Slave Object’s Life of Boredom & Anguish
Mistress says it is time for me to begin closing down my life. Exiting from work, closing family ties, seeing friends for one final time.
Soon I will be her property, her chattel. Livestock.
My penis is already permanently sealed in a metal chastity tube. My removable collar will be replaced by one welded shut.
My muzzle will still be removable. My mouth will be a plaything. My disgust, her amusement.
I am impatient for my transformation to be complete.
A year ago, Mistress offered me a chance to become her slave. The lowliest slave: an object. No longer human. Something never pitied.
She began by assigning errands. I bought and paid for her groceries and laundry. With a key, I entered, placed food in cabinets and the refrigerator. Mistress was never home.
For three months, I served without seeing or speaking with her. She texted me orders. I obeyed without complaint or question.
I knew it was a test. Any expression of personal desire would end the trial. An aspirant for ownership must forget his wants. Mistress Owner’s least whim is more important than his strongest craving.
Later I spend weekends in her home. At first she confined me to a room and ignored me. Lonely and bored, I sat from Friday night to Monday morning.
She began permitting me to grovel. Licking her boots made me half-delirious. She whipped me for expressing emotion. Mistress employed a thin, unbending metal cane. Most of the time I sat or lay on the floor in the room. She said, I was rehearsing my future.
Mistress thrilled me when she invited me to accompany her to the beach. It was a party of Dommes. She ordered me to strip. The women laughed at my little locked penis. They cheered the welts Mistress’ cane had left.
They made me dig a hole in the sand. I stepped into it. They covered me. Only my head remained visible.
They had fun: Urinating on me repeatedly. Tossing cans and bottles at my head. Cheering when I moaned in pain.
One night Mistress took me to her basement. There was a big chair. Large as a barber’s chair but made from dark metal.
I sat. Using built in straps she locked my wrists, ankles and neck. Movement was impossible.
A device with a corkscrew handle went over my hand. She rotated the handles. My hand hurt, she was crushing my knuckles. Monday morning, my hands were unusable. The doctor did not believe my story. I told me I fell down stairs. Forbidden to use my fingers for a several days, I took time off from work.
Mistress took me downstairs the next weekend. Now there was a box with dials and cables. And electrodes. She shocked me for hours. That was the first night she muzzled my mouth.
Intense pain became staple of my weekends. Mistress made it clear. As an object, I would live in pain. Often only mild pain. But anguish would be a normal part of my life – strike, that – existence as a woman’s chattel.
For the last two months she has kept me in the basement. Behind a door is a small alcove. I sleep on the dirt floor. There is a buck for my excrement and piss. I eat some sort of awful slop from a tin bowl.
She keeps me in chains and shackles. Everything reflects my dehumanization.
She drags me out to the big room and entertains herself with my nervous system. In two weeks, I cast off human and civil rights. Mistress will use me as she wishes. I have no opinions, only her will.
Originally posted 2017-08-31 07:58:45.