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Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don’t enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don’t look back!
Prologue
He touches my pumped tits and I go weak, a shiver running down my spine and terminating in my groin. My tits harden and reach for his hands. My caged dick throbs inside its confines. He squeezes my tits and twists them and I both whimper and groan deep in my throat, beyond words, for words are unavailable to me, a spider gag immobilizing my jaws. His other hand snakes down my crack to my hole and I push back against it, my ass wanting more. My chest pushes against his hand, begging for more. Pushing my ass back, my chest forward, bends me into an S curve; S for sex. I am a sex-curve waiting to be bent even further.
“Please, please,” I whisper in my mind. “Please use my tits sir.” But guttural moans and whimpers are all he hears.
He looks into my eyes and nods, smiling. “Yes, my tit-slave. I know what you want and need. I know because I created you as you are now: to want it and need it: my tit-slave.”
How I want it; how I need it. How far I have come. My tits are like fingertips protruding from my pecs: long, swollen, hungry knobs of dark brown flesh, needing, wanting, begging for more.
“I’m your tit-slave,” I whisper inarticulately, and he pinches the instruments of my slavery hard and laughs, knowing exactly what I was thinking and trying to voice.
“Yes, I know,” he says. “You’re exactly what I wanted; exactly what I made you. My tit-slave.”
He holds up a bag, bulging with wooden clothes-pins. He has no need of fancy plastic pins sold at an inflated price by stores catering to fetishists. Just simple, wooden pins he picked up at the hardware store; scores of them. I know what they’re for and my eyes begin to fill as I moan and beg, dreading and hungering for what is to come. He takes two out of the bag and holds one in each hand. My eyes are on them and he nods to me, forcing me to look into his shining eyes.
“Yes, for my tit-slave,” he says in his deep, quiet voice; the voice that enslaved and enslaves me. “For you.”
He pinches them open and fastens one onto each swollen nipple and I squeal in pain and arousal, knowing my cries are what he wants to hear; my cries of pain and desire. He hurts my tits and that brings him pleasure. His pleasure is my pleasure, even if purchased at the cost of my pain. My pain is nothing to him. It is nothing to me; his pleasure is what matters, now and always.
Tit-Slave — Chapter 1
It had started innocently enough: One day, after work, I’d been browsing the web, my cock firming and longing for full erection and release. My balls were churning and heavy: it had been a busy couple of weeks with year-end reporting taking most of my time and energy so I hadn’t really thought about sex. Or when I had, it had been fleeting but accentuated, such as today. One of my co-workers, Gregory, leaned over my desk to retrieve a report and had brushed my arm, which was resting on the desk, manipulating the mouse, with his crotch. I felt the stiff underside of his cock along my forearm and felt slightly dizzy and flushed. I’m sure he hadn’t done it intentionally: it was simply one of those things that happen and I said nothing, but the heat I felt in my face told me I’d flushed deeply and I felt the blood flushing into my cock as well. Fortunately, he was already opening the report and searching for the information he needed, so I knew he hadn’t witnessed my response.
That I wanted, no needed, cock was no surprise to me; I’d come out in college, twenty years ago, and had remained open ever since. But I’d always focused on my work, rising through the ranks from junior manager through middle management to the executive level. I was on the young side for a corporate CFO, but my singular focus and my intelligence, connections, and, frankly, good luck, had brought me to this position.
What I’d been missing was a someone in my life. Oh, I’d had the odd sexual encounter here and there (and some of them truly were odd, but that’s for another story). Suffice it to say that some men have very interesting tastes and fetishes. One man, for instance, wanted me to put my tongue in his hole, which I did, though without much enthusiasm. The flavor was musky and earthy and that wasn’t too bad. I began to get a little hard as my mind told me that what I was doing was strange but it felt good to do what he asked, even though I didn’t much like it. But then I felt his sphincter open and got the first taste of turd as he started to defecate in my mouth. I pulled back, appalled, and threw him out of my apartment. I was polite enough to let him use the toilet and get dressed before I showed him the door but I was really disgusted by it. He even asked me if I’d let him piss on me while I laid in the tub, but I said I definitely wasn’t interested. I’d heard of scat and watersports, of course, but it had no interest for me. I liked to suck cock and liked having mine sucked but that was about the limit of my experience and my interests. Why, I hadn’t even been fucked. I guess I was a little old-fashioned and thought I should wait for someone special. All those quaint ideas I’d picked up in Sunday school had their effect, though they’d been unable to convince me that I didn’t or shouldn’t like men.
Anyway, I’d had a few of those interesting encounters over the years, interspersed with the somewhat more frequent suck session, although even those were none too frequent. It didn’t seem at all odd to me that I was usually the one doing the sucking, either on my knees or lying on my back while the other guy fucked my mouth, but I just didn’t think about it; it seemed right, even if I jacked off later while I fantasized about him.
I’m attractive enough, I suppose. I’m six foot one, medium brown hair, blue eyes, nice features, or so I’m told, and trim. I run five days a week to stay in shape and do enough calisthenics to maintain my muscle tone. I don’t have a six-pack, but my belly’s firm. There was a nice coating of fur on my chest and a modicum of hair on my belly. I think I’d look good on the beach if I ever took the time to go. The only problem would be that I’m not tanned because I stay out of the sun, but hey, you can’t have everything. So, long story short, I’m a strictly vanilla guy. Or at least I used to be until that night, when everything started to change for me.
The reports were finished and ready to go for the next day’s meetings and I left work to go home and rest up. The brush with my co-worker’s cock was still in the back of my mind and still causing intermittent stirrings in my own equipment. So I went into my apartment, threw my jacket on the back of the couch and booted up my computer. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey (I had a sixteen year old Lagavulin I’d been savoring), added a dash of water and sat down at my PC. I opened my e-mail and lo and behold, there was a message from my co-worker, Gregory. The subject was “what you need now”, which was intriguing. How did he know what I needed? Did he know something I didn’t? There was a link to a website and it wasn’t some site in Russia or other nonsense and since it had a subject other than “Hi beloved” or some other nonsense, I figured, he had definitely sent it to me, rather than it being some SPAM or phishing message, so I clicked on it and took a couple of sips of whiskey while the site loaded.