Date: Thu, 9 Dec 2010 19:01:52 -0800 (PST) From: Vincent Vincent Subject: Fagboy & Fagdad - Part 27 First, the disclaimers. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, Copyright 2010. The narrative that follows did not happen to me or to anyone else I know. The characters in the story, like myself, are all of legal age. Don't contact Me to meet these slaves. DO contact Me if you want to become one of these slaves. Also contact me with any praise, criticism, or suggestions. All feedback is good. And, as mentioned before, details on life within the compound can be found in My story "Satanic slave", found in Nifty/Gay/Authoritarian: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/satanic-slave And thanks for all your input thus far; at the conclusion of this chapter, I've written how I'm taking votes for how this series should close up. Read for details. SIR Vincent Fagboy & Fagdad - Part 27 Some subtle but profound switch had kicked in the fagboy's head that night. Servicing unknown Men it couldn't even see. Begging the homeless to be nourished from Their fluids. The fagboy began to truly come to terms with its true place in the world: that of an object, a toy for the pleasure of Others. It, like the fagdad, had found an unforeseen validation and acceptance of itself and a great peace inside what had previously been a very restless, miserable soul. And it knew its Master was instrumental in the process. That without Him, and without the Sirs who also lived in what used to be its (and its father's) home, such euphoria and epiphany would never have been possible. These three Men had performed something no less than a miracle. If it felt reborn -- truly born again -- as a fagslave, then They were its Gods. Breakfast the following week was when it had found the opportunity to display the depth of its newfound devotion. The two fagslaves had spent the previous day being tortured online for the amusement of still more unknowable Men, all for their Master's profit. As with every online usage, they ended the shift exhausted and agonized from the electrical abuse their flesh had suffered. They were denied rest and sent immediately into the kitchen to begin dinner preparations. During dinner, they stood keeping their Owners' plates and glasses full and at the ready. After dinner, Master left for the evening and they knelt at the ready of either of the Sirs as They watched TV. They were used to retrieve beer and snacks, as always-ready urinals, and as footstools for the two young Men. As was now always the case, they were now rarely spoken of, never spoken to. "I want a footrest." "I want to take a piss." "I want a back massage." The Men just had to express a desire; the fagslaves, unnoticed and unmentioned, quietly fulfilled Them. The lack of direct reference had made both slaves non-entities, mere ghosts. Even when alone, they now rarely even spoke to each other; it was very uncomfortable to get that kind of recognition and attention. That night, as was now the custom, the two faggots slept in each other's arms, comforting each other and acknowledging the brotherhood, more spiritual than genetic, that made them feel related to each other. The following morning during breakfast, they were stationed adoring the buttholes of their Master and Sirs as Alexi described His night out. He had gained access to this mysterious compound they all had heard so much about. Nobody spoke to the fagslaves; their conversation was limited to the assholes they licked and sucked. "It was fucking amazing, guys. I mean, I think we've done an excellent job at cultivating our two fagslaves, but this institution puts us to shame. There were dozens of faggots available 24/7 for any purpose you might want. Have your body worshiped. Take out your aggressions. Indulge any fetish. Anything at all." "What could you do there that you couldn't do here?" Master laughed. "How many fag-tongues can lick your body at once -- do you know? I now know how many can lick mine. I was fucking floating on a sea of insatiably cock-starved queers. All desperate for my hard-on, all needing and praying for my cum." The fagboy felt Master's hole open and press harder against its tongue and it softly moaned as it got even deeper inside Him. "Besides, there's also the fun of sharing the experience with other sadistic bastards just like me. All there with the same idea. To use and exploit the faggots for what they needed. The camaraderie of the experience was fantastic. There's actually a bar where you can sit and have a view of faggots' faces as they're being raped in other rooms ... Jesus. Fucking amazing." "Will you be going back?" "No doubt. But that brings me to what's really been gnawing at my brain since I got back. I really think it's a place where our own faggots belong. A place where these cuntholes can truly worship cock and be brought to their own fulfillment as holes." Upon hearing this, the fagboy felt an overwhelming sense of panic, but it knew better than to do anything else but continue the worship of its Master's ass. "As good as these suckslaves are, these others were under something like a mass hypnosis, drooling at the sight of dick, unable to look or think of anything else. Their water fountains, for crissakes, are simply huge cocks that they suckle for a sip of water. "I mean, it's not like I don't like the faggots' service here. I just wonder if they wouldn't be better off someplace like that. I spoke with the guy in charge over there." The fagboy's eyes were starting to tear up in apprehension. "If I hand over our two fagholes, the three of us will get lifetime memberships to the worldwide chain." The two Sirs whistled their response. The fagslave had to take drastic action. It pulled its tongue from its Master's delicious asshole and cleared its throat. "Please, Master, Sirs, please allow this lowly hole permission to speak. Please, Master?" It had been days since anyone had ever acknowledged it or heard from it. The silence of the room was terrifying. Master looked back and down and it blushed from His stare. "What could a fagboy want to say that any of us would care to hear?" "Master, Sirs, please, Your fagslave begs Your permission to stay here in service to You, Sir." There was rustling beneath Sir Duncan's seat, where the fagdad had been worshiping His hole. The fagdad crawled out and knelt beside the fagboy, nodding its head in agreement. This gave the fagboy the courage to proceed. "Master, Lord, You said it best Yourself just now. The faggots You spoke of, they worshiped Your cock, but they also worship any other cock. And although Your penis, all of Your penises, are magnificent and worthy of constant worship by faggots like us, we, the fagdad and itself, we worship You. The Men You are. The Men who gave us this incredible gift of life spent in awe and worship of You. "Lord, Master, Sirs, we know you don't love us. We know you can't love us. We're nothing but mere things for Your use. But we don't want Your love, Sirs. We're not worthy of Your love. All we want, all we need, is the joy of Your acceptance, the validation of Your use. We understand the inequity of life here: we need You; if we're doing our jobs well, you will merely want us. That, Sirs, is how it should be. How we want it. How we need it." The fagdad put its arm around it and looked up to Master, nodding its head. "Master, Sirs, we will do anything You ask, perform as the most depraved whores, dutifully perform the most demeaning functions, be the lowliest of servants. We will do it not because we have to, not as means to some end, Sirs. We do it because it is what we have been trained to do. We love this life, Master, Sirs, and we love You for making it possible. Please, Sirs, taking us away from our home, not the house, but the home we have in You, will be like killing us. "We know You have no sexual desire for us. We know You all could someday abandon us to make lives for yourselves with women You love. But maybe those women would want to have our services, either as slave-servants for all the stupid chores she'd never have to bother with, or even sexually. After all, Sirs, the fagdad is straight. And as for the fagboy, although it could never be man enough to fuck a man or a woman ever again, it would gladly pleasure a woman just to stay here with You. It's all about Your pleasure, Master and Sirs. And perhaps, Master, Sirs, you'd take on a female slave so you'd have her available to indulge your sexual desires." The surprise on Master's face was in turn a surprise to the fagboy; it hadn't realized that He had never considered that possibility. "Sirs, Master, all it's asking here is that as long as we can serve a purpose in Your lives, please allow us the joy of doing so. Should You no longer desire us, then we have failed to keep You entertained and deserve to go to a place like You've described. Master, Sirs, if it pleases You, keep the threat hovering over our heads to further deepen our submission to You. But, please, Master, Sirs, Lords please...." it blushed as tears rolled down its face "... please give us the chance to stay." Master stared down at the two fagslaves as they tried to read the myriad of expressions across His face. He seemed proud, puzzled, angered, all at once. He suddenly pulled his arm back and bitchslapped the two of them hard across their faces. The Sirs instinctively pushed back against the table, never seeing such a response from Master. "Stop wagging that stupid faggot tongue in the air and put it back to work at my goddamn shit-hole. Both of you -- worship your fucking superiors." The fagslaves scurried to resume sucking ass, seeing neither Sir Duncan's disgusted sneer nor Master's "we gotta talk where we won't be heard" motion toward Their bedrooms. Master and the Sirs left soon after that and the faggots did the post-meal cleanup and ate their breakfast. The fagboy noticed there was surprisingly little piss in the cereal. They then went into the bathroom to clean each other out. They returned from the bathroom to find the three Men of the house standing impatiently awaiting them. Sir Duncan spoke. "What a fucking insolent fagboy we have, trying to tell us what to do with our possessions. I am so pissed off at your behavior, I'm ready to not even be generous enough to throw you two into the compound, but instead give our fagslaves to the Delta house to be with their bitch. But I was outvoted and it was decided we should give you two pifitul asswipes a chance to prove yourselves. "The fagboy should know by now that words are fucking cheap. What we care about are actions. We heard all these `words' about how much we are loved and worshiped and needed. Fucking prove it. I'm sure the fagboy remembers the night we first locked it up in chastity. The night the four of us first met. We played a game, gave it a test, to see how much of a connoisseur it was of our tastes. We've revised the game, fagsewer, and upped the ante. On the floor to the right are 4 glasses. Go to them. Both of you pathtetic wanna-be excuses for fagslaves." The fagboy and the fagdad uncomfortably crawled to the glasses. They were translucent plastic and in different colors: red, yellow, blue and green. The glasses were filled with what smelled like piss and what looked like a load of cum swirling within the pissload. "The three of us each took a glass, emptied our bladder and then jerked off in it. As to the fourth," Sir Duncan chuckled, "it contains the piss of one of us and the cum of a different one of us. Four faggot cocktails." Master chimed in. "So here's the test to prove the truth of those words. Both fagslaves are to taste the contents of each glass, and decide whose cum and piss is in each glass. That means identifying the glass that is the `mix' as well and deciding whose cum and whose piss made up that cocktail. "A perfect score means the words we heard were true and we'll be satisfied. A score of less than two correct means the words were empty and we'll be shipping both faggots off to the compound before sunset today. And," Master's face erupted in sadistic glee, "a score of two or three correct means those words were only half true, so we'll only ship one faggot, half of the two. We'll have a contest to determine which one. Whoever leaves will be replaced with some other asswipe faggot who'd happily slice off its useless fagdick to be where one of you two were until this morning's disgusting mouth-off." The fagboy cringed at that. "Understand this: although I make no guarantees about the compound, from what I saw, there's no camaraderie amongst the faggots; it's likely the two fagslaves would rarely, if ever, see each other again within those walls. If we only ship one fagslave, then it's damn near certain you'll never see each other again. So make fucking sure and be confident of your decisions. Now get to work. This is your fucking, how was it put to us, `chance to stay.' Make the most of it." The two fagslaves turned away from the Men to begin assessing the contents of the glasses. The fagboy whispered to the fagdad, "It's so fucking sorry." The fagdad started back at it with resentment and resignation, shaking its head sadly. "Let's get to work and try to accomplish the impossible," he replied. Master scolded them immediately. "No discussion except regarding the contents of the glasses. Or else Duncan gets his way and its off to the Delta house forever." ==================================== So, here's where it gets interesting. (Well, I hope it's BEEN interesting. Let's say, "Here's where it gets interactive.") I'm taking votes on the outcome of their test. Just send in a number, 1 - 4, as follows: They fail and are both shipped off to the compound. They get a middle score and the fagboy gets shipped off. They get a middle score and the fagdad gets shipped off. They pass the test with a perfect score. Sorry, but no option to send them to the Delta house. That belongs to another writer. I "borrowed" the house with his permission. (And for those of you who aren't already aware and haven't read the prefaces, life in the compound for one such slave has been documented in "Satanic Slave": http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/satanic-slave ) Send in your vote to Not_your_Typical_Master@yahoo.com (note the underscore between the words) BEFORE 11:59 CST on December 22nd, 2010. Only one vote (the last one, in case you change your mind) per email address. Make My life easier by making your subject line "My Vote: " followed by the number. I'll still open the email to read any message you might have inside. I will tally the votes and write this series' conclusion based on the most popular option. If anybody gets shipped off, I -may- write about their life within the compound, but if I do, it'll be a separate series and won't be anytime soon. SIR Vincent