Master and His Pack Mule

Stories of The Slave Center

The Nation’s Leading Retailer of Trained Faggots
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Master and His Pack Mule

Part Eleven

Disclaimer: This is a story of erotic fiction containing fantasy descriptions of Male-male slavery, which may include sexual acts, BDSM and nudity. It is a intended for adults only. You must be of legal adult age to read this work. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

It had been nearly a week since Master Matt left on vacation and put me under the care of his uncle, Master Joe. I would have never predicted it, but Master Joe has been helping me a lot. I hadn’t even known that I needed help, but Master Joe has proven that I did. Since I’d been a slave for several years, I thought I had experienced slavery in all its glories. Boy, was I wrong. 

Master Joe, as a master with years of experience, was helping me develop into a more complete, energetic, and happy slave. He had already helped me become more a slave than I’d ever been, and I knew my journey toward totality, toward full actualization as a slave, was still not complete.

Master Joe had required me, had enabled me, to embrace his protocol requirements, and that sure turned out to be a blessing for me, as it not only helped me understand exactly how I was to behave for him, but it also enabled me to pass my daily Protocol review. I had received an evaluation of Embraced each of the last two days in Protocol, which pleased me to no end. It felt so good to be a good slave!

But, unfortunately, I still hadn’t received a passing mark for Effort nor for Obedience/Attitude.

I had begged Master Joe to help me pass these two sections, but he told me not to worry, that I would in time. He further explained that the next area of service I would be passing soon was Effort, and he said the best way for me to improve in Effort would be to learn by doing, and in order to learn by doing we’d have to visit a place he knows just north of town, a kind of ranch that a friend of his owns. He said I would receive valuable training at this place, and that my Master Matt had already agreed to let me be taken there.

In fact, Master Joe said, we’d be driving this evening to his friend’s ranch, right after dinner, right after my daily slave evaluation, though it already seemed clear that I’d receive the same evaluation I had for the past couple of days. Still, Master Joe said, we’d go through the motions as he wanted a permanent record of my daily service reports.

Master Joe also informed me that Master Kevin would not be coming with us, that he’d be staying back and housesitting for Master Joe. Master Kevin seemed conflicted about this, as he was curious about the ranch, but he also liked, as a 19 year old, having the house to himself where he could bring his new girlfriend, or his buddies. Anyway, Master Kevin would not be coming to the ranch.

——————

The drive, Master Joe informed me, would be about 90 minutes long. I was surprised he told me this, as he usually informs me of very little, as a slave, he says, doesn’t really need to know or care. But he seemed in the mood to talk with me, and that held true for the entire drive. He spoke almost as if we were friends, and I enjoyed it. We were in his pick up truck, Master Joe in his ubiquitous blue jeans plus a light flannel shirt and me naked as always. I was seated in his passenger seat, with no other slave restraints or accouterments involved.

As soon as we left the city and were out on more open highway, Master Joe began asking me things he seemed to be genuinely interested in. For example, one of his first questions was, “So, do you ever regret it?”

“Master, regret what, Master?”

“About walking into The Slave Center and applying for your enslavement. Do you ever regret that?”

“Master, no, Master. I wonder sometimes what my life might have been like as a free man, but I have no regrets, Master. My pull toward slavery would have won out eventually, no matter how hard I tried to resist it. I had to explore it. I had no real choice.”

“Did you ever resist it?”

“Master, yes, Master, but not for all that long, Master. By the time I was 23, when I applied for slavery, I was feeling pretty sure of myself, Master. The writing was on all my walls, so to speak. Plus, just applying doesn’t guarantee one’s enslavement. It only starts an evaluation process, and I really wanted that evaluation, some confirmation of what I was feeling. And The Slave Center definitely evaluated me as a full-on faggot slave, Master.”

“Good. I was sure you didn’t have any doubts, but I’m glad to hear you say so yourself.”

“Yes, Master, I understand, Master.”

We spoke in that tone, almost like friends, for a good 30 or 40 minutes, I believe, and then Master Joe asked me about my thoughts on slave chastity devices. I told him that one wasn’t needed for me but that I sometimes wonder about having one and even want one. I told him I tried a device years ago, before I actually became a slave, and it hurt so much, kept me awake at night, pinched my skin, cause my balls to swell up. And I could pull my cock out of it rather easily, too. Still, I confessed, real chastity devices intrigue me. My concern was that getting erections with a device on can be extremely painful and prevent a good night’s sleep. I couldn’t imagine not getting nocturnal erections.

Master Joe told me that this is all true, but he said there have been advances in male chastity in recent years, from medically induced prevention of erections to devices that are more easy to wear. He said he prefers devices with full urethral inserts such that no faggot could ever pull out of the device.

“Well,” Master Joe said, “if I truly owned you long term, you’d be living with a permanent chastity device on that has a full urethral insert and holds your dick back at all times. I’d get better service out of you that way.”

“Master, yes, Master. Master Matt is not a big fan of chastity devices, and he knows one is not really needed for me.”

“Yeah, I know. If he’d given me the okay, you’d be locked down right now so you couldn’t get erect.”

“Master, yes, Master. Understood, Master,” I responded as my dick came to full erection.

“Why are you erect now, slave?” Master Joe asked.

“Master, because I like what you say, Master.”

“I see. As you know, I had my own slave for many years, and I had a chastity device on him for most of those years, before I had to sell him. He said he didn’t need to have an orgasm of his cock because he had orgasms of the heart, just from being a slave, just from serving properly, just from being obedient, just from being owned. And he said these were more satisfying than a cock orgasm.”

“Master, I know exactly what he means, Master. I have the same experience. A slave’s orgasm is in the heart, a kind of warmth and a real satisfaction in the moment. Calm and pacifying. Beautiful, really. And, Master Joe, my favorite kind of ejaculation is one where I cum but feel absolutely nothing, no orgasm at all, no special feeling at all. It just seems so pure. It’s just like taking a piss, but cum comes out. It makes my spirit feel good.”

“Yeah, my slave talked about those, too. I’d fuck him and he’d cum but say he didn’t feel it. I loved that. I love when a slave doesn’t feel its ejaculation at all. It lets me know that the slave is being pure in its service.”

“Master, understood, Master. As it should be, Master. As it must be.”

——————

We were nearing our destination. Master Joe got quiet for awhile, as he turned off the highway and wound his vehicle up and around some hills. Southern California chaparral landscape, Mediterranean climate, clear summer evening. It was approaching 9 P.M., and darkness had just settled in. Master Joe seemed to know exactly where he was going, but the dark winding road required his attention. As we came around a bend, Master Joe turned onto a small dirt road, possibly just a rural driveway. After Master Joe drove through an area with some oak trees and then around another bend, the land opened up onto what looked like a beautiful place to live: a ranch home with land spread out around it. There appeared to be no neighbors, just total seclusion. Master Joe said, “Well, we’re here, slave. Master Aidan's ranch has total privacy. There are 40 acres surrounded by hills, and it’s the last property off that little road we were on. You’ll like it here.”

Master Joe pulled up to a dirt parking area not far from the house.

“Just remember: every second slavery. That’s what I expect, and that is what you’ll live.”

“Master, yes, Master. Of course, Master.” was all I could say.

Master Joe had me step out of his truck and stretch, just like a normal person. I looked around. I saw a large outbuilding, like a barn or stable. I saw some cows out in the pasture and a small orchard. It wasn’t a truly large place, but it seemed to be an actual working ranch.

I noticed a man come out of the ranch house and start heading toward Master Joe. The man seemed of smaller stature, say 5’7” and 150 pounds, at best. I guessed him to be in his late 50s, perhaps early 60s. He had a bounce in his step, like he was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, or, perhaps, he was just happy to see his friend, Master Joe.

The two men came together with a handshake and a brief hug as they exchanged simple greetings. Then, I heard Master Joe snap his fingers. I came away from Master Joe’s truck and knelt in the dirt by his side. “This is the slave I told you about.”

“Say hello to your Master Aidan,” Master Joe told me.

“Master, yes, Master.” I then bowed down, my forehead to the dirt, and said, “Master Aidan, hello, Master Aidan, Sir.”

As he took a couple steps closer to me I noticed that Master Aidan, like Master Joe, had a light whip coiled at his waist, apparently ready for use. With a completely disarming smile and quiet charm, he asked, “Are you a good faggot-slave?” he asked.

“Master Aidan, yes, Master Aidan, I certainly try to be, Sir,” I quickly responded.

“Well, after this weekend, there will be no more ‘try’. You’ll just be a good enslaved faggot, as you need to be.”

“Master, thank you, Master.”

“But, tell me, slave. What makes a faggot-slave good?”

I was a little taken aback by the question, but I soon answered. “Master, sir, one that is 100% obedient, Master. One that knows that it was born to serve men, Sir.”

“Well, that’s a decent answer, faggot. And I hear you’re a pretty good slave but could be better. What you need is a little more jump in your step and a little less free time in your life. That’s what I hear and that’s what we’re going to work on this weekend.”

“Master, yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Master Aidan turned, and he and Master Joe began to saunter toward Master Aidan’s house. “Come, faggot,” Master Joe stated in an almost light and friendly way.

As I followed the men, remaining a step behind them and a bit to their left, I wondered what more they wanted out of me. Have I not lived in slavery for several years already? What more could they need? I was already a lifelong slave, fully owned and operated.

I observed the men as I walked. Master Joe looked great as always, in his jeans and light flannel shirt. And Master Aidan, older and smaller in stature, looked and felt good to me. I already appreciated his quiet confidence. It helped me feel that he was balanced, thoughtful, self-aware, stable, centered, good-natured. Essential qualities of a good master, in my experience.

Perhaps because I was in an environment I had never been in before, I began to feel acutely those things that are usually so normal for me. I was totally naked under the stars, with my hands behind my back as I walked, in the manner I had long since been trained. Steel restraint bands wrapped around my balls, wrists, and ankles. A wide steel collar closely encircled my neck. All were permanent upon my body and had been for quite some time. A large ring in my dick and another through my septum further indicated my slavery. I had no rings in my tits only because Master Matt preferred to clamp them without rings being in the way. 

The men were fully clothed, and both carried a whip at the waist. I loved seeing the whips, knowing that they’re designed for the good and proper enslavement of faggots like me. My body was forever nude and open to the whip at any time a master saw fit to use one on me. I accepted this as a right and normal part of my enslavement, for which I had offered myself up years ago, as the best and most natural life for me. It’s not that I want to be whipped, but rather that I like to know the boundaries within which I am confined. A Master’s whip helps me feel safe and cared for.

As we neared the ranch house I half expected to be taken inside, but just in front of the porch was a slave, standing still and at attention. Master Aidan, upon nearing the slave, said, “Dink, take Master Joe’s slave to the barn. Get it kitted out for the morning so it’ll be ready to get to work with the rest of you.”

“Master, yes, my Master.”

Master Joe and Master Aidan didn’t even look back, didn’t have any words for me at all, but just let Dink lead me away as they went up to the porch and into the house.

Dink walked right up to me and simply said, “Come.” We walked side by side toward a building about 50 yards from the house, nestled up against the hill on the south side of the property. We were quiet for the first few steps, but then Dink asked me: “So, when did you apply for your slavery?”

“About 11 years ago, at The Slave Center.”

“Good, you’re a Slave Center product. Most the slaves here are. The Slave Center is Master Aidan’s go-to place when he is in the market for more slaves. Any regrets?”

“About applying for enslavement? No, it’s been good. I’m on the right life journey.”

“But you’re here because your journey isn’t complete.”

“Is it ever? There’s always room for growth in life, I think.”

“Good. Glad to know you’re aware of that.”

When we reached the main doors to the stables we entered a large and brightly lit space, and I was amazed at what I saw. Up until that moment, I had only known slaves in personal service in suburbia.

“Kneel here,” the slave said to me, and pointed to the soft dirt floor of the building. He stood right next to me, but in a ‘standing present’ position. He continued to converse with me.

“Master Aidan owns 53 slaves, but this building can house 77. So, there’s room if your master ever wants you placed here, or if he ever wants to sell you. Master Aidan could use a good pack mule, or a mule to pull his carts.”

I took in the information and stayed silent. I had never considered the possibility of Master Matt placing me here, long-term or short-term, or of him selling me any time in the foreseeable future.

I looked about the place. The ceiling was high, and there was a loft at one end. It was one of those all metal buildings one sees online, sheds and garages and even barns and stables. I guessed this building to be about 40’x60’.

Along both sides of the building ran slave stalls, or pens, or cages. I didn’t quite know what to call them. There were 30 along each wall, 15 on top of 15. The stalls were 4’ wide, 8’ deep and 8’ high, plenty high enough for a slave to stand upright. Along each row of stalls were 2 ladders, the kind that are on a track and slide to where they need to be placed. This was obviously the way slaves accessed their upper stalls. The fronts of the stalls were all bars, the kind you might see in a jailhouse. In the center of the building, but only in the back half, at floor level, there were possibly more stalls, but I couldn’t see from where I was kneeling. The loft on the back side of the building appeared to have a row of private rooms. A flight of stairs ran up to these. From the ceiling hung chains, and I could imagine slaves being attached to them, for whatever purpose.

Nearer to me than anything else, at the front and center of the building, near the main entrance, were 8 pillories, each with a slave locked into it. Each slave’s neck was securely in place, along with their wrists. They were doubled over at the waist, and their ankles were spread wide and locked into the bottom portion of the device. As I was noticing this, someone came walking up to Dink, who remained in his ‘standing present’ position right next to me. The man was shirtless, had a chain harness around his torso and rawhide chaps around his legs, leaving his cock and ass hanging out.
“Dink, are we all in?” he asked.

“Sir, yes, Sir, all in, Overseer, Sir,” was the answer.

The overseer pushed a button on the wall and bars came down across the wide front entrance of the building, effectively locking the slaves in for the night.

“Stay here for now. We’ll deal with the new slave when we can,” he told Dink as he turned and walked away. That’s when I noticed the slave brand on the side of his left butt cheek. The overseer was a slave, too.

More overseer-slaves walked out to the area with the pillories. They all wore that tight chain harness, so snug on their defined torsos I wondered how they could be removed. The bottom chain of the harness ran around the torso at about waist level, and from these waist chains each overseer carried implements to carry out their duties: paddles, whips, and floggers. They had tight slave collars, too, just different than the ones on all the other slaves I could see here. And these overseer-slaves seemed muscular in a different way than the common slaves here. They were well-toned, as if they work out regularly in a gym. They had shaved heads, just like all the other slaves, and were hairless all over, just like all the slaves, except at the pubic area each had a reasonably trimmed patch of pubic hair. This gave them a look of masculinity and, I supposed, of authority. It certainly set them apart, as the harnesses did also, from the common slaves.

The overseer-slaves gathered near the pillories, spoke among themselves for a few moments, and then split up, each approaching a different pillory. Without any word or delay whatsoever, they began their work on the pilloried slaves. The building became a cacophony of whip strikes, paddle hits and flogger throws, and soon came the sound of slave moans, cries, and yelps… and even some giggles and laughter.

“What are they being punished for?” I asked Dink.

“They’re not being punished. This is just regular discipline. All slaves are disciplined at least once daily. Master Aidan believes that a disciplined slave is a hard-working slave. He says discipline helps slaves feel centered and keeps them in their place and feeling eager to serve. Based on my experiences around here, I have to say he’s right.”

Some slaves seemed to be getting the beating of their lives, while others seemed to be getting a much lighter treatment. “To each his own,” Dink explained. “To each whatever is needed in the moment. Our overseers are trained in hearing and obeying what the slaves need, or invite. So, each slave gets what it deserves, in the moment.”

The pillories were facing my direction, so I watched the faces of the slaves. One was sobbing heavy tears and seemed quite sad. One was laughing, almost joyfully. Others seemed to be undergoing some sort of relaxation treatment. And one seemed to be on some island of bliss somewhere.

Soon, their bodies began to tremble and shiver, the discipline was that strong, or appropriate. Some began to say things, like: “Master, yes, Master, yes, Master, yes, Master,” and, “Thank you, Lord Master. Thank you, Lord Master. I’m a slave, Master. Thank you, Master. Yes, Master.” A softer voice then began to permeate my awareness. A pilloried slave was speaking somewhat softly, “Serving my master is my life, serving my master is my life, serving my master is my life…”

Some slaves never said a thing, and that seemed okay, too.

A fully clothed man suddenly appeared, walking down the stairs from the loft. “The free man overseer, a nephew of Master Aidan’s,” Dink told me. The overseer was the same small stature as his uncle. About 30 years of age, he had a full shock of brown hair and a trim beard. He looked good in his jeans and denim shirt. He wore a tool belt at his waist, where also hung a cane and small coiled whip. He observed the action at the pillories while he walked down the stairs but headed straight toward Dink.

“So, this is the slave staying here for a couple days?”

“Master, yes, Lord Overseer Master, yes, Sir,” answered Dink.

“Well, let’s get it kitted out.”

The Master Overseer led us toward the back of the building, where there were some storage rooms. He had me stand upright with my hands behind my neck. He looked at my ankle and wrist cuffs and my collar and said aloud, “All of those can stay on. They’re fine.” But then he took hold of the ring that has been in my cock for several years. He grabbed some bolt cutters and said, “Don’t worry, slave. Your master said I could remove this.” He cut the ring and tossed it into the waste basket, leaving me to feel naked, strangely enough, with no ring in my dick.

He took measurements of my torso, waist and arms. He looked into my mouth, even stuck his fingers in, seemingly to test my gag reflex. “Let’s see. I have his asshole size, so no need to measure that. All I need to do is try out a bit or two and see which will work best.”

He went back into the storage room and came out with a few different style bits. The first one he placed in my mouth was rather simple, just a bar bit. The second had a standard tongue plate. The next had a tongue plate that was a little longer than standard and had little spikes that pressed into the tongue, keeping it truly immobile. The last, and the one that seemed to bring a glint to his eye, was one with an even longer tongue plate that gently curved downward at the end. He placed it on me, and I thought I was going to gag. The tongue plate held the length of my tongue down and was long enough to curve downward slightly into my throat. I had never worn such a long tongue plate, and it caused me some feeling of panic. “Easy there, boy. Easy,” the Master Overseer cooed, and I relaxed into his care. “Good slave,” he said as he rubbed a hand over my head approvingly. He secured the bit tightly in place with straps that went behind my neck. Then, he pulled something up and over my head, from the bit to the back of my neck. It was a mesh, sort of, or a kind of web, of small leather straps that went up from the ends of the bit in my mouth and ran over my face. It left my nose free but hindered some of my vision as straps crossed right in front of my eyes. He brought it snugly over my scalp, all the way to the back of my neck, and secured it there. The array of straps was at least 4 inches wide and seemed to encage much of my head. “This’ll keep the beast quiet,” the Master Overseer stated.

He stood behind me and grabbed the rings that hung at the end of the bit in my mouth. He pulled them backwards, then to the right and left, and then all around in every direction. “Yeah, seems about right.”

Then he took the bit entirely off my head, and I sort of missed it. How could I miss such a thing? And how could the Master Overseer have known that I sort of missed it? “Don’t worry, slave. You’ll get it back in the morning,” he soothed as he patted my rump.

While this was going on, the slaves in the pillories were released, and more slaves were locked in for their discipline sessions. I heard again the vocalizations of the slaves being disciplined and sounds of the whips and paddles striking.

The Master Overseer squatted in front of me and held my dick up. It felt so strange without the ring that had hung through my PA for years. Once again, he was doing some measurements. “Okay, slave. I’ve got your size when you’re soft. Now, I need it when you’re hard. He grabbed my ball stretcher and shook, then pulled, then shook again. Then he pulled it away from my body and began slapping my balls with his free hand. “Come on, slave. I said get hard, so get hard.” He gave my balls some good slaps, and almost immediately my cock started to rise. Soon, it was at full mast. “Good. Such a faggot! It gets hard when I slap its balls. Gotta love it!”

He took the needed measurements. When finished, he went back into the store room and soon came back with a few items. He took a long metal band, like a belt, at least 2 inches wide, and placed it about my waist, latching it at the small of my back. Coming down from this belt, right over the pubic area and to the base of my cock, came another wide band. He the then produced 2 steel rings, each a quarter inch wide or so. He threaded my cock through these. “Permanent slaves here have piercings to use for this, but since you’re not yet a permanent slave here, you get the rings that go around the cock instead of through it. Two of them. One of them way down here at the base, and one at the middle of the shaft.” He paused for a moment as he finished adjusting my cock. “There! Done with that part.” 

The Overseer Master continued: “Now, to keep the cock in the proper position…” He reached for something at his side, “this’ll do the trick.” He put what he called a ‘helmut’ on the head of my dick. It was just a steel cap kind of thing that fit over the entire head of my dick. It was kept in place by a curved piece that jutted through my PA piercing. He locked the helmut in place with some sort of screw that he said I couldn’t possibly even loosen let alone remove. “There. All finished.” Now, my dick and 2 rings and a helmut. The Master Overseer then simply pushed my whole dick flat against that band going from my waist down to my cock. Wow, apparently that band is a powerful magnet, for when the Overseer Master pushed my dick flush against it, the rings and dick helmut stuck firmly. My cock was now held in an upright position, whether hard or soft. Also, it was held flush against my body, with only that band between it and my skin. Having my balls hanging low with the usual 3-inch ball stretcher and my stick stuck in an upright position was actually a strange and powerful sensation. It hardly felt manly.

The Overseer Master turned to Dink and ordered him to take me away.

“Master, yes, Master.”

“See it in the morning, slave,” my Master Overseer called out as Dink led me away. “Master, yes, Master, thank you, Master,” I called back.

I expected to be put in one of the stalls I described earlier, but I was led to the group of stalls housed at the back wall, the ones I couldn’t get a good look at while I knelt by the front door. Now that I was up close to them, I could see that this area contained 8 stalls, all facing in the same direction, toward the stairs that led to the loft. The stalls were unlit as I was led past a few, but I could at least tell that some were occupied.

I thought I was about to be placed in the 4th stall nearest the back wall, but instead Dink simply opened the gate to the stall and left it open. He turned on a light inside the stall, took a quick look around, and then came back to me. “Come, slave,” he said, and led me back toward the front of the building and right to one of those pillories. “Kneel here and stay,” he told me as he pointed to a spot adjacent to an available pillory.

I knelt in a proper slave position: knees at shoulder width, hands behind head, back straight, chest out, cock hard within its helmut and new bondage rings. I stayed there, still and waiting, for some minutes, until an overseer-slave, in his chain harness and with at least some length of pubic hair, stood before me, his cock right in front of my face. “Kiss is, slave. Only once. Just kiss it.”

I leaned forward and kissed the head of his cock.

“Now kiss my hand.” He held out his right hand, and I kissed the back of it, once, gently, perhaps reverently.

“Get in your place,” he ordered, gesturing toward the pillory.

With only a slight hesitation, I stood and placed my ankles first, then leaned forward and placed my neck and wrists into the pillory. The overseer-slave immediately enclosed my neck and wrists. Then he did the same at my ankles. Without a moment of waiting, he began striking my naked and bound body with a flogger. He started at my back and stayed there for several minutes. He struck hard and soft, soft and hard, over and over again.

Have you ever been struck with a flogger on your back? It’s quite a feeling. Getting struck on the back, whether by a flogger or a single-tail, tells the receiver that it is truly being hit for the sake of being it. It is not meant to be erotic, but rather it tells the receiver that it has no defenses, no right to resist, no will that matters.

I didn’t know whether to yell and scream or not. The throws of the flogger took my breath away, so it was by default that I stayed quiet. In a short time, my breathing became heavy and heaving. “Relax and take it, slave,” the overseer-slave stated. “This is what you deserve for being a faggot.” He continued striking my back, till finally he moved to my ass and even the backs of my thighs. “You’ll learn, slave, to serve with everything you are, at all times. Every second slavery. That’s what it’s all about.”

His sentences, like his flogger, struck me beyond any surface level and right down to my core, right into my heart. “Faggots like you are born to work for men,” he continued. “Faggots like you feel gratitude for their full enslavement.”

Over and over he struck with flogger and with words. I began not only to accept but to embrace what he was giving me. He was right, I knew, that I deserved this. Just for being alive I deserved  it. I needed to be flogged, and, more importantly, I deserved to be a slave.

“You worship men and pledge your life in service to them,” the overseer-slave went on. “You are a servant-animal, born with the right to serve, with the need to serve.Your master is only giving you what you need: complete slavery. Love him for it. Love your master. It’s only natural. Faggots like you need enslavement. It’s your natural state of being. So just be, faggot. Just be.”

I invited every strike of his flogger along with the essence of his words. I still remained relatively quiet. I moaned and breathed, but I did not shout out or scream. But the intensity was building, and it need somewhere to go. Energy in and energy out, and I was bursting with energy now. My lips quivered, as did much of my body. Thoughts ran amuck in my brain, a mixed-up mash-up of everything from childhood memories, to random incidences in my life, to the intense physicality of the moment, to whatever was at the core of my being and my body, to a strange trailing blue light I noticed coming from out of nowhere and directly to me. Was I hallucinating?

My heaving breaths and quivering lips turned to soft attempts to say something, attempts that, in a while, turned to full success, and I began to speak out: “I’m a faggot. I’m a slave. I’m a faggot-slave, and I need to serve with everything I am. I need to serve all the time. I need to serve with my whole life. I need to serve. That’s what I am: service. Please allow me to serve, Master. Please, Master. Please allow me to serve you, Master. Thank you, Master. Please, Master! Thank you, Master!”

The strikes of the flogger kept coming, sometimes very hard and sometimes very light. Was the overseer-slave winding down? Possibly.

Each strike carried truth. Each strike was right for the moment. Each strike was something I needed. Each strike. Each strike. Each strike.

I was now blithering. I was crying some tears. I was lost and found. I was present, here and now. I was me, and nothing else. Pure. Free. At last. Just the real me.

I managed to look up and focus my eyes a bit. What was I seeing? There, only a few feet before me, stood Master Aidan. How long had he been watching, and listening? He stood there, fully clothed, with his arms folded across his torso. As the flogging began to wind down, he approached me.

“Good, slave. That’s it. Welcome to my place.” He petted my bald head. His words and actions were soothing. My breathing began to calm, to become more regular, and as it did, Master Aidan asked, softly,  “What are you?”

“Master Aidan, a slave, Master,” I managed to respond, quietly but audibly.

“And why are you here?”

“Master, to serve, Master Aidan, Sir.”

“With what?”

“Master, with everything I am, Master.”

“Good. Good! That’s right,” he said soothingly. “And how often?”

“Master, always, Master. Nonstop, Master. Slaving never stops, Master.”

“That’s it,” he said emphatically. “That’s right. Now, tell me again. Tell me the truth about you.”

“I AM A SLAVE!!!” I began shouting. “I AM A SLAVE. I AM A PIECE OF PROPRTY, LIVESTOCK, MASTER! I SERVE THE MAN WHO OWNS ME, SIR! THAT’S ALL I EVER DO. THAT’S WHAT I’M FOR, SIR!”

“That’s it, slave. Let all who are present hear the truth about you. Proclaim it!”

I continued with my voice very much raised, though not quite a shout: “I am a slave, Sir. I’m born to be owned. I’m born to serve fully and constantly, Sir. My owner owns everything I am, every last drop, Sir! He has the right to demand my constant service, Sir. Thank you, Master. Constant service, please Lord Master. Constant service. Constant service. Constant service, Master. I am in your service, Master. I am a slave in your service, Master. Thank you, Lord-Master. Thank you! I am fully alive in slavery, Master. I live to serve. I crave to serve my master. Thank you, Master!”

“Exactly, slave, exactly. Total enslavement, nothing less. That’s what’s good for you. Full service in total enslavement. That’s your life. Good, slave. I know that, and I’m glad you understand that.”

Master Aidan turned to his slave, Dink, and said, “Okay, Dink. Put this slave to bed, on its back, limbs spread.”

“Master, yes, Master. Your slave is very proud to serve you, Master,” Dink answered.

But Master Aidan stood before me again. He looked right into my eyes such that he seemed to be searching for my soul. “Try and sleep well tonight. You’ll need to be ready to slave for me at first light. I’m told you’re a property worth owning, so that’s what I expect to see. Just remember: every second slavery. I accept nothing less.”

Master Aidan walked away, and the overseer-slave removed me from the pillory. Dink put a leash on my nose ring and led me toward where I’d be sleeping for the night, through the gate he had left open earlier and into my stall for the night. He took the leash off my snout ring and told me to lie down on my back with my feet toward the gate. He then bound my limbs with chains attached to the walls of the stable. “What if I have to piss?” I asked him. “Then piss,” was his answer. All I’d be able to do is piss myself during the night.

“There is water right here, just suck on this.” He held a hose with a nipple, like the kind you might use to give a young farm animal, and gave it to me to suck some water from. When I’d had my fill, he put the hose and nipple near my head, such that I could reach it with my mouth or with my right hand, as the chain that bound my right arm had some slack to it. I think the key reason for the chains was that I could not reach my cock, as if I would anyway, the way it was bound.

Dink turned off the light, walked out of the stall, closed the gate, and left me there for the night.

I was locked in without a real bed or blanket. But it wasn’t cold. Perhaps the room was heated, or was it just from the body heat emanating from so many slaves in the building?

What was I lying on? Soft, loamy soil, it seemed to me. Some type of earthen material. It was reasonably comfortable and also wasn’t cold, but rather somewhat warm. I didn’t put much thought into why. Rather, I just took stock of my situation, relaxed into it, accepted it as right and good for a slave like me, and tried to allow myself to fall asleep, as I needed to be well rested and “ready to slave at first light.”

Sleep didn’t come easily. Thoughts zoomed around my head. My backside burned from the flogging. I couldn’t toss and turn, being bound the way I was, but my mind could toss and turn from one thing to another. It stopped, however, as that stream of blue light made itself known to me again. Was I imagining it? Was there really a ribbon of blue light flowing from out of nowhere and right to me? From the far reaches of the universe it came. Right to me. It found my mouth, and my lips parted. I welcomed it. Right into my nostrils and eyes, too. Right into my navel, like an umbilical cord. Right into my piss slit. The light filled my cock and balls and took them over.

And the light went up my ass. From there, it reached all my body’s interior, through veins and arteries, taking over organs, bones and cells, taking me over, becoming me, owning me. Or was it the real me simply lighting up, coming to full life, coming to light, coming alive? Let it happen, I told myself. It felt peaceful, natural, right. The light calmed me, made me feel a part of it all, whatever “it all” is. It made me feel like I belonged right where I was within the whole realm of existence.

Belonging is a good feeling, to be a part of something, to fit somewhere. I had always felt like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that had nowhere to fit, but now I had a place to fit. My one place to fit. The stream of blue light seemed to be telling me that I belonged right where I was, that I was in exactly the right place, that all was well and good, that I was where I was supposed to be, that I was alive and well.

In surrendering to complete slavery, to a total lack of control, I had jumped off my precipice only to find that, out of nowhere, a track appeared below me, building itself one step ahead of me, to support me, to take me where I needed to go, safely. These thoughts were comforting and relaxing. I drifted off into a deep sleep, having become full of, having become the, blue light. The inside of me radiated, and I felt radiant. In the right place. Connected via a blue light. Am I a slave to the blue light? Is slavery my light? Am I the light? A part of the light?

“Open up your darkness, for beyond it is your light,” one of the Slave Center instructors had told me many years ago. “Somewhere, though tightly closed up and hidden it may be, the light is there. Your light.”

My light. My blue light. Confirming who I am. Slave. I fit in with everything, as slave. Slave, that’s me. And it is good. Slave light is good.