By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 25: The Experiment Can Be Considered a Success

In a second the twins were dragging me out.  “Roger!” I shouted, but his expression of calm benignity never changed.  The door slammed.  I was back in the passageway, being propelled toward a room at the distant end.  If that was “the room,” then I was the “it.”

Champ and Chimp dragged me in, and Roger followed.

“Put the slap on the wall,” he said.  “And fluff.”

“Sir thank you sir.”  They moored my cuffs to a ring on the wall.  Then they stripped out of their browns and began to kiss and grope each other, groping and sweating and grinding and making each other hard, so hard that if their boots hadn’t anchored them to the floor they could have climbed to the sky on each other’s dicks.  Were they fighting or making love?  It didn’t matter.  They were two volcanoes, ready to erupt.  Then spotlights came on.  The windowless room was boiling with light.  And there were other lights—little red lights in the corners of the room.  Roger was filming this!  The lights seemed to set the boys off even more.  Molten mountains, beasts in a colosseum . . . .

The walls were black, but light poured down on the two beasts that were now beyond “fluffing.” Oiled with sweat and splashed with spit, every tongue and hand and dick thrusting deep into every hole, they were two matching robot slaves, enormous, enormously beautiful.

I was hard, painfully hard, disgustingly hard, so hard it was like I’d never known anything about sex before, and now I was seeing it for the first time–the greatest, the most wonderful, the only wonderful thing in the world, and it was not for men, it was for animals, it was for machines, it was for slaves, because there were no limits to what slaves would do if they were ordered to do it . . .

“Ahhh!” I moaned.

“Stop,” Roger said, and the twins stopped.  They were like battleships steaming toward a climactic fight, and suddenly, miraculously, they stopped, just stopped, and waited for orders, side by side.  They stood at attention—muscles taut, shoulders touching, dicks dripping, eyes focused on the distance, a distance of infinite excitement, of pleasure constantly doubled, redoubled . . . .

“Don’t!” I gasped.  “Don’t stop!”

“What did you say?” Roger asked, very quietly.

“Please!  I want it!  I want . . . .”   How long had it been since I’d dared to think I wanted something?  Never.  Forever . , , ,

“You don’t want to leave?”

“No,” I said. “No!”

“So what do you want?”

The twins stared ahead impassively—giant, ideal, infinitely desirable, infinitely distant, as distant as their owner, watching and controlling.

“Fuck me!” I heard myself cry.  “Fuck me!”

“What did you say?” Roger asked.

“Please!  I want it!  I need it!  Please!”

“Very well,” Roger said, in an even, professional voice.  To the twins he said, “Do the new slap.”

Immediately they disengaged from each other and came after me.  My cuffs were unlocked and dropped, my shorts were tossed on the floor, and I was pulled to a chest-high wooden structure that I soon knew was a fucking frame.  Head and hands in the holes, padlocks closed . . . .

“It’s ready, sir,” one of them said.  “Would you like to start?”

“You’ve been told,” Roger said.  “I don’t touch shit.”

“Sir yes sir.  Very sorry sir!”

“And I don’t want to tell you again.”

“Sir no sir!”

“Get on with it.”

“Sir yes sir.  Lube, sir?”

“No.”

“Both, sir?”

“Both.  And make sure that you cum.  It will clean you up afterwards.”

“It’s pretty old, sir.”

“You’ll manage.”

“Yes sir.”

They were fluffed and ready, and they went to work.  In ten seconds I felt someone’s enormous dong pushing its way into my hole.  I’d never been fucked before, so everything about it was new, and total.  I was now in a world in which a huge foreign object could be rammed inside me, over and over, farther and farther, and my body could do nothing about it but accept.  My wrists twisted and bruised themselves in their wooden holes; my neck twisted, wounding itself on the slabs of wood that contained it; my throat screamed every filthy word in the language, but the thing in my hole went deeper and deeper, and I prayed it would never come out, because that was my only way of touching it, touching the power to make things hurt.  Then, too soon, I felt my crotch convulsing, and something warm hosing onto my belly and running down my legs.  My God, it was cum—my cum!  I was deflating fast, but the giant kept banging away.  A definition of eternity is the time it took him to get to the point where he came in my ass.  As soon as that happened, he stepped to one side and his brother started in.  No question of my body participating; it had come; it was through.  From then on, there was only pain—pain in my arms, pain in my head, pain in my legs that kept thrashing without being able to run away, and the constant, rhythmic, sickening pain of that hundred-pound piston driving into my gut.  I’d wanted it; now I had it.

Yeah, the guy finally came, and pulled out as quick as he could, leaving my ass to gush his cum and his brother’s cum out on my legs.  I was slumping down in the frame when I heard Roger say, “Pull it out and have it clean you.”  The brothers got me out of the frame and gave me the “On your knees!” order.  I offered my mouth.  With a smack on my head they accepted.  I licked the cum and shit off their dicks and balls.  When I gagged and backed away, I was grabbed and put back in position.  The twins insisted on being perfectly clean.

“Interesting,” Roger commented.  “It’s getting hard again.”

“Funny, sir,” one of them said.  “Like it’s not even old.”

“It’s like a robot, sir,” the other one said.

“An interesting observation,” Roger said.  “But cuff it again.  I don’t want it touching itself.”

“Yes sir.”  So I was cuffed.  I did the rest of my cleaning while balancing on my knees, hands locked behind my back.  When I tried to stabilize by holding a cock in my mouth as I licked it, my face was smacked away.  “You lick, slappie.  You don’t eat.”

This went on.  Finally I heard an educated voice saying, “That is enough.  I can watch the footage later.”  The spotlights went out.  For a moment, the room seemed totally dark.  When my eyes adjusted, I saw Roger signaling to the twins.  “Five minutes,” he said.

“Yes sir.”  They pulled their shorts back over their boots and buttoned their shirts and put on their caps and closed the door behind them.  I was still on the floor, dazed and staring.

A smile creased Roger’s face.  He was handsome before.  Now he was very handsome.

“You may rise,” he said.  Not easy.  I was still cuffed up.  But I made it.

“Water?” he asked.

“Please!  Please!”  He held a glass of water to my lips.  I drank.  “Thank you!”  I choked.

“Congratulations,” he said.  “You trusted me.  You gave me your consent to do what was best for you.  And I did.”

“What . . .  What do you mean?”

He sat in the armchair again.  He appeared to be thinking, to be deep in thought.

“I watched you slobbering your life away—not as a drudge in a restaurant, but before that, when you wanted to chat all night about the total experiences you idealized.  You were clearly disappointed that these experiences would not occur.  You did not understand the obvious, that a sadist can never, alas, achieve such a totality, because he himself would have to arrange it, control it.  And then it would not be total.  Do you understand me, slappie?”

“Yes . . . .  ”  I was trying to follow what he said, but when he called me “slappie,” my dick started stiffening again.

“Only a totally submitted object could achieve that experience.  But in fact it could not be achieved; it could only be imposed.  When I encountered you in the Oak Room, you had gained your proper status, but you appeared to be, and I know you were, resentful, angry, and confused.  You felt that somehow you deserved something else. I understood it as my obligation to resolve this conflict.  To complete the experiment, as it were.  And that is what I have done.  I may not be capable of total enjoyment, but I can take some satisfaction in this.  Are you still listening?”

“Yes.”

“Yes SIR.”

“Yes SIR.”

“So, I will talk about your future.  Very briefly, because that is all that is required.  You are my property, and I intend to keep you.  You will be owned by me for the rest of your life.  You will never be sold.  You will never be freed.  You will spend your life as a servant in a brown suit.  You will obey all orders you receive from the social and intellectual inferiors appointed to control you.  You will be maintained exactly like any other slappie.  If you do not obey, you will be punished.  You will do what you are told, when you are told to do it.  You will follow all the rules of my house, or suffer according to the rules of my house.  If you say anything about this conversation, or our past relationship, no one will believe you, but I will make sure that you regret it.  And I WILL know if you say anything.  From this moment on, any personal connection or recognition between us will cease.  I will be what I am, your owner, and you will be what you are, an item in my inventory.  You will be a slappie, and nothing else.  It is a total experience.  Do you think it will continue to interest you?”

That was too much for me to answer.

“Of course,” he said, “it is pointless to ask what a slappie thinks.”

The door swung open.  The five minutes were up.  The twins were back.

“Get its shorts on,” Roger said.  “And take it back where you found it.”

“Yes, Mr. Sharma.  What name you givin it, Mr. Sharma?”

“Oh yes, the name.  Everything must have a name.  There is that old name . . . . What is it? . . . .  It does start with ‘t.’  It is in that famous book . . . .  A man in that book . . . .”

“What book, Mr. Sharma?”

“A book you will never read.”

“No, Mr. Sharma.”

“A very amusing book.  Ah yes.  The name is Toby.  It is an old word for ‘arse.’  Call this slap Toby.”

“Yes, Mr. Sharma.”

That was the end of the interview.  In a minute I was staggering down the stairs, on my way to my new home in the servants’ quarters.

End of Part 1

(To be continued with Part 2, which begins tomorrow!)