A note from the author. This is a story about sex and the influence it has on one man and his attempts to go deeper into his sexual needs. It is not shot through with sex. I would hope you might enjoy it on the merits of the story, the problems within and the characters. Again, if you're looking for a bath in cum, it's not here. Thanks for reading.
Jon had relaxed into his decision. After years of arguing with himself, both his moral self and his physical self, he realized that his life was no longer complete without certain alterations to his body. He realized that whatever he decided was now his own path, no one at work, in his family, no one could know, even the thought of their finding out was more frightening than the deeds he contemplated. And their reaction afterword, even to fait accompli, he chose not to even consider that, perhaps they'd never know but he knew that to be the lie it was.
In his bed at night he thought about the future, how it was shaping to what he wanted, not what his usual conformist ways had always permitted him to do. He had a good life, good job, pleasant residence, superficially it was all to the good. No one would have guessed that this successful, pleasant, educated man was held in his skin only because he'd come to accept his other self, the self that dreamed of pain and submission to another man, a man who would beat him, demand his respect but then go out to dine and discuss the writings of the late Christopher Hitchens, tell him amusing stories about when he made hard core porn for Dior and then, as a throw away, tell him he must by an instrument of his own torture and then name it. He got hard thinking of the nerve it would take him to go to those places where he knew-he read their ads and their circulars-that sold these things of debasement. He'd never been in one, only incessantly cruised by wondering what they might be like. Wondering what he could wear to go in and not be seen as someone who looked out of place. Yet...they were the temples, or adjuncts to them, where what he needed, yearned for resided and there was only one way. His Sir had been very specific, no online shopping, just his usual business suit but without underwear and to make the moment more memorable, pins stuck through his scrotum. Not many, just enough. Oh, and to familiarize himself with the place, he was too spend at least an hour there, perhaps trying on things, trying out things.
He was at once nauseous with fear and aroused with anticipation. He wondered if they gift wrapped as, certainly, he couldn't just hand his Sir this special a gift. Naked, on his knees, head bowed he could hold it up, on his palms hoping, praying it would be acceptable. And then two fingers beneath his chin, raising his face, being assured it had found favour and, at some point, would find use. Sir explained that fresh from the shop it had a stiffness that didn't permit proper employment. But noticing he was down and naked Sir smiled and reached into a closet and pulled out a bridle and bit. Pony Play. Only Sir preferred Dressage. With the bridle and the bit secured, a long lead was attached to the bridle and, with his hand holding a long riding scourge, he would gallop about the space, sometimes up right, sometimes on his knees. Sir enjoyed that and had shown him pictures of other ponies who had their legs amputated at their knees and their arms similarly cut at their elbows. Proud, they'd grown manes and a gorgeous plume of a tail was inserted for "dress". Their horse cocks had been opened and a tube put in to extend their male parts and then had been, as with all horses, attached to the abdomen. The Foreskin had been drawn further up so that when they pissed, their dicks came out of its covering just like a proper horse. They were, of course, geldings but much prized. Sir told him that perhaps they could go to a horse show and he could see what beautiful ponies they made. Jon shuddered slightly.
On a whim, Sir could have that done to him; at various moments he'd often discussed how Jon might be removed from society to a more specialized world. Word would go about that he'd had a fugue syndrome and wandered away completely unaware of who he was, where he was but, apart from having amnesia, he had no concerns as to why he had no memory. It was unusual for this but medically well known. Of course without him it would be impossible to diagnose but the suggestion of it would satisfy a great many. Inevitably people would say, "Well, really, when I think back he had been acting peculiarly...." and they'd talk themselves into accepting his absence, after a time close his lodging and while they would wonder, no bulletins would be issued to be on the look out for him.
Sir knew this and, having removed most of what he'd need before it was realized he was gone, cleaned out his bank accounts, he accepted him into his stable. But that wasn't what he wanted. No, that was a bit tamer than what he had in mind, even having part of his legs and arms amputated implied a certain kind of life. One, he knew, that would bore his sir after some time and then what? He'd thought too much about that, fear had obsessed him. He turned on a light and, just like Scrooge the morning after, assured himself that it was is own bed in his own room and he had all his appendages attached. Sir was asleep in the next room and he crept in to kneel by him to only be near him.
He cried he was so lucky to have this Sir. One who was intelligent, generous, enjoyed his company and was diamond hard when it came to meting out punishment. Once he'd said, he didn't mind if there was no safe word and Sir simply looked at him as if to say...there never would have been one. Did you think otherwise? Other Sirs would have punched him or slapped him for this impertinence but his Sir only put out a hand, drew him close and whispered in his ear....when you cannot speak what good would a safe word do you? Certainly I don't require one. And, again, the slight shudder at the implication. But there was the well known fact that each day there was mandatory punishment if only to remind him of his position and then...possibly they'd go to Brighton for lunch-there was a place that served really excellent skate and they both enjoyed that. Possibly a walk on the cliffs East of town. He crept back to his room, put his dick in a chastity cage and went to sleep.
It was suddenly morning and Jon knew he'd slept too late. One of his pleasures was to get up early, before Sir, and be standing by his bed ready to prepare him for his day. Selfishly, this was the time of day with Sir that he liked best. He would be allowed to assist him to the shower, make sure it was the proper temperature and then lead him in, put him on a stool, scrub him. At some point he'd stand up and press his slick, well soaped body against Jon, take his nipples in his teeth and clamp down until Jon wanted to squirm and contort to get away but he couldn't. Sir would stick his finger up his ass and set up a counterpoint of extreme pleasure while he milked his prostate.
It was then that he forgot his Sir and remembered only the delight of pain elegantly applied by someone who cared about him, was constantly testing is limits, finding where his thresholds were. And then the release, that flood of gratefulness to his Sir. From there it was a quick rinse and Sir stepped outside waiting to be dried and then wrapped in a bath sheet. Seated in his chair, slightly leaned back, Jon enjoyed shaving his head and face. At first he'd been afraid of the straight razor but some classes at George Trumpers had raised his confidence to the point he would shave as much of Sir's body as Sir wanted. Of course, the testicles. But other than that, beyond his head and face, only his chest where lay the large tattooed eagle. But not today. Sir was up and gone and would return....when?
Jon put on his collar, his bracelet and his anklet and dressed for work himself. After nights with Sir, even if nothing had happened, work seemed mundane, depressing but he did it know that not for much longer, not for very much longer. He looked about at his staff and suddenly saw piggies, all of them ready for the spit with no diversion at first. He compared that to his own possible away from home. In a secluded place, he was told to strip and put on the clothing on the cot in the small room. One pair of pants, with no crotch, one fitted, collarless jacket with holes stitched around where his nipples would be all in dun gray. Boots and that was all.Sir had relaxed and was wearing some plaid boxers and a white T shirt, very comfortable. He looked up, noticed Jon. Smiled and gestured for Jon to come to him. From a box he took a cock lock that fitted over two inches of Jon's cock and,when closed and locked, had teeth that could be driven in or released at the pleasure of another.He was told to go make breakfast and serve it on a tray.
When he brought the tray and had placed on the table Sir held him down and snapped a two inch steel posture collar around his neck. No explanation, none was needed. As any thing done needs to be timed, Sir got Jon's cock hard and then put a candle in the piss slit. It was lit and only when it guttered out of it's own wax inside the urethra breakfast was over. The singed bits of flesh would be cut away as part of the on going penile modification programme. Jon understood, but had not been told, that at some point a large barbed fishing hook would be placed in it to be left there until it's actual purpose was revealed. Sir was not clear or forthcoming about details only just left suggestions, allusions as to what might occur. To a lesser man these would have seem barbaric, unconscionable but to Jon they were but the beginning of play. In the country. Quietly.
But the day had to be faced for the tedium it had. He closed his eyes and saw the X, seven feet high that decorated one wall and on which he had been privileged to feel that lash of a quirt followed by a single tail to his back and, as ever, when he was taken down, the enfolding arms of Sir telling him what courage he was beginning to exhibit. Soon he could expect to find more stringent punishments followed by some very simple excisions. Nothing of the cock and ball variety but something, he was told, he would find exquisitely painful. Jon glazed over at the thought of knowing but not knowing, just anticipating whatever ever it was. Sir was well know for his proficiencies in several areas so which he might choose...?
In a special place, labeled "For Jon" were the final instruments.Some were familiar, he knew how and where they would be used. He wanted to lean down and embrace them as his future but Sir could decide on something else.
Jon could feel the raging of his imaginings having an effect on his person and it was all he could do to get to the gents before the precum led to a long, throbbing drool as he came down his leg.
He thought of Sir and what he hoped he would do and wondered....
Sir slapped him, hard, across his face then, wrenching his arm behind him, drew him to his broad chest. His other arm held his head, his wrist covering his mouth. In his ear he heard, "You are not permitted other men, you may think of them, look at them, wonder about them, speculate on what you might do with them but you do not bring them to me as a point of discussion. You have a man, you have a Sir and if that's not sufficient, leave, go now", and in a sudden motion threw him to the floor and walked from the room. Jon lay there for a moment, stunned, trying to remember what he'd said, about whom....and there was only the fragment of something about an Italian client....and then, just as the door was locked, the rest of it came to him.
He understood why Sir was annoyed, it was with reason; by intimation Jon had compared the gentleman from Milan to his own Sir, wondered if he had hair on his chest? Did he shave his crotch...just like Sir. What other men did, how they did whatever they did was of interest only in a professional sense. Never once had Sir brought up another name in comparison with Jon, never. No other man was ever used as a comparative, it was never told to him that he should do whatever as another Sir's boy did. He was supportive, critical and punishing when necessary but as he was slowly coming to realize, he was being slowly, carefully prepared for total submission. Not slavery, no, not that, he'd heard Sir laugh about the master/slave relationships that were agreed to, he said, in a bar or in a bed and had no permanence beyond the period the master and the slave were willing or sufficiently motivated to play their roles.
Another of his thoughts on the subject was that the keeping of slaves was a great hardship on the master, a waste of time. When almost your entire day is given over to busying others, others who are seemingly monolithic until given an order, the pleasure of being served by slaves diminished. A man to whom Jon had been introduced at dinner with Sir kept slaves in Brasil. In a shady deal with the government, he took prisoners with long term sentences and moved them to a place he kept far, far up the Amazon. There he made them into workers but, more importantly and usefully, as a functioning armed troop who routinely went out to trap and shoot Japanese surveyors who came across the border from Peru with the intention of logging the Rain Forest and take it up river, to Iquitos, where the finest of rare woods were sold to Japanese furniture makers. They were a blight on the forest and on the gentleman's property where there were some stands of this desired timber.
In his alternate role of businessman Jon listen with interest as he'd heard about the trivialities of life in the rough up river. Inwardly he had a rush of sexuality as he learned about their lives as slaves, kept virtually naked, flogged, made to work, to sleep out of doors to both defecate and bath in whatever stream was about...and then there were the others, the ones made into soldiers. Creeping through the Lianas, trying not to disturb Howler Monkees, being aware of snakes, spiders as big as luncheon plates, thorns and, of course, the Japanese who were as armed as those who pursued them. Most that they discovered were killed where they were found but a few, those who could be identified-the Japanese were too caught up with seniority-as bosses were taken back to where a camera was available and then had their heads cut off, the old fashioned Japanese way, hands tied behind them, kneeling, blind folded. One hand pressed down on the head whilst the other swung the machete.
The gentleman stopped to extract a leather case from his inside pocket, opened it, took a cheroot, offered it about, his Sir took one, he, of course, declined. While it was out it was turned over to display part of what looked to be a very involved tattoo. As it was restored to its place in his suit, it was explained that one of the beheaded had been a Yakuza back in Japan and was elaborately tattooed from his ankles to his neck. Skinned, these cases had been made and sent, as gifts, to the furniture factories in Japan where the fine Brasilian woods were used. If one knew what to look for, each piece of skin that was used carried a specific mark that identified the person and who his former associates were. Word, he assumed, got around; If it didn't why were the yellow men suddenly far better armed, protected?
One could of course not know but it was an easy thing to draw assumptions. His Sir had agreed as to the tedium of slavery noting that even making them chattel guarantees nothing, does it? The Brasilian, a big hard muscled, tanned good looking rascal looked at his Sir and smiled. "No", he said, "only a body and mind given freely could one trust..." Later that evening, chained to a wall, he watched his Sir and the Amazonian take each other in the rough, demanding sexual way that is at once graceful and awful. There was no submission just the implied agreement that each would have their turn. Lashed to the wall he could only groan with excitement, his dick hard, dribbling his seed, wanting to be beaten by them and then taken. It never happened. He was taken to his own room, locked into his bed, kissed good night and the door locked. What happened next he could only wonder based on the noises he heard. The noise and the laughter.
Sir left him there for some little while, probably a time to contemplate what he had done, what might be done to him. To wonder how he could show contriteness that would be accepted as genuine? The lock turned, the door opened. Sir walked by him, took off his suit coat, his tie, opened a closet, took out a different tie, did it up, retrieved his jacket, glanced in the mirror made a minor correction in the knot and then looked at him. Jon tried to both look up and yet look down simultaneously. Sir waited until he finally Jon finally looked at him. "Better than the Hermes one, isn't it", his fingers on the newly installed tie. Jon started to stutter an answer but wasn't sure...did he want a compliment, to be told the truth or was this simply a redundant question and his silence would be better. Sir waited for a moment until there was no answer, just the gagging of an unfinished word. "You're no help. When your Sir asks for an opinion, he expects you to have one, he respects your taste, knows it....Well, if you choose silence, perhaps part of your tongue should be docked to remember to speak when spoken to." He left the room followed, momentarily, by the sound of the lift door opening and closing.
Jon sat on the floor not knowing what to do. A docked tongue? What did he mean? Some men were punished, at least a very long time ago, by having their tongues cut out, women as well for being common scolds-but with a man it was usually because the was suspected of being a traitor. A picture of Guy Fawkes wandered without his tongue wandered through this mind. He started to stand, to look in the mirror, his tongue stuck out. How could it be done? He was aware he was becoming aroused, his lack of underwear allowed his penis to graze the Scottish wool of is trousers, his nuts contracted, he was appalled and anticipating having his tongue docked, it would be the first thing Sir had ever cut from him. His semen silently drooled down his pant leg as he shuddered with orgasm, grasping a bureau to steady himself. The texture and feeling of the wool, the humiliation of dirtying himself with what rightly belonged to sir, the insidious feeling that he'd shoot again if he worked at it...if he put his hand on his outlined cock and massaged it. If he reached down and stroked his balls, wherever they'd got to...He shucked off his pants, turned them inside out and licked his own cum, a sin he knew but there was no Sir to feed and, and, he panicked, Sir always said never waste protein.
He slurped, wetting the fabric as he extracted the very vestigial moist bits that had come from him and feared he would betray his own actions. What if Sir came back, even if he didn't see the act, what if he kissed him, tasted the production of a male in heat, smelled his rising testosterone level, could feel his balls withdrawn in pleasure? What then?
Jon stripped, found a plastic bag from some shop in Sloane Square and shoved his suit, shirt, socks, tie in it. There was an Indian dry cleaner around the corner, he could always say, while he was on the floor, he'd got something on his suit. He would apologize. Profusely, Maybe he'd be believed. He started the shower taking with him his brush and tooth paste. Later, he planned, to effectively drink a bottle of mouth wash...maybe then...even in the shower he remembered his squirt filled trouser leg, the taste, the deeply fulfilling idea of eating himself. He got hard again and, unencumbered by his pants, shot. This time it made a trace on the white tile like a perverted snail leaving a trail of dead humans. And now that would have to be cleaned, not that Sir licked his shower walls but he'd know it had been used and would wonder. As Jon, naked, wet and in heat wondered.He went to his knees and found the beginning of the sperm path and licked it back up. On his knees, wet, he hungered for more but not his, he wanted that of his Sir. He slumped to the floor in anger at himself, desire, fear of his Sir and not knowing what he should do next.
After a time the water turned cold.