PE Teacher

It’ s difficult to get a job as a Physical Education teacher nowadays. My dream job attracts more applicants into the profession than there are actual positions. As a result, as a newly qualified teacher, the scramble for jobs in these difficult times is undignified. And so it was that I accepted a job at an inner-London private boys’ school as the “PE Master”. Despite my reservations and a working class background that had worked hard to achieve my own qualifications, I accepted the position gratefully and began work in the Autumn Term. The school was relatively small, with extremely high expectations. The boys’ families were inevitably extremely wealthy individuals: important people in the city, and their children were self-assured in understanding their future positions in the upper echelons of society.

Abdullah’s father had gone straight to the Headteacher of the school, asking him for permission to use me as a private tutor for Abdullah. The Qatari businessman was well accustomed to using his power and wealth to obtain the services of mere mortals such as myself. Whilst not forcing the issue, the Headteacher had informed me that it would be poor professional development on my part, had I refused the offer. He also informed me that I would be rewarded financially for the extra time that I spent at the residence of Abdullah’s family in the evenings and at weekends. I was left in no doubt that my compliance was expected. Besides, I was a single young teacher far from friends and family. Surely it would be productive use of my free time to work in such a manner and obtain some additional income.

I remember the first morning of my service to the family. I was awoken at 8am by a delivery at my flat. A uniform of white: tight t-shirt, briefs and small shorts, with white socks and trainers. Although bemused by the implication that this would be my dress code for working with the 16-year old Abdullah, I dressed in the uniform and left my flat. Conscious that the uniform displayed my muscular and toned body in a most revealing and complimentary manner.

Arriving at the house, I had accepted the welcoming drink. I had then realised the effects of its drugged contents before I had collapsed. And I had arisen from my slumber as a slave. Pure and simple. Conditioned and controlled in the mind by my hypnosis session so that my freedom was permanently and irrevocably lost. Unable to rebel against the conditioning of my mind that the wealthy businessman’s psychologist implanted inside me.

And so my life changed in one morning. I became a white slave to my Arabian Masters.

As far as the school are concerned, there is no change. I remain the boys’ PE Master. But I no longer live in my tiny flat. I now live in my Masters’ residence as their personal man slave.

At school, I am a sharp dresser. Dressed in crisp, clean shorts and t-shirt, the trappings of my supposed wealth as a private tutor to wealthy clients. I look and act the part as a health-conscious athlete and teacher. No-one questions my hairlessly smooth muscular arms and legs outwardly. No one questions my perfectly groomed shaven face, and my consistently short haircut. No-one can see that my whole body is devoid of hair, or the cruel additions beneath my shorts and tight briefs. No-one suspects the reality that my cock is locked inside a cruel metal chastity tube that prevents any access to my genitals, and forces me to sit when pissing. No-one knows that my arse is always plugged with a solid silver butt plug that serves as a permanent reminder of my true place in life.

At school I show no deference to Master Abdullah. He is one of the boys, and is treated as such. His father will not risk any outward signs of my slavery. I act normally towards my young Master, arousing no suspicions. In fact, I can act the part of a free man at school, joking with my colleagues and inventing a life of freedom that does not exist. The fact that I know nothing of television, of politics, of the matters of free people can be dismissed away by my fitness regime. As can the fact that I never eat or drink during the school day. Plain water is my only permissible food as a slave and I decline the tempting offers of coffee and pastries every day, my mouth salivating as I watch my free colleagues eat the food of free people.

At the end of each school day, I jog to Masters’ residence. The four-mile journey is conducted alone with my thoughts, as I return from my working life to my home life as a slave. My attention focused ahead of me, I jog through the normal streets of inner London, passing free and normal people on my journey to slavery. Part of my daily routine to maintain a perfectly honed body for the pleasure of my Masters’ eyes.

It is usually Abdullah himself who opens the front door to the Edwardian terraced house inhabited by his family. Bowing politely, I enter the front door and close it behind me. As is my place, I stand before my young Master and begin to disrobe, quickly and silently. In seconds, I stand stark naked before my Master and place my neatly folded clothing into his outstretched hands. Placing my clothing onto a side dresser, Abdullah runs a cursory glance down the body of his naked slave and nods. Silently, I kneel naked before him as he locks the metal slave collar around my neck.

“My room needs tidying slave,” he grunts. A surly teenager, but confident and assured in his total power over his teacher slave.

“Yes Master,” I grovel, keeping my face to the floor at his feet until commanded to move. I am now well trained as a humble slave. As his sandaled brown feet appear in front of my face, I kiss them in deference to my Master and owner.

“Get to it then.”

And so I hurry up the stairs to my Master’s room and begin the daily process of tidying his bedroom. Master Abdullah demands exacting standards, and my work is completed quickly and silently as I tidy away his personal belongings, make his bed and prepare his school uniform for the following day. I shake my head in disbelief as I work quickly and silently, my naked body on full display and my most intimate parts locked away. I work quickly to please Master: I have learnt to avoid Master’s whip.

When Master enters the room some time later, I am in position. Kneeling naked with my hands on my head, my nose touching the marked golden square that has been placed in the corner of his bedroom, at nose height on the wall.

He ignores me as he goes about his business, enjoying his relaxation after a hard day at school. Seemingly oblivious to my silent and rigid position naked in the corner of the room. I spend most early evenings facing the pastel-coloured plaster.

I hear him undress and position himself on the bed. Like any teenager, Abdullah likes to pleasure himself whilst alone in his bedroom. As I face the wall, I hear the sounds of his enjoyment as he plays with himself. I hear him grunt as he ejaculates.

I hear his breathing return to normal and await him walking over to me. My cheeks still redden as I open my mouth automatically in acceptance of my slavery. I accept the toilet paper inside my mouth. Silently I chew down my teenage Master’s cum-filled paper, the first food I have been allowed since my early morning breakfast.

This daily act reminds me of what I have been become. My own cock locked away permanently in chastity, I can only dream of ejaculation. And the nearest I ever get to it is eating the remnants of my teenage Master’s ejaculation every day. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I think of my former free life. Now a distancing memory.

I wince as I hear the heavy footfall of my Master’s father on the stairs. My evening of slavery has only just begun.