My Recon profile made it clear from the outset – inexperienced, overweight and desperate to experience life as the slave I was born to be. The one word which summed it all up was “desperate.” I have lost count of the number of times that I have found myself eyes closed, furiously wanking my pathetic cock while I fantasised about life as a slave. To save my cock from being rubbed raw, I invested in a small nub chastity device and locked my cock firmly away.
The feeling of my cock squeezed tightly in the cage reminded me of my real role. I still lacked the firm, unyielding controlling hand that I so desperately craved. I would start conversations with Tops on Recon but could never find the sort of attitude I needed. I did get offers to meet up, but I could never find the confidence to go through with them. – my logical brain was always holding me back. I was a sad, repressed wannabe slave with no prospect of ever seeing it realised.
Then it all changed, it was a Monday morning, and I was settling down for a typical busy working week when my phone beeped with the familiar tone to say that I had a new message in Recon. I always hope that this will be the one. I opened the app to read it as quickly as possible. It was a short message, but it got me throbbing in my small cage.
It’s been over a month now since my sub became my gimp. While I’m on the job, or out with my buds, the excitement of knowing where he is and how he’s bound, and that he’s not moving until I got home, still keeps me hard through the better part of each day. But the intensity is lessening a little bit, week by week. It’s a relief for me, in a way, because my dick was getting chafed from stepping into the port-a-john to jerk off five or six times a day during those first couple weeks. The other guys had started razzing me about it — was I getting old man’s prostate? Going to jerk off again? If only they knew that’s exactly what I was doing.
That first week, the gimp was on my mind practically every second of every day. Horned up beyond belief, but tempered with a strong dose of concern. Maybe he’d overheat, or there’d be a fire or a gas leak at the house. Maybe he’d completely freak out and I’d come home to a zombie gimp, mentally broken beyond the point of what I wanted. Maybe some freak accident would clog up the air tube in his gag. The gimp and I had talked about all these dangers and more, in those last couple months leading up to his transformation. As far as he was concerned, the chances were so remote for any of these possibilities, that it was a no-brainer.
The potential risks were well worth the reward of him being allowed to truly live as my object. He didn’t have to twist my arm. I had just wanted to make absolutely sure he was aware of what he’d be getting himself into, and that he wasn’t off in a fantasy world, unaware of certain realities. By the time I’d decided I really wanted to do it with him, I wanted to be sure we weren’t going to get a few days or a few weeks into it just to have him try to get out of it or negotiate for something easier.
Boss Web showed me to my new rack. This time it was a bottom, because Biff was gone. Biff was the one they sent up to the House to replace me. I don’t know how the boss chose him; probably because he was the faggiest and most worthless one he could think of.
Everybody seemed OK with having me back. I was another pair of legs on the coffle, and I wasn’t Biff. Their main idea was to make sure I was still just another workie like them. Of course the news had traveled about Mr. Hamilton’s “friend” being my “friend” before I put on the workie suit, and the decision that the kangaroo court had made, but I had to be stripped of any specialness that the story gave me, so everybody could see how I took it. It started right away. “Too bad brah! You’re back in the minor leagues.” “The problem with aging.” “Harem boys don’t last that long.” “Shouldn’t have changed your hairstyle.” “Another bad career move.” And a lot more.
Actually, it was like, two rooms, one for the workie and one for the shopper. On the shopper’s side of the room there were two or three nice comfy chairs and a nice wooden table, with something that looked like a big notebook or catalogue that was open on the top. Then there was a polished wooden barrier, about three feet high. Then there was a space. Then there was another kind of barrier. This one went from floor to ceiling and was made out of steel fencing. Yeah, the kind of thing they make fences out of. After that, you were in the workie’s room. Where I was. I don’t need to tell you that there wasn’t any furniture on my side of the room, unless you count the two cams hanging from the ceiling. The lack of furniture made it easier for me to pace up and down, waiting for someone—Mike!–to come through the door on the other side.
By the time he did, I was completely revved up. And he was looking his best. I always liked him in those long, loose sweaters. The drapery showed whatever muscles he had. Surprisingly, his new slacks were perfect. Despite my not picking them out for him.
“Mike!” I said, rushing to the fencing. “I’m SO glad to see you! And you’re right on time!”
I woke up pretty slowly the next afternoon. Mike wasn’t there. He must have seen how passed out I was and figured it wasn’t safe to get me up. He was probably at his office. Maria had left some coffee and a tray of croissants and fruit and little slices of ham—very tasty, despite her being a bitch. I gradually recalled what had happened the night before. I was just as mad as I was then, thinking about those mean things Jerry had said, and how he’d taunted me. And what I’d agreed to do. I’d agreed to become a workie! How did that happen? How could that possibly have happened? I was confused . . . . And at that moment, my phone went off. Jerry, of course. Why not?
“Carson? Mike’s not there–I guess I can talk to you. You remember what we talked about last night? Vaguely? OK. I called the guy at WORC that I mentioned last night, and he was free for lunch—actually, I think he always is. Some people are. So I fed him some drinks and he said sure, you can be a workie. Just like we planned.”
“Uh . . . ” I said.
“I left him a couple minutes ago. It’s all fixed up. All you quote need to do unquote is write something on social media about how great the WORC program is–great, but demanding. I know you won’t do that, and he knows that too. But it’s all set up. You’ll have your two days as a workie.”
Four hours later, I’m still hard and my cock and balls are aching like I wouldn’t believe possible. But I’ve managed not to cum and I haven’t incurred any more penalties. As I shift uncomfortably, I reflect that might not last much longer and I might be about to lose another 3 hours. My cock and balls are trapped underneath me and are pressing against a sheepskin rug that tickles them with every slight move of my body. My freshly re-shaved head is covered with a rubber muzzle that has been strapped tightly in place and locked on, over the familiar ball gag. Apart from that and the rubber slave collar, I’m naked.
I groan and feel my chest dip towards the ground and I wince with strain as I stop myself. My hands are behind my back and secured together with padlocked restraints. My biceps have straps around them and they are linked by a strap that has been tightened as much as possible. Restraints are around each ankle and they are locked together as well. Then, my ankles have been pulled up behind me and locked to my wrists, keeping me in a loose hog tie. I am lying on my front, my crotch rubbing against a sheepskin rug. I am keeping my chest off the floor, because below my bulging pecs are 2 press buttons. If I relax enough to drop my chest onto the buttons, a bell will ring – and 3 hours will be added to my time. But if I can keep my chest off the buttons for 45 minutes, I get 6 hours taken off my time.
He then sat down in that sexy chair and said, “I am about to lay out the ten basic ways you will be transformed into the perfect pet husband so play close attention…
As he said that, he stopped. He then told me to take a moment to take in my new environment and to begin to feel my submission creeping in. He said that Alan had told him I always loved the feeling of a hood, so they had the one I was now locked into custom made for my head with the idea that there might be times when I would be wearing it in excess of 24 hours. He told me to begin to find peace in this hood, and as he talked, I could feel it becoming more and more of a safe space to me. This hit a spot with me and, to this day, I crave that Alan will put me in that hood at least some point every single day.
When he knew he had relaxed me, Todd sat back down in his chair and stared at what would have been my two blue eyes looking out of darkness toward him. He said, “Alan has spent months deciding on what your new life will look like and he then asked me to weigh in on it and this is how we came up with the idea of these two weeks of immersive training. The following is a list of ten truths that will come to define you every single day of your life moving forward to some degree or another.