Teddy Bear on a Leash
My present name is Alec, and I am an owned slave. As I understand, Master has written an entry for the Prison Library, from which he finds lots of inspiration to torment me. He suggested that I entertain myself with reading “Teddy Bear” (which he wrote) and possibly writing an entry of my own.
So here I am doing just that while leashed to Master’s desk. Before anyone asks, I am writing this on a laptop on the floor, I am currently wearing a bit gag with my limbs chained, ass plugged, and cock caged. No clothes, of course – Master made the rule. If I go on other sites, Master can easily see me doing it anyway, and my life would get triple as hard, so I won’t. He does let me search for facts, though.
No need for concern for my jaws. If I find my jaw seizing up, I am allowed to take the gag from my mouth and loosen it to hang it around my neck, like another collar, for 15 minutes before I wear it again. Master trusts me to keep the gag in as long as possible, and that I do. I love to feel the sudden absence of beard hair when I’m nuzzling things and it makes me feel more comfortable, as it reminds me that Master is taking care of me.
Truth be told, my training was described in adequate detail in “Teddy Bear” – after all, it’s fairly generic; rewards for doing well, penalties for doing poorly. This is the base of all training philosophies, even for animals and slaves. Really, if even this slave understands “finger your prostate and you get flogged”, I’m sure everyone can get the hang of it. This isn’t trying to explain philosophy for events in life or complex, elaborate metaphors, which I definitely can’t.
On that note, I admire Master for how well he writes. I loved the way he described me when I was kneeling naked in the sun, drooling as much as I sweated, covered in his cum. As I read it, I felt like the least and most important thing in the whole world. Brings back memories, and lots of joy.
I finally got the full picture of things, of why Master insisted that I put on the cock cage myself without any help from ice or corporal. He wanted me to submit and form this relationship with my own hands, so whatever pain or pleasure I’d have was of my doing. The chastity cage is now a proof of my being a slave, Master’s key to it proof of his ownership of me, instead of being just another sex toy.
If only Master would have me kneel in the sun again, but with a mirror so I could look at each drop of liquid my body produced, and know just how much it’s suffering for him.
I don’t think my initiation as a slave should have gone any other way. Thank you Master.
There’s a lot more to thank Master for. He never hoards his rewards: lots of rubs, pats, hugs, kisses, gentle twists on my nipples, big smiles all round every day for following the rules. Maybe a few minutes, or an hour out of chastity (but in light bondage, in case I try to stroke myself) if Master is feeling saintly generous. An orgasm where I choose how I want to cum (other than by masturbation) if many miracles happen in a row.
This also means Master is generous with his punishments, perhaps more so than the rewards. For small mistakes (like missing a workout target), I might be tied up and flogged. For bigger mistakes, Master tailors the punishment.
To explain the leash and to give context: I blew my load yesterday on accident, because he planned to edge me with vibrator nipple clamps. The 6 or 7 minutes of constant flogging that resulted wasn’t worth the unsatisfying pump I barely felt, and neither was the tiny string of cum that didn’t even go any distance; it just fell from my cock head. All it did was make me hornier, and adding insult to injury, Master kept those clamps on as he flogged me.
Today, he said I should be kept on a leash under his close watch, and any attempts to pleasure myself will result in more flogging and additional punishments, such as nipple clamps, removing my butt plug and hanging weights from my balls.
Speaking of nipple clamps, if I get another chance to cum in a way I specify, I might just suggest those vibrator clamps instead of more prostate milking. Don’t get me wrong, I love my ass played with, but it’s always nice to have a change of pace sometimes, even if it means having a less satisfying release and being extremely frustrated for the next month or 3. I’ve promised myself to take this opportunity if it comes up, to torment myself at least this once.
Anyway, I’d like to talk about the leash. The leash was a strange addition at first, since Master never trained me to be a dog, and I had no clue how to interpret the slackening and tightening of the leash as I crawled around. In the end, I just followed where Master stepped, and that was better.
It would seem the leash was pretty much meaningless when it came to guiding me in a direction. The leash’s function was actually to remind me of my status – a slave, or as Master said in his entry, “property”. So maybe I am a dog of sorts.
Or a pet bear. That rings better.
As I write this paragraph, it’s 2pm, and I’m thoroughly enjoying lying down at Master’s feet. In his words, I look like a yarn ball. I swear there’s a smile from above if I swayed my hips. Occasionally, Master would rub and pat my head, and I’d murr as happily as a slave could be. I have to watch out for the drool, though; Master had trained me (even before I became his slave) to drool on myself, because I was not allowed to stain anything that was of higher status than me, which meant literally everything was off limits. I have to remember to catch it or wipe my gagged mouth often with my arm then.
Dinner will be in 4 hours at 6. As ever, I’ll be on the floor, but with a small change; instead of being fed, I’ll eat by myself, since it saves time. What might be different from other slaves’ situations has to do with the food. Master has said that he will never give me food he wouldn’t consider acceptable to eat regularly. That means no protein slurpee washed down with piss and Viagra (even if drinking that might be a sexual fantasy some have). In fact, he asked me to cook broccoli with beef and mushrooms tonight (gag out, of course, hygiene is important).
The time between dinner and potty time finishing at half-past 7 and bedtime at half-past 10 is the time I’m most anxious about, but also most looking forward to. What we do every day is different. One night, I might be crying waterfalls of tears through a ball gag as I beg Master to make me cum (this actually happened once, though he never took out the gag or let me free and only wiped away my tears while he kept stroking me very slowly). The next, I might be lounging with Master on the couch while he talked sweetly to me with my mouth free. The next, I might be locked in a cage and left alone.
Who knows what comes tonight? For all I know, Master might make me swallow some cum, tie me in a painfully tight hogtie or do both at the same time. He may also just grab the leash and take me for a stroll in the backyard, and put me back on the couch for more fondling. I know he likes playing with my chest hair and my pits, so he might do that. Luckily, I am not ticklish, or I would have to forego breathing in this household.
The leash is actually pretty fun. I might ask to wear it on other days. Might even become a mainstay like the gag.
This uncertainty makes me centre my world around Master. Whatever happens, I know that he will be there and he will take good care of me in his own way. If he deems lots of flogging necessary, so be it. The old Clarence is gone.
Now I remember, Clarence was my name! Or was it actually Kinsley or Kingston?
Jokes aside, Clarence is my old name. Its origin apparently comes from the Duke of Clarence, later named William IV, and that’s why Master says it was garish and breached status boundaries when it implied nobility and such. Most would reasonably assume the name change was Master’s idea, but I suggested it. After all, “Clarence” is too posh for a slave, and its devilish combination of many consonants made it hard to pronounce, even in the most normal of circumstances.
The first thing that left Master’s lips was, “I’m calling you ‘slave’ anyway, so the name wouldn’t really matter.” The next was a hearty laugh and an assurance he wasn’t too fussed.
But it was important. There was this invisible ball and chain that I dragged around when I was being slave Clarence. On certain days, I actually felt it weigh me down and prevented me from serving Master as well as I could. My tongue would hesitate on his cock and my joints would lock in a hogtie. Then I’d feel unbelievably embarrassed as I was suddenly aware of the nudity, and aware of how long I had been naked for. That’s why I used this as the main point of leverage for my name change – the name was affecting my ability to be a good slave.
So one night, I asked Master for permission to discuss the name change again, which he gave, under the condition that I had to lie face up, looking at him.
This was his way of getting the truth out of me, but there couldn’t possibly be any lie. Perhaps it was more for the sake of confirmation, since a name change is a really big deal. I said, “Master, I feel that my name doesn’t fit a slave which I am. It’s weighing on me and I can’t serve you as well as I can.”
He agreed, and we immediately went to think of some names.
The first requirements were simple: the name should be short and easy to pronounce, so not more than 6 or 7 letters and not more than 2 syllables.
The next was much tougher to satisfy: the name had to be symbolically significant, but not too obviously conveying blessings or degradation. For example, John wouldn’t work, since it meant “God is gracious” in Hebrew. It was a fully-formed wish of good faith more suited for parents christening their newborn, not quite suitable for renaming a slave.
Eventually, I got bored of thinking so hard and simply asked Master to find a list of boy names, sorted alphabetically.
(I am happy to say that Master has just taught me this trick to write with. The price is a kiss over the gag after dinner. We are big fans of having me gagged.)
Aaron, Abbey, Abel…
We kept scrolling.
Abrams, Abu, Ace…
Nothing quite caught our eyes until we got to the names starting in “AL”.
Alex. It seemed good enough, but Master went a step further. He checked its origin, and noticed how it was the shortened form of Alexander, from Alexander the Great. He thought a while longer and went about trying to shorten it. Eventually, he came up with Alec by typing “Alex” out repeatedly to jog his mind but making a typo (X is right next to C).
Alec. Technically a further-shortened form of Alex, which is a shortened form of Alexander. I was reduced from man, to boy, to slave, according to Master in “Teddy Bear”. Alec does mean “defending men” in Greek apparently, but even with that, it still reflects how Master defends and cares for me. It couldn’t be more perfect, so we went with it. It’s a bit depressing if I say my name is the result of a typo, so I’ll spin the tale the other way and say that my name is the result of many happy accidents between Master and me.
That night, after taking off my “uniform”, Master stopped me from going to my little corner on the floor to sleep. He wanted me to sleep with him on the bed. I hesitated, because I was afraid I’d do something wrong in my sleep – rolling over onto Master, crushing his arms into the mattress, taking up the bed, or snoring. But Master had other ideas. He grabbed my hand and reeled me in.
“Alec, my slave, I love you.” My heart melted.
Since that night, Master makes me sleep on the bed. Of course, the goings for a slave never gets any easier. That’s why when I sleep now, I wear a blindfold and a mouth-only muzzle, which I am allowed to take off if I my nose gets plugged and I can’t breathe well. Master really likes me gagged. At least I’m not drooling and racking up punishments with this one. With the blindfold and muzzle on, being unable to see or coherently answer Master’s many words of love while he brushes his hand along my chest and abs he owned, I felt more like a toy than ever. Maybe just like a teddy bear a child would hold in their sleep.
It’s quarter past 5. Master just untied the leash and removed my gag – time to get dinner ready. Off I go to the kitchen.
Oh! One last thing: I love you, Master.
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Metal would like to thank Taurus for continuing this story!