The next day Kent didn’t come to Lukas’s apartment at all. Instead, he drove up alongside Lukas just as he was leaving work. He ordered Lukas into the car and then took off down the street. He didn’t tell Lukas where they were going or why, he just drove. Finally, once they were on the highway, he spoke.
Lukas felt the familiar surge of arousal and excitement at the sound of Kent’s voice. Already eager to do whatever his Master wanted, he waited for Kent’s order. He shifted in his seat, his body already reacting to the presence of his Master so close to him.
Finally, after a moment, Kent spoke. His voice was harsh and commanding, already intent on reminding Lukas that he was in control. “We’ll be at Tim’s soon,” he said. He glanced over at Lukas and then back at the road. Apparently already expecting Lukas to do as he was told without question, he continued. “We’re spending the weekend there.” He paused for a moment and then added, “You’d better be naked by the time we arrive.”
Lukas obeyed, of course. He stripped off his clothes and then sat back in his seat. He let Kent look him over. Let him see the way his body was already reacting to his presence. Let him see how desperate he was to be owned and used by him. He was a slave. A piece of meat. A toy. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Finally, once Kent was satisfied that Lukas was ready, they arrived at Tim’s house. It was in a secluded area outside of town. Already hidden away from prying eyes, it was the perfect place to spend a weekend of torment and degradation. Perfect for two young sadists with a slave to use.
They climbed out of the car and Kent led Lukas inside. Tim was already there, apparently waiting for them. He looked Lukas over. Already laughing at his obvious desperation and humiliation, he spoke to Kent. “Well, well, well,” he began with a smirk. “What do we have here?” He glanced back at Lukas, his eyes filled with cruelty and amusement. “Looks like you brought us a plaything.”
Kent chuckled. Apparently just as amused as his friend, he shrugged. Already intent on making sure Tim knew just who was in charge, he spoke. His voice was arrogant and condescending. Already used to being in control of the situation, he looked over at Tim. “He’s mine.” He ran a hand through Lukas’s hair. Already intent on proving just how much Lukas belonged to him, he looked down at his slave. Already mocking and cruel, he spoke. “Right, slave?”
Lukas lowered his gaze. Already intent on showing his devotion, he nodded. “Yes, Master.”
Kent laughed. Apparently pleased by Lukas’s obedience, he looked back up at Tim. Apparently already intent on adding to Lukas’s humiliation, he spoke once more. “And since you’re here, I’m going to let you play with him too.”
Tim and Kent both laughed again. They looked Lukas over once more and then led him into the house. They moved into the living room, apparently uncaring of the fact that there was already someone else there. Finn, Tim’s younger brother, was sitting on the couch. He was playing a video game, apparently engrossed in his task.
At sixteen, Finn was already on his way to becoming as much of a sadist as his brother. He loved the idea of causing pain and torment. He loved watching the videos Tim had shown him. He loved the power and control that the men in the films had over the people they were hurting. And he wanted that for himself. He wanted the power. He wanted a slave of his own. But he couldn’t have one. Not yet. Not before he get eighteen.
He looked up from his game as he heard his brother and Kent come in. He took in the sight of Kent and Tim and then his gaze moved to Lukas. He stared for a moment in obvious surprise.
His eyes moved over Lukas’s naked body. They took in the obvious signs of ownership and humiliation. He could see the bruises and welts that covered Lukas’s skin. He could see the cage around Lukas’s cock. And he liked what he saw.
He looked back over at Tim and Kent. Apparently intrigued by what he was seeing, he raised his eyebrows. He spoke, his tone mocking and amused. “Who’s that?” he asked, his gaze already going back to Lukas.
Tim smirked as well. Apparently already amused by his brother’s reaction to Lukas’s degradation, he glanced back at his slave. “Who?” he replied in a sarcastic tone. He chuckled again and then continued. Already intent on adding even more to Lukas’s humiliation, if that was even possible, he spoke. “You mean what?” His smirk turned to a cruel smile. Apparently already enjoying himself, he went on. “That’s not a who, Finn. That’s a what. And it’s just a toy. Nothing more.”
Finn glanced back over at the toy in question. Already intrigued by what his brother had just said, he raised his eyebrows once more. Apparently already curious about what was going on, he looked up at Kent and Tim. “A toy?” he questioned.
Kent nodded. Apparently just as pleased as Tim by the fact that Lukas’s torment was being dragged out even longer, he gestured to Lukas once again. “Yes.” His voice was condescending and cruel. Already intent on reminding Lukas, as well as Finn, who was really in control of things, he spoke again, his words already filled with mockery and amusement. “A toy I own.” He paused for a second and then added, “And you can play with him if you want. He’s yours to use this weekend too.” Already laughing again, apparently already knowing exactly what would happen next, he turned and sat with Tim on the sofa.
Finn’s eyes gleamed with sadism. Finally, he had what he’d been waiting for. Finally, he got to be the one in control. To be the one who owned someone else. To make them beg and plead and cry out for him.
He got up from the sofa and walked over to Lukas. He stood in front of his brother’s toy for a moment. He ran his eyes over Lukas’s body once again. And then, in one single word, he gave his first order. “Kneel.”
The humiliation and degradation of having to kneel in front of a boy that was more than ten years his junior was profound. Lukas felt it all the way to his core. It made him want to cry. To beg for mercy. But it was useless. He belonged to a sadist. A cruel and reckless young man who enjoyed causing pain. And this was what his Master wanted from him. This was his life now. And he would do whatever it took to please him. To be what his Master wanted him to be. His slave. His property.
He knelt on the floor in front of Finn. He lowered his gaze as well. Already intent on showing Finn exactly how submissive he really was, he shifted on his knees. Already desperate to prove his devotion to his new Master, he spoke, his voice already pleading and desperate. “Yes, Master.” He gazed up at Finn once more.
Finn cut him off. Apparently already intent on making things even worse for Lukas, he glared down at him. Apparently already enjoying the fact that he could order Lukas around and do whatever he wanted to him, he spoke, his own voice filled with arrogance and mockery. “Master?” He laughed. Apparently already amused that Lukas had actually thought that he would ever refer to anyone as young as Finn as his Master, he shook his head. His own smirk turned cruel as well. Apparently intent on adding even more humiliation to Lukas’s suffering, he went on. Already enjoying every second of it, he looked down his nose at Lukas. “I am not a Master,” he said, his tone harsh and condescending. “I am the Great Lord. And unless you want to be punished, you had better call me that every time that you speak to me.”
Lukas gazed up at Finn. Already desperate to do anything that his new Master wanted, he lowered his gaze once more. Already intent on showing just how much he was willing to debase himself for his Master, he nodded. He would do anything. Give anything. He was the property of a sadist now. And that meant doing whatever they wanted. Whatever they told him to. And he would obey. He had no choice. He belonged to them. And he was their slave.
“Yes, my Lord,” he replied, his voice soft and submissive.
Finn smirked. Apparently already pleased by Lukas’s submissive behavior, he stood tall and imposing over Lukas, a cruel smile still playing across his lips. “Good,” he said after a moment. His tone was harsh and cruel. Already intent on degrading and humiliating Lukas even more, he went on, apparently already used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “Now, introduce yourself,” he ordered.
Lukas opened his mouth to reply. He started to introduce himself as he would to anyone else. “I’m Luca—” But before he could finish, Finn’s hand connected with his cheek in a vicious slap. It caught him off guard and the force of it snapped his head to the side. It took his breath away and he was left reeling from the unexpected pain.
He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Why he’d been punished like that. He’d only been doing as he’d been told. Introducing himself to his new Master. That was what Finn had wanted. So why had he been punished?
He looked up at Finn, already desperate for answers. Already terrified of making another mistake. He was supposed to do what he was told.
Finn looked down at him, already amused by Lukas’s fear and confusion. He raised his eyebrows and then spoke again. Already intent on giving Lukas another chance to do as he’d been told, he repeated his order. “Introduce yourself,” he said again.
Lukas swallowed. His heart beat faster in his chest. Already terrified of the consequences if he failed, he opened his mouth once again. “My name is Luk—”
Before he could even finish his first word, Finn slapped him again. This time the blow was even harder than the first. It knocked the air out of Lukas’s lungs and made his ears ring. It brought tears to his eyes and he could taste blood in his mouth.
Finn looked down at Lukas with a cruel smirk. Already amused by Lukas’s pain and confusion, he spoke again. His tone was condescending and mocking as he asked Lukas a question. Apparently intent on prolonging the torment as long as possible, he looked down at Lukas. Already laughing again, he asked, “Since when do things have names? Names are for people. Not for things like you.”
Lukas shuddered. Already desperate to do whatever Finn wanted, to avoid any further pain, he nodded. Already intent on doing exactly as he’d been told this time, he looked back up at Finn. He bowed his head once more and then spoke. His voice trembled as he replied, already intent on pleasing his Master. “I apologize, my Lord,” he said softly.
Finn chuckled. Already pleased that Lukas was doing as he was told, he gestured for Lukas to continue. Already intent on drawing the torment out for as long as he could, he spoke once again. His smirk widened as he did. Already amused by the obvious fear in Lukas’s eyes, he looked down at him and gave the order once more. “Now present yourself properly,” he said.
Lukas nodded. Already desperate to please his Master, to do exactly as he’d been told, to avoid another cruel slap, he swallowed again. Already intent on not making another mistake, he took a moment to gather himself. And then he did as he’d been told.
“I’m a tool,” he said finally. His gaze was lowered again and his voice shook with fear and need. “I belong to my owner, Kent. He found me a couple weeks ago and I’ve been his slave ever since.” He took a deep breath, apparently already dreading the pain of yet another slap. Already sure he’d said something wrong once again, he finished. Already begging for mercy, he pleaded with his Master. “Please forgive me, my Lord, if I have made another mistake. I only want to serve you.” His voice shook again as he added one more thing. Apparently intent on making Finn see just how devoted he really was, just how submissive, he said, “Please punish me if I have failed you.”
Finn laughed. Apparently pleased and amused by Lukas’s obvious desperation to please him, he reached out and ran his fingers through Lukas’s hair once again. Apparently already used to treating others as nothing more than his property, he chuckled. Already intent on taking advantage of Lukas’s devotion for his own pleasure, he pulled on Lukas’s hair, making him look up. “Very good,” he praised, already taking pleasure in his slave’s humiliation.
Lukas shifted again. Already eager to do whatever his Master wanted, apparently already aroused by his own degradation, he waited for Finn to give him another order. To tell him what he wanted from his new slave.
Kent laughed as well, apparently already amused by the scene unfolding in front of him. He turned to Tim and spoke. Already pleased by how well Finn was handling his first real slave, apparently intent on pointing it out to his friend, he smirked. “Your little brother’s doing quite well,” he said with a laugh. He glanced over at Finn and then back at Tim, apparently already expecting to see the same pride on Tim’s face.
Tim chuckled as well. He watched as Finn ran his fingers through Lukas's hair and then added his own praise. Already proud of his younger brother for doing so well, apparently intent on letting him know, he nodded. His own voice was filled with amusement as he replied. “Yes,” he agreed. “He’s naturally gifted.”
Finn pulled on Lukas's hair again, forcing him to look up once more. Already taking advantage of his new position of power, apparently intent on tormenting his slave even more, if possible, he laughed as well. Already mocking and cruel, his tone was condescending as he turned to speak to Kent. Apparently intent on comparing himself favorably to his older brother, he glanced over at Tim and then back down at Lukas again. He gestured to Lukas with his free hand. Already amused by the idea that he might be better at being a Master than his older brother, apparently intent on making sure Kent and Tim knew it, he spoke. His smirk turned cruel again as he said, “That thing you’ve got isn’t bad.” He laughed and then went on, already intent on adding insult to injury. Already intent on humiliating Lukas as much as he could. “It just needs a little bit of taming.”
Kent chuckled again as well. Already impressed by how well Finn was doing with his first slave, apparently intent on rewarding him, if only with a bit of praise, he nodded. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you could do that for me,” he said. He looked Finn over once again and then back to Tim. Apparently already confident that Finn would do what he promised, apparently already eager to see just how far the younger brother would go, he added, “After all, I’ve seen that you’re doing quite well already.” His own smirk turned arrogant and condescending as well as he said it, apparently already confident in his own assessment.
Finn laughed again. Apparently intent on proving that he was worthy of Kent’s praise, apparently just as cruel and sadistic as his older brother, he nodded as well. Already apparently used to the idea of owning and using slaves, apparently already as much of a sadist as Kent and Tim were, he ran his fingers through Lukas' hair once more. His touch was gentle for only a moment, but it didn't last.
Already apparently eager to start the taming process, already intent on breaking Lukas and bending him to his will, he yanked on Lukas’ hair again. His grip was harsh and painful this time, apparently intent on proving a point. Apparently already as cruel as his older brother and his best friend. He laughed again. Already amused by his own cruelty, apparently already intent on showing off his skills to Kent and Tim, he spoke to Lukas, his tone cruel and condescending once more. “Stand up, slave,” he ordered. “Let’s see if you can be trained properly.” His smirk turned cruel once more.
Lukas obeyed at once, of course. He stood up as he’d been told to. He kept his gaze lowered as he waited for Finn’s next order. Already desperate to do what Finn wanted. To prove himself worthy of the taming Finn would give him.
Finally, after a moment, Finn gave another order. Apparently already intent on getting things started, apparently already used to having his every wish obeyed, he pointed towards the stairs. Apparently already expecting Lukas to do as he was told without question, he gestured again. “Follow me, slave,” he said. Already arrogant and condescending, apparently uncaring of Lukas's feelings or well-being, he turned towards the stairs and started walking.
Lukas followed him, of course. Already intent on obeying Finn’s every command, already used to the humiliation and torment that came with belonging to a sadist, he stayed a few steps behind Finn as they walked up the stairs. He waited as Finn opened a door at the end of the hall. He watched as his new Master moved inside.
Finn stopped in the center of the room. It was obviously his bedroom. He turned back to look at Lukas. Apparently already eager to start Lukas’ training, apparently already intent on degrading him even more than he already had, he spoke. His tone was still condescending and harsh. Apparently already used to ordering his slaves around and having them do exactly what he said, he spoke once more. “Get on all fours,” he ordered Lukas. His voice brooked no argument. Apparently already expecting to be obeyed without hesitation, he watched Lukas for another moment and then said, “Now.”
Lukas did as he was told. He got down on his hands and knees. He felt the hard wood of the floor beneath him. It dug into his skin and pressed against his knees. It was uncomfortable. Painful, even. But he didn't move. He stayed where he was, already waiting for Finn’s next command.
Finn stepped closer. He walked around Lukas in a slow circle. Apparently taking his time, apparently intent on enjoying his new position of power as much as he possibly could, he finally stopped in front of Lukas once more. He spoke again, his voice still condescending. Already used to treating people as less than human, apparently already intent on reminding Lukas of his place, he gestured to himself. Apparently intent on having Lukas refer to him as he wanted to be referred to, apparently already intent on taking advantage of the fact that Lukas would do whatever he was told, he spoke. “Now that we’re alone, I think it’s time you started showing your Great Lord the proper respect.” He paused and then added, apparently uncaring of the fact that he was degrading Lukas even more with his words, apparently intent on reminding him of his place once again, “After all,” he added, his smirk cruel as he said it, “You wouldn’t want to offend your Great Lord, now would you?”
Lukas lowered his gaze again. He shook his head. Already desperate to avoid punishment, apparently already knowing exactly what Finn was trying to do, he spoke. Apparently already aware of what Finn wanted to hear, apparently already intent on giving it to him, he replied, “No, my Lord.” He paused for only a second and then asked, apparently already hoping to avoid the punishment he knew was coming, apparently already desperate to please Finn as much as he could, “How can I show you the respect you deserve, my Lord?”
Finn chuckled again. Apparently pleased by Lukas's obvious devotion, apparently already excited by the thought of what he was going to do to his slave, he walked over to his closet. He took out a whip and then moved back in front of Lukas.
Apparently already intent on punishing and degrading his slave, apparently already enjoying himself, he held out the whip. He ran the end of it over Lukas’ skin. He dragged it across his back, already savoring the fear in Lukas' eyes. “I'm going to whip you,” he said. Apparently uncaring of the pain he was about to cause, he continued. His voice was harsh as he gave Lukas his first order. “And after every lash,” he said, apparently already intent on humiliating and degrading Lukas even further, apparently already used to punishing and tormenting those around him, apparently already sadistic to the core, “You’re going to say ‘I am just a thing owned by my betters.’ Do you understand, slave?”
Lukas nodded again. Already desperate to obey Finn’s orders, apparently already resigned to his fate, apparently already humiliated and degraded beyond anything he’d ever experienced before, he replied, his voice trembling with fear. “Yes, my Lord,” he promised. Already eager to please his new Master, apparently already aware of the pain that was to come, he braced himself for the first lash of the whip.
Finn struck. He lashed the whip across Lukas’s back. It cut through the air and then landed against Lukas’s skin. It stung. It burned. It brought tears of pain to Lukas’s eyes. It made him cry out and whine, but he did as he’d been ordered to.
He repeated the phrase Finn had given him. Already humiliated and shamed, apparently already broken and tormented beyond what he ever could have imagined, he spoke. Already degraded and owned, apparently already aware that he would never again be free, he did as he’d been told. “I am just a thing,” he whimpered. His voice shook as he continued, apparently already overwhelmed by the pain and humiliation he was enduring, apparently already owned completely by his new Master. “Owned by my betters.”
Finn whipped him again. The second lash was just as painful as the first, if not more so. It tore across Lukas’s flesh. It bit into him like fire. It made his skin burn and ache with pain. But he took it. He endured it. He knew that if he didn’t, the punishment would be even worse. So he stayed still. He didn’t try to get away. He only took the pain. The humiliation. The degradation. He let Finn break him. He let himself be owned. And it hurt. It hurt so much. But he wanted it. He wanted to be owned and controlled. He wanted to serve his Master in any way he could. He was a slave. A piece of meat. A thing. A toy. Nothing more. And he belonged to a sadist.
Finn whipped Lukas again and again. Each time he did, he made Lukas say the words. Each time, Lukas repeated them. His voice grew weaker. His body grew more and more tired. The pain was overwhelming. It consumed him. It made him want to beg for mercy. To plead for it to stop. But he knew it wouldn't. He knew Finn wouldn't stop. Not until he was done. Not until Lukas had been trained exactly the way Finn wanted him to be. And he could do nothing but obey.
Finally, once Finn had whipped Lukas ten times he stopped. Apparently satisfied that his slave had learned exactly what he’d wanted him to, he dropped the whip. It landed on the floor with a dull thud. Already intent on moving on to the next part of Lukas' training, he spoke again, apparently already eager to torment his slave even more. To degrade and humiliate him as much as he possibly could.
Lukas waited, already bracing himself for whatever Finn had planned next. Already dreading whatever pain and humiliation his new Master had in store for him. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He belonged to Finn now. He was his slave. His property. His to do with as he pleased. And he would. There was nothing Lukas could do about it. He would just have to suffer through whatever Finn chose to do to him. And he knew it would be bad. Terrible, even. Finn was a sadist. He enjoyed causing pain. And Lukas was his slave. The perfect outlet for all of that sadism. And Lukas would take it. All of it. No matter how much it hurt or how badly he wanted it to stop.
Lukas whimpered, every muscle screaming as he dragged himself across the floor. The welts from the whip sang a symphony of fire across his back and thighs. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, a show of submission even in his agony. To falter, to show anything less than total obedience, would only invite more.
He reached the corner Finn had indicated, a dusty junction of pale blue walls. The paint was chipped low down, and the carpet smelled faintly of old dust and something else—something chemical and sour. He positioned himself on his knees, the rough carpet fibers digging into his already abused skin. Then, with a final, shuddering breath, he leaned forward until the cool, slightly gritty surface of the wall met the bridge of his nose. He pressed his forehead against it, closing his eyes.
The position was profoundly demeaning. It reduced him to nothing—a piece of furniture, an object placed and forgotten in a corner. He was no longer a person in a room; he was an ornament of punishment.
From behind him, he heard Finn’s soft, satisfied chuckle. The sound was close, followed by the rustle of fabric as Finn sat on the edge of his bed. “There,” Finn said, his voice dripping with a casual cruelty that was somehow worse than Tim’s heated barbs or Kent’s icy commands. “That’s where you belong. A thing for decoration. A kneeling statue for my amusement.”
Lukas didn’t dare respond. He focused on the texture of the wall against his skin, the faint smell of old plaster. He focused on keeping his breathing even, on not trembling too visibly. He could feel Finn’s eyes on him, boring into the fresh stripes on his back, enjoying the tableau of submission.
“You’re going to stay like that,” Finn continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Until I decide you’ve learned your place. And if your nose comes away from that wall… if I see so much as a millimeter of daylight between your face and the plaster… we start the whipping again from the beginning. Do you understand, *thing*?”
The word ‘thing’ was a needle plunged into the heart of Lukas’s humiliation. It stripped him of the last vestiges of personhood Finn had deigned to grant him moments before. He wasn’t a slave, a toy, a possession. He was a ‘thing’. An ‘it’.
“Yes, my Lord,” Lukas whispered, his voice muffled by the wall. The title felt even heavier now, more absolute.
“Louder.”
“Yes, my Lord!” Lukas repeated, forcing volume into his battered voice.
He heard the creak of the bed as Finn shifted, then the sound of a phone being unlocked. A tinny, aggressive music started playing—some video game soundtrack. Finn had gone back to his game. Lukas was already forgotten, a solved problem, a punished pet left in the corner.
The reality of his situation settled over him, colder than the wall against his skin. He was kneeling in the bedroom of a sixteen-year-old sadist, nose pressed to the wall, while the boy ignored him and played games. The degradation was complete, absolute, and strangely formalized. It wasn’t a frenzied beating in a moment of passion; it was a cold, administrative punishment. He was a chore that had been dealt with.
Time lost all meaning. The fire in his back dulled to a deep, throbbing ache. His knees began to scream a new protest against the hard floor. A trickle of sweat traced a path down his temple, tickling unbearably, but he didn’t move. He listened to the frantic *tap-tap-tap* of Finn’s thumbs on the controller, the occasional muttered curse or exclamation of victory. He was less than the dust in the room. He was a fixture.
He heard the bedroom door open. Tim’s voice, laced with amused curiosity, filtered in. “Still breaking it in?”
Finn’s response was a lazy, dismissive snort. “Just letting it marinate. It’s learning where it belongs.”
A low laugh from Tim. “Good. Kent’s impressed. Thinks you’ve got a real knack for it.”
The praise, delivered over his head as if he weren’t there, sent a contradictory thrill through Lukas’s exhaustion. Even in this state—cornered, whipped, reduced to an ‘it’—he had *pleased*. He had fulfilled a function. The approval of his owners, even second-hand, was a drop of water in a desert of pain.
The door closed again, leaving him alone with Finn and the electronic sounds of a digital battle. He pressed his nose harder against the wall, embracing the small, sharp pain of it. This was his world now.
The sound of the game paused. Lukas heard the soft thud of the controller being set down, then the shift of weight on the bed. Finn’s footsteps were quiet on the carpet, approaching him from behind.
Lukas didn’t move. He kept his nose pressed to the wall, his breath coming in shallow, controlled pants. He was a statue. A thing.
A weight settled across his lower back, just above the curve of his buttocks. It was firm, deliberate. The weight resolved into pressure – the sole of a sneaker, still warm from Finn’s foot. Finn shifted, getting comfortable, and the weight redistributed. Now both of Finn’s feet were resting on him, one on his lower back, the other propped higher, its heel digging slightly into the fresh, raised welts from the whip.
The pain was immediate and shocking, a bright, sharp lance through the duller ache. Lukas couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath, a tiny, strangled sound that escaped his lips before he could clamp down on it.
Finn heard it. A low, pleased chuckle vibrated through the feet resting on him. “Comfortable, *thing*?” Finn asked, his voice dripping with mock concern. He wiggled his toes, the motion grinding the shoe’s rubber tread into Lukas’s torn skin.
Lukas squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Yes, my Lord,” he forced out, the words strained. “Thank you, my Lord.”
“Good.” Finn sighed, a sound of deep contentment. The pressure increased as Finn leaned back, settling his full weight onto his human footrest. Lukas’s spine protested, his muscles trembling with the effort of staying perfectly still, of not buckling under the weight of the boy. The heel on his welts was agony, a focused point of fire.
He could smell the faint odor of sweat and synthetic fabric from Finn’s socks, the clean-laundry scent of his jeans. He was close enough to feel the heat of Finn’s legs through his clothes. He was being used as furniture, as an object of convenience. The conceptual degradation of kneeling in the corner crystallized into a brutal, physical reality. He wasn't just *like* a footstool; he *was* one.
Finn resumed his game. The *tap-tap-tap* of the controller started again, accompanied by the game's sounds. Every so often, Finn would shift, adjusting his position, digging a heel in or rolling an arch across Lukas's spine. Each movement was a fresh jolt of pain, a reminder of his purpose.
Lukas focused on the wall. He focused on the weight. He focused on the smell of Finn’s socks. He absorbed it all, metabolizing the humiliation into a strange, dark fuel. This was his function. To bear weight. To provide comfort. To be unnoticed and essential, like the floorboards beneath Finn’s bed. The pain was proof of his utility. The disrespect was the price of belonging.
He was Finn’s footrest. And in that moment, it was the only thing in the world he was meant to be.
The weight on Lukas’s back shifted. Finn’s feet lifted slightly, then one shoe pressed firmly against the side of Lukas’s head, pinning his cheek to the wall. It wasn’t a kick, not yet, but a promise of force.
“What are you now?” Finn’s voice came from above, calm and instructional, as if quizzing him on a simple fact.
The script was already written in fire across Lukas’s mind. He recited it, his voice flat and obedient against the wall. “I am just a thing owned by my betters.”
The shoe against his head pushed harder, grinding his face into the plaster. Then, with a swift, sharp motion, Finn’s other foot drove into Lukas’s ribs. It wasn’t a full-force kick, but a precise, punishing jab of the toe. The air left Lukas’s lungs in a pained grunt.
“Wrong.” Finn’s tone was one of mild correction, like a teacher pointing out a basic error. The foot on his head eased its pressure. “You are *currently* a footstool for the Great Lord Finn. You will acknowledge what you are *in the moment*. A thing has functions. A footstool’s function is to be stood upon. That is your present function. So. Again.”
He let the instruction hang in the air. The implied threat of another, harder kick was palpable.
Lukas dragged a ragged breath into his aching lungs. The pain in his side was a bright, specific counterpoint to the broader agony of his whipped back. This was a new layer, a refinement of the torture. It wasn’t enough to be a generic ‘thing’; he had to be the correct *type* of thing at any given second. His identity was now situational, dictated entirely by his owner’s immediate use for him.
He pressed his nose back to the wall, the original command still in effect. He spoke to the plaster, his voice clearer now, stripped of any attempt at the previous, more general submission. “I am a footstool for the Great Lord Finn.”
“Better.” The approval was clinical. The weight returned to Lukas’s back, Finn settling in once more. The lesson was delivered. The training was underway. Lukas was learning to name himself not by his essence, but by his transient, utilitarian purpose. A footstool now. Later, perhaps a spitoon, a doormat, a coat rack. A thing defined by its use.
The weight lifted from Lukas’s back. Finn stood, his shadow falling over Lukas’s hunched form in the corner. “Up,” Finn commanded, his voice devoid of the earlier instructional tone, now pure, cold authority. “Follow.”
Every movement was agony. Lukas pushed himself up from the floor, his knees screaming, his back a sheet of fire. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed on the worn carpet fibers as he shuffled after Finn, who descended the stairs with a careless, confident tread.
In the living room, Kent and Tim were sprawled on the sofa, controllers in hand, the glow of the screen painting their focused faces in shifting colors. They didn’t look up as Finn entered, followed by his limping, bleeding shadow.
“Stop there,” Finn said, pointing to a spot on the floor directly in front of the low coffee table, between the sofa and the television. Lukas obeyed, coming to a halt, his body trembling from strain and pain.
“Take off my shoes,” Finn ordered, holding out a foot.
Lukas knelt again, the motion sending fresh jolts of pain through his whipped flesh. His fingers, clumsy with exhaustion, fumbled with the laces of Finn’s sneakers. He peeled them off, one then the other, handling them with a reverence one might afford sacred relics. He placed them neatly side-by-side on the floor.
“On all fours. Here.” Finn tapped the space directly in front of the sofa with his socked foot.
Lukas moved into position, his body forming a low, trembling table. The coffee table was now ignored. Finn picked up his shoes and placed them side-by-side on the broad, flat plane of Lukas’s back. The weight was negligible compared to Finn’s feet, but the symbolism was crushing. He was not even worthy of bearing his master’s *feet* directly now; he was a shelf for the objects that touched them.
Finn settled back onto the sofa, nudging Lukas’s shoulder with his own foot to adjust the “table’s” height. Satisfied, he rested his own feet on Lukas’s thighs, completing the circuit of ownership. He picked up a spare controller.
“What are you now?” Finn asked, his eyes not on Lukas, but on the television screen as he navigated a menu.
The answer was no longer a rote phrase from the corner. It was a lived reality, pressed into his skin by the rubber soles of the shoes on his back. Lukas’s voice was a low, fervent whisper, soaked in pain and absolute surrender. “I am a table for the Great Lord Finn’s shoes.”
A smirk touched Finn’s lips. He glanced over at Kent, who had paused his game and was watching the scene with icy, analytical eyes. “What do you think?” Finn asked, a hint of pride in his voice. “He’s learning the specifics. Not just ‘a thing.’ The *right* thing for the moment.”
Kent’s gaze swept over Lukas—the welts, the obedient posture, the shoes resting on his back like a trophy. He took a sip of his beer, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Impressive,” he said, the word carrying the weight of a master craftsman acknowledging a promising apprentice’s technique. “Fast learner. You’ve got a real touch for defining function.”
Tim chuckled, not looking away from his own game. “Told you he was a natural. Just needs the right material to work with.” He kicked out lazily, his foot connecting with Lukas’s hip—not a hard blow, but a possessive tap, like testing the solidity of a piece of furniture.
Finn’s smile widened. He looked down at the back of Lukas’s head, at the shoes perfectly aligned on his spine. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “He is.” He settled deeper into the couch, getting comfortable. “Now shut up and hold still. You’re wobbling my aim.”
Lukas remained perfectly still, a table bearing its designated objects. The praise from Kent, a master acknowledging another’s handiwork, seeped into him alongside the pain. It was a vile, intoxicating cocktail.
Finn shifted, removing his feet from Lukas’s thighs. “Stand up. Put my shoes on.”
The order was so simple, so domestic, yet it carried the weight of the entire dynamic. Lukas, a table, was now being commanded to become a valet. He moved with aching slowness, each muscle protesting. First, he carefully took the shoes from his own back, placing them on the floor. Then, kneeling again before Finn, he took one sock-clad foot and guided it into a sneaker, lacing it with trembling fingers. He repeated the process with the other foot, the act of service feeling more intimate and degrading than the whipping. He was tending to the very instrument of his humiliation.
Finn stood, looking down at Lukas who remained on his knees. He gave Lukas’s shoulder a dismissive pat, like one might give a dog that had performed a simple trick. “Good. You’re learning.” He then glanced toward Kent, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll leave him to you. You probably want to have your own fun with your property. Don’t break him before my next lesson.” With that, he turned and sauntered up the stairs, leaving Lukas kneeling on the living room floor.
The focus returned to Kent and Tim. The game continued, but their conversation had shifted.
“So,” Tim said, his eyes glued to the screen as his character executed a brutal combo. “What’s the plan? We just let him kneel there looking pathetic?”
Kent took a swig of beer. “Pathetic is a start. But we should probably put some fresh marks on him. Remind him who the real owners are.” His tone was casual, discussing Lukas as if he were a car needing a tune-up.
“Whip?” Tim suggested, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “That always gets the message across. Makes ’em nice and grateful afterward.”
Kent nodded slowly, a predator evaluating options. “Yeah. A whip. But not mine. Too… familiar.” He gestured vaguely toward the stairs with his bottle. “Finn’s got a new one. Nice sting to it. Made him recite his little mantra with every hit. Cute.”
Tim chuckled. “Reciting mantras. The kid’s clever.” He finally paused his game, turning to look at Lukas, who flinched under the direct gaze. “Hey. *Thing*. Get up.”
Lukas pushed himself to his feet, his body a symphony of pain.
“Go upstairs,” Tim ordered, jerking his thumb toward the staircase. “To Finn’s room. Tell him your *owners* request the use of his training whip. The one he just used on you. Ask nicely. Bow. And then bring it to me.”
The command was a fresh vortex of humiliation. He was being sent back to his newest tormentor to borrow the instrument of his own torture for his original masters. He was an errand boy for his abusers, a conduit for his own suffering.
“Yes, Master Tim,” Lukas whispered, the title feeling strangely hollow compared to the enforced reverence of ‘Great Lord.’
“Run along,” Kent said, not even looking at him, already refocusing on the game. “And don’t dawdle. We’re not paying you by the hour.”
Lukas turned and walked toward the stairs, each step a fresh lance of pain from the whip marks. He climbed slowly, the sounds of the video game and Kent and Tim’s lazy, cruel laughter fading behind him. He stood before Finn’s closed door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He raised a shaking hand and knocked softly.
“Enter.” Finn’s voice was bored.
Lukas opened the door. Finn was lounging on his bed, phone in hand. He looked up, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Back so soon? Miss me?”
Swallowing hard, Lukas stepped inside and immediately dropped to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead touched the carpet. The posture pulled at the welts on his back, making him suck in a sharp breath.
“My Owner Kent and Master Tim,” he began, his voice muffled by the floor, “respectfully request… they request the loan of the training whip you used on this thing. So they may… continue its instruction.”
He stayed bowed, waiting. The silence stretched. He could feel Finn’s gaze on him.
Lukas remained on the floor, his forehead pressed to the carpet. The command hung in the air, a new, twisted sacrament. *Pray for it.* It wasn’t enough to fetch the instrument of his torment; he had to supplicate for it, to beg a deity of pain for its blessing.
He didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was failure. Failure was more pain. His mind, already so far down this dark path, adapted instantly. He clasped his hands together, the gesture feeling both absurd and terrifyingly sincere.
“O Great Lord Finn,” he began, his voice shaking but clear in the quiet room. “Hear the plea of your unworthy thing. I humbly beseech you… grant me the honor of bearing your tool of instruction. Let me carry the whip, that I may learn better through the pain it brings. Let it be an extension of your will, that my Masters may use it to correct my flaws. I ask this so that I may better serve you and my betters. Amen.”
The word ‘Amen’ echoed in the room, sacrilegious and perfect. He remained bowed, awaiting judgment.
From the bed, Finn let out a soft, delighted laugh. “Well, well. You’re full of surprises. That was almost convincing.” The bedsprings creaked as he stood. Lukas heard his footsteps approach, then the sound of the closet door sliding open. “Alright. Since you asked so nicely. Get up.”
Lukas pushed himself upright, his body screaming. Finn was pointing into the walk-in closet. The whip, a cruel, braided leather thing, lay coiled on a shelf. But Lukas’s eyes were drawn past it, widening slightly despite his exhaustion.
The closet was a gallery of pain. Neatly arranged on hooks and shelves were canes of varying thicknesses, a wooden paddle, several more whips, rolls of heavy-duty tape, bundles of rough rope, and a leather harness he didn’t fully understand. There were metal implements too—clamps, rings, things with sharp-looking teeth. It was not the haphazard collection of a impulsive teenager, but the curated arsenal of a dedicated enthusiast. This was a hobby, a passion. Finn didn’t just stumble into sadism; he studied it.
“Take it,” Finn said, snapping Lukas’s focus back. “And don’t drop it. That’s a good one.”
With a reverence that felt bone-deep, Lukas reached out and took the whip. The leather was still warm from Finn’s recent use. It felt heavy in his hand, dense with malicious potential. He handled it like a sacred relic, which, in this twisted world, it was.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he whispered, bowing his head again.
“Get out. And tell Kent he owes me one.”
Lukas backed out of the room, clutching the whip, his mind reeling from the glimpse into Finn’s private world. The boy wasn’t just playing at cruelty; he was an artisan.
He descended the stairs, the weight of the whip in his hand a counterpoint to the lightness of his terror. Kent and Tim were exactly where he’d left them, though Tim had paused the game. Their eyes locked onto the coil of leather in his hand.
“Took you long enough,” Tim grunted, holding out his hand.
Lukas crossed the room and presented the whip, laying it across Tim’s open palms with the same care one might use to hand over a sleeping viper.
Kent watched the transfer, his icy blue eyes calculating. “Finn give you any trouble?”
“No, Master Kent,” Lukas said, his gaze fixed on the floor between Tim’s feet. “He granted my request.”
A slow smile spread across Kent’s face. He understood the implication, the added layer of degradation Finn had concocted. “Good.” He took the whip from Tim, running his thumb along its braided length. “Now then,” he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, chilling register of command. “Since you went to all the trouble of fetching it… I suppose we should put it to use. Don’t you think?”
Kent’s smile was a cold, sharp thing. He stood, the whip uncoiling like a serpent from his hand to kiss the floor with a soft, menacing tap. “Since Finn’s started your re-education,” he said, his voice a low murmur that nonetheless filled the room, “let’s see if you remember your first lessons. From *me*.”
He circled Lukas, the braided leather trailing behind him like a tail. “Position.”
Lukas knew. He moved to the center of the room, away from the furniture. He bent over, placing his hands flat on the carpet, presenting his already ravaged back. The position pulled the whip-wounds taut, a fresh wave of fire radiating across his skin. He closed his eyes, bracing not just for pain, but for the shattering of the fragile, terrible equilibrium Finn had established. This was Kent’s domain again.
“What are you?” Kent’s question was a blade.
The answer Finn had beaten into him rose automatically. “A thing owned by my betters.” It felt like a betrayal to say it here, now, but truth was dictated by the hand holding the whip.
“And what is your function *right now*?” Kent pressed, his voice closer now, just behind him.
Lukas’s mind raced. Finn’s lesson. *Acknowledge what you are in the moment.* He was not a footstool. Not a table. “I… I am a thing to be whipped. For your amusement, Master Kent.” The title escaped him, a desperate anchor in the shifting hierarchy of his torment.
A hand, not Kent’s, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Tim’s grinning face filled his vision. “*Our* amusement, fucktoy,” Tim corrected, his breath hot and beer-scented. “Don’t get greedy, Kent. Share the fun.”
Kent’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. “Fine. Our amusement.” The air whistled, and then the world dissolved into a white-hot line of pure, incandescent agony across his shoulders. Lukas screamed, a raw, tearing sound he couldn’t contain. It was different from Finn’s whip—less precise, more brutal, fueled by a different kind of cruelty.
“Count,” Kent commanded, his voice flat.
“One!” Lukas gasped, the word ripped from him.
Another lash, lower this time, overlapping the first. His body jerked against Tim’s hold on his hair.
“T-two!”
The blows fell in a steady, rhythmic rain. Kent worked with a dreadful efficiency, painting over Finn’s careful stripes with broader, more devastating strokes. Tim laughed with each impact, shaking Lukas’s head by the hair. “Look at him jump! Like a fucking puppet!”
Between strokes, through the haze of pain, Lukas heard them talking about him as if he weren’t there.
“Finn’s got a real collection upstairs,” Kent remarked, the whip *cracking* again. “Four!”
“Kid’s going to be a menace,” Tim grunted, tightening his grip. “Five! Come on, keep counting, you worthless shit!”
“Six! I… I am a thing to be whipped!” Lukas cried out, trying to pre-empt the question, to show he’d learned, to make it stop.
It didn’t stop. It went on until the count blurred, until his voice was a hoarse scrape, until his back was a single, unified field of screaming nerve endings. Finally, Kent paused. Lukas hung from Tim’s grip, sobbing, dripping sweat and tears onto the carpet.
“I think he gets the point,” Kent said, his tone conversational again. He tossed the whip onto the sofa. “For now.”
Tim released his hair, and Lukas slumped to the floor, a broken heap of pain. He couldn’t move. He could only lie there, breathing in shallow, shuddering gasps.
A foot nudged his side—Kent’s. “Clean that up,” Kent said, pointing to a few drops of blood that had spattered on the pale carpet. “Then get in the corner. We’re not done with you. We’re just changing the game.”
Through a veil of tears, Lukas saw the crimson spots. They were proof. Of his suffering, of his utility, of his existence. He dragged himself toward them, his body a stranger’s, and began to lick the stain clean, his tongue scraping the rough fibers, the metallic taste of his own blood filling his mouth. In the corner, the shoes of his betters awaited.
The whip lay discarded on the sofa like a forgotten toy. Kent and Tim dropped back onto the cushions, controllers snatched up, the digital violence on screen resuming as if the very real violence on the rug had been a commercial break. Lukas, a trembling heap, had finished his pathetic, canine cleaning of the blood spots. Now, he knelt in the designated corner, nose and forehead pressed to the wall, the rough plaster a grounding anchor in a world of pain. But he was not to be ignored.
“Hey, fucktoy,” Tim called out, not taking his eyes from the screen where his character eviscerated an opponent. “Your cage is looking a little rusty. You forget to polish your owner’s property?”
Kent snorted, his thumbs working the controller. “Probably too busy dreaming about having a real cock. Look at that sad little nub behind the bars. Pathetic.”
Their laughter was casual, corrosive. Lukas flinched, the metal of the cage feeling like a brand. He *had* polished it that morning, obsessively, but the mockery wasn’t about truth. It was about the reminder: what was locked away was his, and it was worthless.
“Speaking of,” Tim said, pausing the game. He stretched, a lazy, arrogant gesture. “Check this out.” He made a crude adjustment in his sweatpants, exaggerating the outline of his semi-hardness. “Now *that’s* something you’ll never have to worry about cageing, huh? All natural. No little lock needed.”
Kent didn’t even look over. “Please. You’re packing a micro-dick and we both know it. Mine’s the one that looks like it needs its own cage. A bigger one.” He smirked, fingers flying over the buttons. “Makes that little thing of his look like a clit.”
They descended into a playful, brutal argument over measurements, each claim more absurdly graphic than the last, their voices loud in the room. They talked about thickness, length, curvature, as if comparing sports cars. Lukas, forced to listen, felt a humiliated, traitorous heat in his own caged flesh. He hated them. He worshipped them. Their casual discussion of their own tools of dominance was a form of torture more subtle than the whip. They were gods comparing thunderbolts, and he was a mortal forbidden even to look at the sky.
His longing was a physical ache, a hollow panic in his gut. It wasn’t for pleasure, not as he once knew it. It was for completion. For the ultimate symbol of his submission. He craved a single drop of their semen the way a parched man craves water. To taste it, to have that proof of their power *inside* him, on him, marking him—it was the final sacrament. To be denied it, while they joked and boasted, was its own exquisite torment.
“Hey, piss-pig,” Kent said suddenly, his gaze still on the game. “You hear us talking?”
“Yes, Master Kent,” Lukas whispered to the wall.
“Bet you’re drooling behind that cage, aren’t you? Bet you’d suck us both dry for a taste.”
Lukas’s silence was confession enough.
Tim laughed. “He would! Look at him, pressed into the corner like a bad kid. He’s probably hard as a rock in that little trap, thinking about our big, beautiful cocks.”
“Thinking’s all he’ll ever do,” Kent said, his voice final. The game unpaused. The moment of focused torment passed, leaving Lukas in the corner, vibrating with shame and a desperate, impossible need. The sounds of the game, their laughter, their casual, obscene bragging—it was the soundtrack of his damnation. And the object of his deepest, most abject longing—a single, scornful drop of their seed—felt further away than ever.
The crude boasting faded, replaced by a dense, anticipatory silence. The game was paused. The only sound was Lukas’s own ragged breathing from the corner, and the soft rustle of fabric as Kent and Tim shifted on the couch.
“Enough talk,” Kent said, his voice dropping its mocking edge, becoming flat and purposeful. “Time for a demonstration.”
Tim’s grin was wolfish. “About time. My turn to go first. My dick’s been jealous of that whip all night.”
Lukas didn’t need to be told to move. The shift in the air was command enough. He shuffled out of the corner on his knees, his body a tapestry of fresh and old pain. He stopped before the couch, head bowed, a supplicant at an altar of pure, brutal masculinity.
“Mouth,” Tim ordered, not bothering to fully undress. He merely opened his fly. His erection sprang free, thick and arrogant. “And don’t you dare touch yourself, piss-pig. This isn’t for you.”
Lukas leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was not about pleasure; it was about consumption, about taking their essence into himself as the ultimate act of submission. He opened his mouth, and Tim guided himself in, not with force, but with a contemptuous ease. Lukas hollowed his cheeks, working with a desperate, worshipful diligence. He focused on the taste, the smell, the feel of dominating flesh on his tongue—not to elicit pleasure in Tim, but to perform his own worthlessness as a vessel.
Tim fucked his face with shallow, possessive thrusts, his hand fisted in Lukas’s hair. “Look at him,” he grunted to Kent, his voice tight. “Like a fucking vacuum. Born for this.”
Kent watched, his icy eyes glinting with approval. He had his phone out, recording. “Wide angle. Get the cage in the shot.”
After a few minutes, Tim’s rhythm stuttered. He pulled out with a wet sound, stroking himself roughly. “Open wide, fuckhole. Take your medicine.”
Lukas tilted his head back, mouth open like a begging chick. Tim’s release hit his tongue in hot, bitter spurts. He swallowed convulsively, not allowing a drop to escape, chasing the last traces with his tongue, cleaning Tim with a reverence that made the young man snort with disgusted amusement.
“Now the other end,” Kent said, standing and unbuckling his own belt. “On the floor. Ass up.”
Lukas arranged himself on the carpet, the fibers scratching his abused skin. Kent didn’t prepare him, didn’t use lube. The violation was sharp, dry, a claiming of territory. Lukas cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was smothered by the carpet.
“Shut up,” Kent grunted, setting a brutal pace. “You’re a hole. Holes don’t get to make noise.”
It was faster, harder, more impersonal than Tim’s use of his mouth. This was pure utility. Kent pounded into him, each thrust a punctuation mark on his ownership. Tim watched, idly stroking himself again, occasionally spitting on Lukas’s back or slapping a welt.
When Kent came, it was with a harsh groan, burying himself deep. Lukas felt the hot rush inside him, a different kind of marking. Kent held himself there for a long moment before pulling out with a sound of distaste. Lukas remained on the floor, feeling the evidence of their use leak onto his thighs.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their heavy breathing and the electronic hum of the paused game. Then Kent zipped his jeans.
“Clean yourself up,” he said to Lukas, his voice devoid of any post-coital softness. It was a command to a soiled tool. “Then take the whip back to Finn. Tell him…” Kent considered, then a cruel smile touched his lips. “Tell him his teaching tool performed adequately.”
Tim barked a laugh, tucking himself away. “Adequately. He’ll love that.”
“Don’t show your face down here until morning,” Kent finished, turning back to the TV. “We’re done with you.”
Dismissed. Used, filled, and discarded. Lukas pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. He collected the whip from the sofa, its leather now sticky with his own sweat. He didn’t clean himself. The feel of their semen leaking down his leg was part of the order.
He climbed the stairs, each step a fresh agony. At Finn’s door, he knocked softly.
“Enter.”
Finn was in bed, reading on his phone. He looked up, his eyes immediately going to the whip in Lukas’s hand, then to his disheveled, pained state.
“Master Kent returns your teaching tool,” Lukas whispered, his voice hoarse. “He asked me to tell you… it performed adequately.”
Lukas stood just inside the doorway, the whip held limply in his hand. The evidence of Kent and Tim’s use of him was stark: fresh, overlapping welts crisscrossed the marks Finn had made, and a telltale wetness gleamed on his inner thighs.
Finn’s eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned him from head to toe. A slow, contemptuous smile spread across his face. “Well, look at you,” he sneered, putting his phone aside. “A real masterpiece. Kent’s work is so… *sloppy*. No finesse. Just brute force.” He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor. He padded closer, circling Lukas like an appraiser assessing damaged goods. “And you’re leaking. Like a cheap, used condom. Disgusting.”
Lukas kept his head bowed, the insults washing over him. They were just another layer of truth. He *was* used. He *was* sloppy. He was a canvas painted on by multiple masters.
“M-Master Kent does not wish to see this thing until morning,” Lukas stammered, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He needed a purpose, a task, something to justify his existence in this space. “Does… does the Great Lord Finn require any service tonight? Any favor this thing might perform?”
Finn stopped his circling and let out a short, derisive laugh. “A favor? From *you*?” He shook his head, then his gaze landed on his own feet, then back at Lukas’s bowed face. An idea, cruel and perfect, sparked in his eyes. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to a tone of mock-thoughtfulness, “now that I look at you… your technique earlier was pathetic. Truly amateur hour. You lick a shoe like you’re afraid of it. You treat a foot like it’s a fucking ice cream cone.”
He took a step back and sat on the edge of his bed, extending one bare foot. “Your Owner may not want to see you, but I find your inadequacy offensive. So, I’ve decided to teach you. You will learn how to properly suck the toes of the Great Lord Finn. Not like a slave gulping down water, but with… reverence. With precision. It’s an art you clearly lack.”
Lukas’s heart sank even as his body moved automatically. This wasn’t a release from torment, but its refinement. He shuffled forward on his knees, the movement causing a fresh trickle of semen to slide down his leg. He stopped before Finn’s outstretched foot.
“Begin,” Finn commanded, his voice cold. “And do it wrong, and we’ll start the lesson over from the beginning. All night if we have to.”
Lukas leaned in. The previous act had been about debasement, about consumption. This was different. This was about perfection under duress. He took Finn’s big toe into his mouth, not with desperate hunger, but with a terrified, focused delicacy. He ran his tongue along the nail bed, then the pad, then the sensitive webbing between the toes.
“Slower,” Finn snapped, wiggling his toes. “You’re not trying to taste every flavor at once. One at a time. With intention.”
Lukas obeyed, his world narrowing to the taste of salt and skin, the faint scent of soap, the overwhelming, intimate reality of the act. Each toe was a separate lesson, a tiny kingdom he had to worship correctly. Finn criticized the pressure, the rhythm, the angle of his tongue. It was a brutal, fastidious deconstruction of the very act of submission.
“You’re thinking of it as a *chore*,” Finn sighed, as if explaining something simple to a dull child. “It’s not a chore. It’s a privilege. Your mouth exists to appreciate this. Now, again. From the pinky toe. And this time, mean it.”
And so, in the quiet of Finn’s room, while the semen from other men dried on his thighs, Lukas learned. He learned to suck a toe with the focused devotion of a scholar studying a sacred text. His punishment was not pain, but an endless, excruciating demand for perfect, humble service. It was, in its own way, the deepest humiliation yet.
The final critique from Finn’s lips hung in the air—*Adequate. For now.*—before his foot was withdrawn, wiped dismissively on the sheets. The lesson was over. Lukas remained on his knees, head bowed, the taste of Finn’s skin still on his tongue, a bitter sacrament. He was dismissed, but directionless. Kent’s order was a barrier; Tim’s indifference, a wall. Finn’s disgust, a locked door.
He shuffled backward on his knees, the rough carpet burning his skin, but paused at the threshold of the room. To leave was to disobey Kent. To stay was to invite Finn’s wrath. He was an object with contradictory instructions, a tool left between jobs.
"Great Lord Finn…" Lukas’s voice was a dry rustle, humbled to dust. "This thing… where should it go? Master Kent said not to show its face until morning."
Finn looked up from his phone, the screen’s glow casting his sharp, youthful features in a sinister light. His eyes, bright with a sudden, cruel inspiration, swept over Lukas—the map of welts, the shameful stain drying on his thighs, the utter vacancy of surrendered will in his eyes. A slow, cold smile spread across Finn’s face.
"Where should you go?" Finn mused, his tone one of theatrical contemplation. "You’re not a guest. You’re not even a pet." He leaned forward, the smile sharpening. "You’re a tool. And tools," he said, his voice dropping to a soft, menacing register, "get put away."
He gestured with his chin toward the walk-in closet. The door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness revealing the silhouettes of canes, coils of rope, the gleam of metal. It was not a space; it was a catalog of his suffering.
"In there," Finn commanded, his voice final. "On the floor, between the canes and the rope. Consider it your kennel for the night." He paused, letting the image solidify in the thick air. "And you will not make a sound. If I hear so much as a whimper or a rustle, you’ll spend tomorrow learning the difference between every single whip in that closet. The nuances. Understood?"
Lukas’s eyes drifted to the dark rectangle of the closet. It was the perfect, logical conclusion. Not a corner, not a foot of the bed—a storage space. A final, physical confirmation of his utility and his place. He was to be shelved.
"Yes, Great Lord Finn," he whispered, the words automatic. "Thank you, Great Lord Finn."
He crawled forward, his movements stiff and pained, into the maw of the closet. The smell enveloped him first—oiled leather, dry wood, cold metal, and dust. It was the scent of anticipated pain. He navigated the narrow canyon between hanging implements: a paddle brushed his shoulder, a bundle of rubber cords tickled his neck. Finally, he lowered himself onto the unyielding floor, curling onto his side in the fetal position. A hard, rounded edge—the handle of a cane—pressed into his spine. Another—the tip of a riding crop—dug into his thigh. He was not just in the closet; he was among them, one more item in the collection.
From the bed, Finn’s voice cut through the darkness, clean and cold as a scalpel. "Close the door. Tools don’t need light."
Lukas reached up, his arm trembling. His fingers found the edge of the door. With a soft click that echoed like a tomb sealing, he pulled it shut.
Absolute, suffocating blackness consumed him. The world shrank to the press of wood and leather against his skin, the smell of his own fear and sweat mixing with the room’s oppressive aroma. The silence was a weight. Then, from beyond the door, the muffled sounds of Finn settling into bed, the click of a lamp, the rustle of sheets.
Alone in the perfect dark, cradled by the instruments of his own torment, the last fragile walls within Lukas crumbled. Silent, violent sobs convulsed his frame, tears cutting tracks through the filth on his face, mixing with the salt on his lips and the drying evidence of his use on his legs. There was no thought, no memory of a before. There was only the now: the hard floor, the digging cane, the darkness, and the devastating truth.
He was not a person sleeping in a closet.
He was a tool in a box.
His arms wrapped around himself not for comfort, but as a futile container for the overwhelming, absolute reality of his nonexistence. He was a thing, stored for the night, awaiting the hands of his owners to take him out and use him again.
And so, Lukas the man, ceased. And the thing in the closet waited for the morning.
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