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 Four

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.

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Master reached for the slave dish, took off the thin cardboard cover and lowered the pie tin like dish to the cement, right in front of the mat upon which his slave was kneeling. “Dig in, faggot.”

And so it did. It ate the lukewarm mush like a good animal, as if getting the food down was all-important. It didn’t taste like much, but it felt good to eat for Master. To nourish the body that serves Master, that’s reason the faggot eats.

“A little more water to wash it down,” Master stated, and he gave this slave another drink from his bottle before firmly placing his mule bit back where it belongs, quite tightly, it seemed to this slave. His mule appreciated it.

Master stood up from his dining table, having already paid the bill, and told his slave to hold its position on all fours. Then, he did something he had never down before. With his left hand he lifted his new mule tail high above the small of his slave back, revealing the butt plug portion of the tail as well as the bare assed bottom of the mule. He gave a little tug on the tail just to jostle to the plug in his slave. He knew his faggot would like. Master is so kind. Then, he again unsnapped the cane he keeps at his waist. He flicked it a couple times and then landed a hard shot right on his slave ass, sending a line of fire across both buns, on the tender area just below the slave asshole and plug. “Good slave,” he said calmly. “Good slave.”

He flicked the cane harmlessly through the air again, and then struck his mule ass again, and again. Then another. He took a brief pause and struck the fifth and hardest blow. This slave retained its position on all fours, but barely. “Good pack mule.” He must have taken a moment to admire the marks he left on his slave ass, for he soon added, “I love red stripes on my slave. They make me feel good.”

He rested a moment and then began, “Now, my animal has a couple miles to walk with a fairly heavy load, so I am going to provide it one more strike, to keep my slave right and focused on what I need. Here it comes.” He paused only momentarily, and then he struck the hardest blow yet, and wow was it intense, full on across both butt cheeks, below the base of his mule tail.

He guided his slave through its current sensations, “Let my animal live freely. No holding back. I own it all.”

Again, he waited for a bit, seemingly just taking in a pleasant moment.

“Kneel,” he then ordered, and this slave did. It was breathing heavily through the bit and long gone in animal headspace, or whatever one calls. This was a pack mule and nothing more.

Master began placing the mule pack back where it belongs. He seemed comfortable with and adept at placing all the straps where they need to be. The slave snorted. The caning had helped release its inner animal. Master sure knew how to care for his slave.

He then stepped in front of his mule and brought the clip of his leash up to his mule snout. He clipped it in place, and with his hand holding the leash up close to his mule face, he gave a gentle upward tug and said, “Rise.” And his slave rose, with some help from Master pulling up on the leash, all the way to being back on the heights of the hoof boots.

As it stood for the first time in about 30 minutes or so, and even though it was in a complete animal mind space, this slave noticed, as it glanced around, the setting it was in. Master held his slave by a leash through its slave nose. It was totally hairless and naked all over, except for the slave accoutrements. It’s animal cock was fully erect, and there it stood in front of a sidewalk cafe, having just eaten as an animal, having just been briefly caned on the ass with a half dozen good strokes of Master’s authority, with pedestrians passing by, as well as cars, and with some diners admiring the view of a well-trained pack mule.

Master made sure his pack mule had a sense of balance and then said, “Move.” And so we began the walk home.

Master walked along for a block and then turned the corner toward his home. This slave then realized that Master was, after eating in a new place, taking a different route home. His pack mule didn’t care, of course, but as he neared the boulevard that Master needed to cross in order to get home, this slave saw the store sign for where its real life began: The Slave Center. It was exactly at this location that this slave, previously a free person, accepted itself and surrendered to its slavery.

As we neared the boulevard, a man came up and seemed to walk alongside Master for a moment before saying, “Hey, you’re Matt, aren’t you? How’re you doing? Wow, we haven’t seen each other since college!”

My master stopped walking and responded in a friendly fashion, “Hey, it’s Peter, right?”

“Yeah, yeah! Cool, you remember. Nice slave you’ve got there!”

“Thanks. It was my dad’s, but I inherited it when he died a few years ago.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that, but glad you’ve got yourself a nice young slave. You should be able to have service out of this faggot for basically your whole life!”

“Yeah, and I love owning it! It’s a good faggot.”

“Are you headed to The Slave Center?”

“No, I live just a couple miles from here. I’m heading home now.”

“Cool. I work at The Slave Center. I’m training to be a Slave Trainer someday. Did you ever take a class at The Slave Center?”

“Yeah, when my dad was alive he wouldn’t let me handle this slave without first taking some workshops. Then, when he had cancer, he told me he’d leave this slave to me but that I had to take more classes.”

“Wow, that’s great! That’s a wise dad. What classes did you take?”

“It was one of those short series of workshops The Slave Center offers. It was called something like, “The Care and Handling of a True Faggot.”

“Oh, yeah, I know one of the Masters teaching that now. It’s a good series.”

“It worked for me. I learned a lot.”

Peter stepped behind Master’s pack mule and noticed the cane marks, the welts, across the pack mule ass. “These are fresh. Have you had some problems with your faggot today?”

“No, no, not at all. I just use basic discipline techniques. They really keep the slave going. It likes getting caned, and I prefer to cane my slave when it is especially good, to let it know it earned it and that I am happy with it. It’s a positive reinforcement. My faggot always gets hard with a good caning,” Master chuckled.

“I believe it. Look at it now!”

This slave had a full on mule erection, though this mule itself had not even been aware of it until the men mentioned it. Its erections generally mattered to no one.

Now at the front side of this slave, Peter noticed the tattoo work at the slave pubic area. Where there would be pubic hair on a man, there were words in a simple half circular design tattooed there: “Serve, honor, obey” the tattoo proclaimed, with “obey” being the largest and most prominent word, placed at the diameter forming the bottom of a half circle just above the base of the slave cock. It’s the official faggot motto of The Slave Center, the proper motto for any faggot, some people say.

“Wow, that’s cool! So, you’re a supporter of The Slave Center! Good to know. That tattoo says it all, doesn't it! Well, hey, Matt. It was great running into you, but I’ve got to get to work. I’m participating in a Mastery class right after my shift, too. I’ve got to run.”

“Okay, well, see you around.”

But before rushing away, Peter added, “Hey, you know The Slave Center is always looking for Masters willing to give demonstrations in their Mastery-slavery classes. Maybe you should think about bringing in your faggot and giving a guest presentation.”

“Hmm. Never thought about that. Maybe.”

Peter took my Master’s phone number, then the two men parted ways. Master resumed his walk home, with his pack mule in tow.

Being a mule, this slave didn’t really think about how much a walk it had ahead of it, but in retrospect it figured it was more than two miles, perhaps two and half miles. Master held it by the leash attached through the pack mule septum and walked almost casually, like he was in no hurry to get home. He sure seems to like running his Saturday morning errands with his pack mule.

We came to the big boulevard as the light changed to red. So, this slave stood there waiting as traffic went by. A few pedestrians crossed the street on the opposite light, taking no notice of Master and his pack mule. One man, however, said, “Nice mule, dude,” and kept walking.

Before the light turned green, Master said something softly and stunning, something he had never said before. He almost whispered in his slave ear: “This is your life, my slave. For decades to come.” Master may have wondered if that felt gratifying to his slave. It did.

His pack mule walked all the way home with a kind of bounce in its step. When he came to his house, Master led his pack mule through the gate leading to his backyard. He entered his house using the sliding glass door to the kitchen. He pulled his mule in with him and said, “Kneel, faggot.” This slave did so, its knees resting upon the kitchen throw rug. “Such a good pack mule,” he added, kind of affectionately, like one talks to a pet dog. Then, he quietly removed the mule pack from his slave back and placed it on the kitchen floor. Then he removed the bit in his slave mouth but left his leash clipped through his slave septum. He retrieved the slave water bottle, the one he keeps on his kitchen counter, the one with the big nipple, placed it in his slave mouth for a long and needed drink before saying, “Put my stuff away, slave.” He was standing right in front of his slave, so this slave followed its impulse and reached its slave face out to his free hand and kissed it, lovingly, respectfully. He didn’t say anything in response, but this slave had a sense that he noted it and liked it.

This slave, with the 6 foot leash trailing from its nose, put away all of Master’s groceries, but it put his Home Depot purchases on his kitchen table. This slave knew it was not allowed anywhere except on his tiled kitchen floor when it was a dirty mule.

Master went to some other room in his house while his slave put all his purchases away. When he returned, in about 20 minutes or so, he was wearing only his swim trunks and carrying some print reading material. Whenever he was outside on his patio, he preferred to read printed material rather than material on a screen. Once he was back in his kitchen, he grabbed a beverage from his refrigerator but didn’t open it.

“Finished, faggot?” He looked into the mule pack, saw that it was empty, folded it and put it away. “Stable,” was all he said as he went out onto his patio. His mule followed. He stood near the hitching post just outside his small stable, and his mule went to be with him. He took the leash draping from his mule snout and wrapped much of it around the hitching post. He knelt on one knee and began to remove the pack mule boots. It was now a strange feeling for this slave to stand on both feet without those boots. He then removed the leash from the hitching post and led his slave into the stable. Once he had his slave in the stable, he ordered it onto all fours. His slave obeyed as his right hand grabbed the base of the mule tail up his slave ass. “Yeah, I like this tail. It suits my slave fine.”

He seemed to fondle the tail lovingly and even jiggled the plug playfully. He knows how to give his faggot pleasure.

“Yeah, I like it, but it is time to come out.” He applied some pressure, but the plug was not about to pop out too easily. “Give it to me, slave,” he ordered. This slave relaxed and then expelled the plug. “Good faggot,” he noted as he took the plug and tail to his wash room just off from the kitchen. His slave felt empty.

“We’re going to enjoy the afternoon sun, slave.” So, just in its permanent slave collar and various restraints, along with the leash still trailing from its septum, this slave followed Master from his stable back to his patio.

It was a beautiful early Saturday afternoon. Master took to his favorite lounge chair, set his reading material and drink on the patio table, and ordered his slave down on the slave mat he kept next to his lounge chair. Next to the mat was a slave water bowl, just like a dog’s. He had filled it with water before he went on his errands. This slave knew it could drink from it as needed.

“Ah,” he let out, “such a great day, faggot.” He lifted both of his arms up. This slave didn’t need to wait for an order for this, so it buried its face first in one pit and then the other, soaking up his goodness. “Yeah, enjoy your master, slave. I know it does. Good slave.”

“Okay, I am going to relax for a while. My slave will serve me now by reading this. I have the latest Slave Center Journal. Look at the cover!”

This slave did. The lead story of this month’s journal was entitled: A Good Faggot Always.

“I’ve already read it, faggot. It discusses a lot of ways a faggot can be good for its owner. I agree with pretty much all the ways the article lists. A lot are pretty general, like: serve, honor, obey… and worship. But some of the things are more specific, as in precise ways to serve and various ways to demonstrate its worship. So, read it, faggot. I want it to learn that there are ways to improve itself, that there are more ways to serve me, and that it can always be better property. So, read and learn, faggot, for me. There is still more to achieve in complete slavery.”

“Master, yes, Master,” this slave said as it received the magazine from his hand. He then took his own reading material, opened it, and began to read while his slave relaxed on the slave mat, laying on its slave back, shaking out its slave legs and arms, loosening its slave muscles after a pack mule day. This slave took a deep breath, noticing the great weather and Master’s pleasant little suburban lawn and garden, as well as how nice it was to be on the patio with its master. Then this slave settled down and began to read the article.

We were home.