Teddy Bear – Part 03

By Taurus

Teddy Bear Wants a Snack

Alec is a good slave. This is NOT up for debate.

When I give him orders, he follows them flawlessly. Regardless of what I do to him, he seems to be able to take it in stride.

When we have down time together, he naps, cradled in my arms. The time displayed on the clock no longer provides context to my life; minutes, hours, days lose meaning.

Moments aggregate in stealth and clump into a whole afternoon. My heart melts to goo, and my body feels like floating. Before I know it, I mirror his smile on my face, and scratch his irresistible beard in bliss.

Then he laughs gently, and I stop thinking. Whatever work I set out to do, however crucial, then becomes inconsequential.

I close my eyes and my fingers instinctively explore his body. When I hit a fluffy spot, I catch myself clawing at him, fearful that he would expire soon, as if he were a dog and doesn’t operate on the same biological calendar as me.

God forbid if he were to pass. I doubt I’d live through it.

Looking at his face is dangerous.

Those eyes.

That smile.

Nevertheless, even if I don’t look, all I can think about is him.

Time moves if he does, my perception of the world shrinks to nothing but my slave.

Ha! “My slave.” Such weird words I can now say, and what a thing those words refer to.

Alec is perfect.

Some days I get up from my desk like doing the last reps of a pushup training routine with an ailing stamina, figuratively and literally; forcing myself up, exhausted and drained, wanting nothing more than sleep. Yet, when I look down at the slave at my feet, I feel invigorated once more.

A certain fighting spirit reignites within, even if I don’t get to touch him.

When we cuddle, I like to talk to him. In particular, about my shortcomings. He cheers me up with his words, without fail. Granted, he may be a toy that talks back, but he is a toy that can put colour back into a monochrome world, a toy that can give you far more happiness in one ruffle of his hair than an eternity in paradise could.

I haven’t cum in a long while out of choice. Orgasms would make me overdose in joy and pleasure, then my brain would explode. A kiss on his cheeks is enough.

That said, if he wants to eat some cum, I’ll try to give it to him.

Alec is perfect, absolutely perfect. Don’t bother trying to change my mind.

And here’s where I get scared; how do you train a slave that’s so good in and outside the dungeon? Even though Alec may be a perfect slave, I’m not a perfect master.

Adding to the above, how do you train a slave if you are reluctant about hitting and scolding him for his mistakes, because you love him so much that all you want to give him is hugs and kisses?

There’s not much else I can train him to do, to be honest.

What if he takes another as master? I know there are many out there who would lust for a slave like mine. Among them, there will be those who can tie him tighter, flog him harder, fuck him deeper, and be all the more willing to train him to exceed what I consider the ultimate level.

As Alec dances gracefully between the stars, his leash waving and twirling behind his resplendent self, outshining galaxies and supernovae, I look up wistfully, grounded by my inadequacies. I extend my arm upwards, desperate to reach him…

…and then my shoulder creaks, reminding me of how powerless I am.

Oh, Alec…the things I wish I could do for you.

Here’s a confession for you who read this: I can’t flog. Not as hard as I could, anyway.

Since young, I’ve always been the timid one. Back in high school, I was too afraid to defend myself in any way from school bullies. I couldn’t fight back against their tongues that belittled me, their hands that assaulted me (physically and sexually), and when I finally had them on the hook, I bid them farewell politely (they were expelled), even if I knew they would never afford me the same luxurious dignity.

Yet, to this day, I still wonder and care about them. If I could find them on Facebook, I’ll scroll through their timelines. I wonder if they ever got a degree, if they have a partner, if they have a pet, if they have kids, if they live somewhere nice, what car they drive.

Sometimes, I wonder if they have a slave too, not unlike the one I have. Hey, if this scrawny runt of a man could net a catch such as the great big hulking bear in my arms, nothing’s impossible.

Except actually contacting them.

In any case, if I don’t have the courage to justly talk back at, or at least talk to people who have severely wronged me and owe me 4 years of a normal school life, then I’d never have the courage to actually hit someone.

It shows; each hit of the flogger rings loud and clear. It echoes in my mind, and I stumble over myself after each lash.

I know Alec wants to get flogged. Hell, he begs for and smiles through worse. This time, it’s the master that needs to catch up.

Here’s another confession: I’m best at edging, and I want my subs to endure the process, to learn to love the suffering rather than the cumshot. Not so with Alec.

Of course I know edging is never about the orgasm; it’s the journey towards the orgasm that counts. It’s a simple no-frills way to learn submission – your body is your dom’s to use, not yours to control.

However, when I edge Alec, I always feel tempted to make him cum (outside of his scheduled cumshot days).

That’s practically daily.

Whenever I tie him up, he humps the air. If I permit it, the cock that I lock away and deny stimulation for weeks on end points straight at the sky, a firework on a short fuse, ready to go. Without much more than a touch with my finger, it quivers and leaks precum, desperate to cum, while the slave it’s attached to whimpers through his gag and begs for it with his teary eyes.

It’s not just during play, too. During his naps, he often twists and turns, pawing uselessly at his cage, wanting to tear it off of the painfully erect cock it so perfectly encases and torments (we got a new chastity cage that’s tighter, by the way!). He makes muted moans, so very soft and fragile, as if a porno was playing on very low volume. And it does look like a porno, with how beautiful he looks.

When he gets edged for a long time and is denied orgasm, he curls up into a ball after I untie him and it takes some rubs and pats to calm him down, and massage his frown back into a smile.

On one hand, I’m enjoying it; it’s always fun to see macho males get reduced to a cheap animal wanting nothing more than to cum, and my slave is very macho indeed.

I want to make him beg for an orgasm that would inevitably be ruined while his hands are imprisoned in fist mitts, inches from his cock. In fact, I might buy an old pair off a friend. I’m getting giddy over that idea.

On the other, my heart sinks; it’s no fun to see the one you love most on the verge of tears.

How painful it’d be.

And how painful it’d be for the one who administers it all.

Anyway, what I want to say is I’m a bad master who doesn’t quite have the determination to train his slave well. Excuses, excuses.

I can’t imagine a life without Alec. It’s him that makes the toils for my paycheck bearable – no, worth it.

Even then, I do need breaks from him. Offloading play to other doms lets me introspect in solitude and peace, free from a faceful and noseful of fluffy beard and chest hair. It tires you out and makes you sneeze, who would’ve thought?

Very often, this introspection would involve me asking myself if this life is what Alec wants.

If he has a play session arranged, I let him go, and he does, after taking off his “uniform”, laying it in a pile at the door, to be put back on immediately when he returns. Only then does he start to change into the normal clothes I picked out for him.

The “uniform” can scare away any amateur, being comprised of two sets of chains and shackles (one for the arms, one for the legs), a gag of some description, an anal plug, and optionally a harness. More recently, this pile would include a leash as well.

It’s hot, don’t get me wrong, but there comes a point when I see a sub being kept in highly restrictive bondage, and I start to question whether they volunteered (which is likely the truth), or if the handler tied them that tightly to avoid escape. Same goes for Alec. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if I put him in a hogtie and left him in my backyard or in a cage for a while, but I’d have to do a double-take at times to assure myself that yes, he wants this, yes, he’s been asking for it on his knees for as long as I can remember, and yes, I’ve done all I could to ensure he doesn’t injure himself.

I believe it’s the cultural image of gags and chains being associated with keeping someone against their will that creates this problem. Without context, the sight of Alec being kept as he is in a cage would likely conjure the concepts of being kidnapped and kept for sordid and dubious notions of “fun” by a sadist who likes hurting people.

Okay, maybe I am a sadist, but you get the point; it all feels like I’m ruining a prospective young man’s future. Even if he still chose to be a slave under the wing of another master otherwise, would he fare better then, compared with me now?

Still, despite my knowledge of this cultural effect, nightmares still plague my sleep. Visions of people curse me for letting Alec rot in my home, shouting at me that I don’t deserve him. The more I refute them, the more I know they might as well be telling the truth.

After all, deny that your coffers are filled with silver a thousand times and the only outcome one may expect is a robbery.

I’ll toss and turn in my slumber, wriggling, an earthworm in the claws of a bird, then all of a sudden, like birds from a bonfire, the visions retreat into the shadows, and the cacophony of voices die down. I jerk awake, to see none other than my Alec (with his blindfold removed) holding me with a concerned look on his face.

I owe Alec.

I may call him a slave, I may keep him naked and chaste, and I may have trained him to know his place – lesser than the laminate wood on the floor, lesser than the concrete of the driveway, lesser than the dirt and grass in my backyard, but these don’t detract from the fact that I love him more than anything in the world.

Because he’s not just a slave, he’s my slave.

I owe him a great, great debt.

In truth, this master is his slave’s slave. I exist only to make him happy, responsible for putting the myriad restraints and toys he loves so much onto him, and trying to make each passing moment in every session last and count.

As such, I conclude my thoughts, fluffy slave in my arms, who has dozed off with his tongue lolled out slightly, a ball gag, a chain collar and a leash under his chin around his neck, hanging loosely.

I fall prey to desire, and lose all self-control.

I put on a smile, imitative of that on my slave’s face, and scratch his beard. Despite their considerable weight, the chains that bind his arms and legs twinkle like wind chimes as he wakes slightly.

I look into his eyes, now trained at me. What would have been a tired man just a while ago now looks back in the reflection with spirit, dignity and pride.

I do a double-take; yes, I own this slave, and yes, I trained this slave.

A storm of bottled emotions build within my heart. A scalding rush of every emotion I’ve felt in my sorry, sorry life – anger at the world’s state of affairs, fear of the uncertain future, sadness for my inabilities to satisfy my slave.

And most prominently, heartfelt joy and bustling pride.

Because yes, I own this slave. Because yes, I trained this slave.

I’ll give him my life, because without him, I’d probably have worked myself to death, my last moments devoid of thought and emotion as I die without a soul, collapsed at my own desk with nobody to mourn me, the fact made known as my bloated corpse stinks up the house with cadaverine.

I could be replaced quickly at my job anyway; I’m no beloved politician, no cult classic icon, no profound artist, no important scientist, no prodigy instrumentalist, but that won’t happen now.

Alec only calls me “Master” and no one can take that away. In this way, I have become important.

I won’t let Alec leave me for someone else. At least, not if he doesn’t want it.

I owe him for my life, and all the happiness in it.

Tears well in my eyes, but they don’t fall. I hold him tighter, but I don’t dig my nails in.

The storm grows, building into a mesmerizing tempest that rips my mind apart – painful, yet infinitely cathartic, like a good flogging (by a better dom than me).

The world can burn, so long as my slave doesn’t burn with it.

I embrace this truly terrible notion and accept my equally repulsive selfishness.

I let the tempest destroy to its contentment. Memories not of Alec fade away and become temporarily inaccessible. Unbridled happiness and unrestrained wants usurp all higher thought processes, and I’m reduced to an animal, like a sub I’d tie down for an edging.

Or just like a sow on heat, desperate to breed.

I know heaven is a kind of hell. It dulls your senses with unending pleasure anathema to passion, and before long, all is moot, but I wouldn’t mind the risk of falling into this hell. In any case, this source of infinite enjoyment has never numbed me, not in the many hundreds, maybe thousands of times I’ve allowed myself to imbibe in this luxury.

And so I do just that. Imbibe.

I continue looking at Alec’s eyes.

He inquires softly, “Master?”

Gales of pure happiness ravage the last vestiges of my sanity, with more power than any orgasm, with more exaltation than any religious experience, and I’m left wanting.

Thus ends a day.

And all begins again the next.

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Click for Part 1

Metal would like to thank Taurus for continuing this story!

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