return your feelings?"

 

"Then I'll leave, Sir. Leave her alone, but I hope that she'll give me a chance to explain myself first".

 

"Why not write to her?"

 

"I can't, Sir. I’ve tried, many times, but I what I have to say has to be said, not written".

 

He leaned back, looking speculatively at me for what seemed hours, while my heart was hammering in my chest. What if he refused to grant me the visa? It was easy enough for him.

 

"Very well, Mr. Johns, you'll get that chance; on one condition".

 

He explained what he had in mind and I agreed, readily.

A week later I was back in his country, but went directly from the airport to a hotel at the outskirts of town and stayed there until he fetched me the next day, just before lunch. We drove to the little harbour and the house, I knew so well, and went up by the lift.

 

A first for me!

 

"Chris is out shopping with her mother, but I expect her to return after lunch". He had a key and we entered the flat, immaculate as ever. In the sitting room he turned to me. "Well, Mr. Johns?" His eyebrows rose questioningly.

 

"At once, Sir".

 

I kicked off my loafers and hauled my T-shirt over my head, hopped from foot to foot to drag off my socks and finally dropped jeans and briefs, folded the clothes neatly and placed them with my shoes behind an armchair, then silently went up to one of the poles, knelt with my back to it, a leg and an arm on either side.

 

He stood for a moment looking me over, then found the chains in his briefcase and cuffed me to the pole.

 

A chill ran down my spine when I heard the click of the locks.

 

Not because I suddenly was a restrained, naked slave again, but because of fear of what would happen within the next few hours. What was in store for me: Eternal happiness or utter misery?

 

Mr. Andersen nodded, satisfied, placed the key to my cuffs on a table, outside of my reach, and left without another word.

 

I waited, torn between hope and fear.

 

At last I heard people enter the hall.

 

People, yes, I heard a muffled exchange of words.

 

'Shit! Is that her mother or has she got another slave?'

 

Of course she had, couldn't possibly manage without, could she? But what if not my beloved, but that slave found me like this, naked and chained? I held my breath until the door was opened and Christine entered.

 

She didn’t notice me at first and I didn’t make a sound, just watched her go to the kitchen, open the fridge and grab a carton of milk.

 

God, she was lovely! Even more beautiful and desirable than in my dreams.

 

She seemed to be glowing, when she straightened, turned to get something from a cupboard, and saw me!

 

"Tim!" She stared, frozen to the spot. "Tim!"

 

"Good afternoon, Miss". I tried to look calmly at her, but it was hard and my voice was trembling.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

"Waiting to serve you, Miss. If it may please you to unlock my chains, Miss".

 

"Serve me!" She took a grip of herself. "How did you get in here?"

 

"You father brought me, Miss".

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I told him that I love you, Christine, and he agreed to give me a chance to declare that, but like this".

 

"Love me!" At last she came out of her stupor and round the kitchen counter to stand in front of me. "But you can’t!"

 

"Why not, Miss?"

 

"Because... Because of... , because I’ve been your mistress, because I’ve...".

 

"Because you’ve exploited, humiliated, abused, hurt me". I was citing her letter to me. "And if I fell in love with you in spite of that? Because of that?"

 

"But... But you couldn’t possibly!"

 

"I did, Christine. I did fall in love with you, despite what you had to do to me as my mistress, despite that you liked it, at least some of it. I’m here now, on my knees in front of you, naked, in chains, asking you to take me back, be that as your slave, your lover, your husband, it doesn’t matter to me. All I want is to be with you. Worship you...".

 

"Fuck me!", she interrupted.

 

"Christine! Mistress! I don’t want to fuck you. I want to make love to you!"

 

She stared into my pleading eyes for long moments, then turned abruptly and left the room.

 

‘Shit, Tim, you fouled it up! She’s going to have her slave throw you out’.

 

But she returned to kneel in front of me, with a small body clasped to her chest.

 

A small brown body.

 

A baby girl!

 

I stared, bereft of speech.

 

"Tim, meet Tan".

 

She turned the cute little face towards me.

 

"Tan, meet your father".

 

Epilogue.

No, she was not an accident, quite the contrary.

 

She was one very carefully planned baby.

 

Christine never does anything rash, she’s the most level headed girl I’ve ever met and has only made one serious mistake in her life, and that was my fault. Mine, because I was too chicken to declare my love for her before it was too late, hurting her instead.

 

Fool!

 

She was sure that I hid a burning hate for her behind my submissive facade, that I could never forgive her for what she’d done to me, and that there was no hope of any kind of future relationship between us.

 

But she loved me and out of that love planned for another kind of future.

 

I had to stay her slave for at least four years, there was nothing she could do about that, but she could help me to a better life, so that’s why she started me on those university courses and when she, not I, the slave, of course, through the embassy was informed about my trust fund, made her father take hand of the money.

 

When the time was drawing near, she collected the glowing reports about how good a slave I was, sent in the petition for my early release, bought clothes for me and had everything ready when the final day came.

 

But she couldn’t bear parting with me, not completely, so a couple of months earlier she went off the pill.

 

Tan was the result, the part of me that would stay with her forever. Even given a name to remind her of mine every time she spoke it, Tanja, now a girl couldn’t very well be called Timothy.

 

An overromantic sop story, if I ever heard one, but true.

 

I’ll spare you the happy reunion, just tell that we of course were married, had another three kids, Tim II, Dan, and Ben. That we are partners in business, Christine as a fierce, and feared, defence councillor, while I work with corporate cases.

No, I’m not her slave, not that I wouldn’t submit to her, happily, but with the kids around we have to limit ourselves to bondage games in the bedroom.

 

I still lick her feet and, occasionally, drink her piss.

Yeah, she’s still dominant and I still completely besotted with my goddess.

 

We have the love life of a century.

 

And now the reason why I wrote this down.

 

He’s having a hard time just now, at the slave-training camp.

 

Yes, there are still slaves here, youngsters apparently never learn, and we have always had at least one, starting with the Brazilian beauty Christine had when I returned and who took care of Tan.

 

Yummy, she was, but I never touched her, of course not, not even caned her. Her mistress did. Like she did, does her husband.

 

Yeah.

 

Anyway, I act as a legal advisor for the American embassy and one day had a deja-vue: "But Sir, I’m an American citizen!"

 

The jet black, nineteen years old athlete sitting at the other side of the table was more polite than I’d been, but just as frightened.

 

He was actually crying. "You can’t just let them do this to me, Sir!"

 

"I have to, son, but…".

 

The plan came in a flash.

 

"But I can make it easier for you. I can ensure that you get a good and kind mistress".

 

She’s nineteen.

 

A stunning beauty with long curly black hair, clear blue eyes, and light brown skin.

 

Her name’s Tanja Andersen Johns and she’s starting at university this Autumn term, moving to our old flat by the harbour that we kept when buying a house in the country for the sake of the kids.

 

Yep, it’ll work perfectly, especially after the boy has read this.