I don’t care what people say about subs, about how they should be smooth from head to toe, or about how they should be kept in rubber with a hood on. To each their own, I guess.
I’m a little different. I like hair. Thick, fluffy beard and haircut, plus a whole body of unadulterated hair, but no points are taken off if bald. Lots of added points if muscular, if they know how to curl up to make themselves look like giant yarn balls in a cage, and if they can wear gags for a long time. I love seeing the dent in their beard from a ball gag that seems to sink into their mouth, and I love having as much of their skin exposed as possible.
I haven’t found many of these boys to play with on the regular, and long-term. More accurately, I’ve found one, and I’ve stopped searching for more. Now, reader, you might consider this a shame, but factor in how I pour my emotions into subs like a little kid talking to their teddy bear which is their vessel of emotion, it saves me from heartbreak and I can focus all my efforts on just one sub, who I can trust to have my back. Of course, I do play with other subs, just that I have one who will always be the main project, so to speak.
The aforementioned boy has a name: Alec, presently at least. Before, it was something like Kinsley or Kingston, or some other garish, harsh-sounding name implying nobility or other qualities. I can’t remember it, and I don’t have to, not in real life, though for the sake of writing this story I will address him as Kingston in dialogue lines spoken before the name change.
Because he’s mine now, and I’ve named him Alec.
(“Alec” is a great dog name, because it’s easy to pronounce properly. You’re welcome.)
Alec has chestnut hair, and heaps of it. He sports a beard, not unlike the one I described as being ideal, and it joins up neatly with his sideburns. His body is full of the most luscious hair that even coats his shoulders, back and bubbly ass cheeks (not just around the hole), albeit much more thinly. A trench of hair that runs between the pecs and the abs down to the pelvis defines his well-toned chest and abs even further. Dig a finger between the hairs, and it almost seems like grass, except denser. I’ve lost whole days lounging on his lawn of a chest fondling his hairy pits, with him spread-eagled on the bed.
That said, it isn’t as if he’s wearing clothes. He is hairy to just the right degree, where the hair perfectly complements his slightly tanned skin and creates a halo. Imagine a pencil sketch of the perfect man, then mess up the edges with little flicks of graphite here and there.
Now that’s Alec.
Oh, he’s 7 inches when he’s hard (i.e. when and if I let him out of chastity, more on that later) and he’s pretty muscular. I guess that’s important too.
Alec and I met as generically as possible: years ago at a convention, we talked, we played, kept in contact, played more and more and a kinky fling eventually became more permanent than I initially thought. Alec moved in with me a month after we had our impromptu “wedding”, which involved us fastening collars onto each other; a knotted strip of leather for me, a chain and padlock for him.
We belonged to each other. Even if we couldn’t make our relationship official where we lived, we could still express our love.
Mind you, he is still my sub.
One night, I got home late from work and found him gagged and kneeling, facing the couch. He had perfect posture; hands squarely behind the small of his back, ankles crossed, chin up, eyes straight ahead. The drool collected on his body hair was some sight to behold. I had trained him to drool onto himself so that he would not dirty anything of higher status than himself – or in layman’s terms, anything else.
There was that fuzzy, melting feeling in the heart that signals pure spiritual joy. I had trained him for a long time, and this was evidence of my labour bearing fruit, and what sweetness it held.
Yet, I was taken aback. He’d never done anything on his own like this. Not to my knowledge anyway. Something happened, either something very nice, or very terrible.
(It was the former, arguably.)
I unfastened his gag and petted him. I felt curious, and at the same time, very defensive, just in case something bad befell him. With that notion in mind, I gathered just enough tenderness to speak softly to him (having lots of speech experience in the past trained my voice to have a sort of resolute, hardened steel-like quality common in the Sergeant trope).
“What are you doing?”
“Why did you gag yourself and kneel here as if there was someone to serve?”
Alec was silent for a moment. As anyone would be.
Why did he kneel?
Was it because someone held a gun to his head and threatened to blow up the house?
Was it because he had his relatives held for ransom and would be killed unless he knelt there?
Was it because he was doing it for money?
Or was it…
“I need to serve you, Sir,” Alec said, extra emphasis on “you”. He bowed his head immediately, as if afraid I would be angry at that response.
“Need to” – what a powerful phrase. It lacks the suggestive qualities of “have to”, which, when said in this context, feels like I forced him to. It is not desire, but necessity, carrying the same significance as food or water or air.
Then again, no one “needed” that stupid 5-dollar Unicorn Frappe that could give you diabetes within half a cup. Normal coffee for half the price does the job.
Well then. Whatever the boy said. I’d have that.
I sat in front of him and said simply, “Lie face down on my lap.”
And he did, with his arms stretched above his head as I instructed.
Through my pants, I felt his heart pumping strongly against my leg. As I felt him up, the pumping quickened. The heartbeats were more frequent when I had a hand in his warm ass crack.
I made no attempt to finger his hole or stimulate it. This wasn’t a play session. The boy has no reason to get pleasure, nor did I give him much, if any at all.
I was touched by his statement, sure, but this was serious stuff. Until that day, we had been fairly casual about our play. Having a sub commit like this is like changing overnight from a part-time contract to one that binds you for life; you ask yourself the same question over and over, “is this really what I want?”
“Do I need this?”
“Am I able to do this?”
Do I have the emotional capacity to handle Alec not as a lover who happens to like getting stuff in his ass and being given commands, but a slave bound by house rules? What if this relationship ends in heartbreak for both of us?
In certain BDSM erotica, story arcs progress with “thinking with [the] dick instead of [the] brain”. While I can offer no good alternative (as this is in alignment with many sexual fantasies), I sometimes shun these compositions for how cliché they are, and I have good reason to, because a slave in your home means a lot more than just sex.
You cannot take someone into your life and call them your slave just because “you thought it’d be hot”. Forgive this pragmatic idiot of a knackered old goat, these sequences are really jarring.
In ancient times, when slaves were bought and sold on the open market, they were considered property. Living, like cattle and lambs and horses, but property nonetheless. One must care for their property, or its value wilts away.
Crash a car and its resale price tanks. Similarly, let a slave get weak and unable to perform the tasks you bought it to do, and you lose your investment, except losing Alec (as a slave) means losing training time and emotions I invested. Like a kid crying when their teddy bear, their vessel of emotion, is thrown away, I fear I might do the same if worse comes to worst and Alec leaves.
Plus, I had to consider if I could support two people (and their very intense hobby) in my humble home – it’s not exactly the penthouse suite with a secret section where I can put bondage frames and cages and St. Andrew crosses and poles to keep subs and to play with them.
I had to think with my brain, and my heart.
Dozens of things I clutched onto over the years, and despite my grip, have escaped from between my fingers; partners, opportunities, friends.
I don’t want another heartbreak countless other men have given me. Beneath the shell of a man, age 30, 35, 40 – I’ve forgotten – holding a flogger, there stands a weak, meek, miserable coward who is too afraid to seek love and yet fears a future where he withers away, alone on his deathbed.
There’s a saying, or a term of criticism in Chinese: waiting by a tree for a hare. The proverb goes that a farmer found a hare that died by headbutting the tree near his farm. After that day, he’d not farm, and simply wait by the tree for another hare. His farm was ruined, and he starved to death. The message: seize opportunities proactively and get off your lazy ass.
And still, I waited for another man to love. Pathetic.
Love is another goddamn gamble. You may win, or you may lose, but I do not know the odds well enough to calculate the expected outcome, and thus I am not confident enough to participate. On one hand, I really want Alec as my slave, but on the other, I don’t want the chance of knowing one day, we might disappoint each other because he can’t wear his collar well enough to match my crop, or the other way round.
Oh look, more doubts. Here’s the man you’ve fantasised about, you’ve freaking married him, he’s moved in, he’s sucked your dick as much as he’d sucked on straws, and only now you’re having second thoughts?
Why is life so complicated?
I had my hand in Alec’s ass crack, and it had not moved, not one bit. It must have felt really uncomfortable because either you play with it, or you don’t. You don’t just keep a hand lodged between a naked man’s exposed cheeks.
I do have a tendency to philosophise and think about things (extensively, or some may put it, excessively and/or unnecessarily). 1800, 1900 words, and I’ve only just gotten back home.
Sorry about that. I promise this is much less noticeable in person, but in writing I tend to write what I think (and what I think other people think, and what I think other people think I think, ad infinitum).
Anyway, I digress.
“Kingston, are you sure you are ready?” I asked with my speech voice, as I put my hand on his mouth. Promptly, I pulled him to a sitting position to my left.
The hand stayed on another 20 seconds or so.
If he wanted to become a slave, he must get accustomed to not having certain privileges, such as the privilege of speaking freely. Obviously, I would not whip him until he bled and cried (I like smooth skin with no scars anyway), nor would I leave him in someone else’s custody like a pet at a care centre, but I would treat him like property. He must live with the decisions I make for him, and the ones I let him make himself.
After all, he will be a slave, not a human. Human rights are enjoyed by humans, not slaves.
The enforced silence also made him think with his brain and heart, and not just the dick. A relationship is a two-way road between two cities, not a pipeline from a tap to a tank to be removed when full; the feelings of love must go both ways. Rope and chain in a relationship with no love are just those: restraints. Only with love can they become a catalyst for happiness (at least for us kinky people, don’t judge).
I hoped my use of his first name instead of “boy” or other similar expressions would get his full attention.
More slowly and deliberately, I spoke to him again, with my hand taken off. “I will ask you again. Kingston, are you sure you are ready?”
He said a gentle “yes sir”.
The rest of the day, all 4 hours of it, went by normally, save the fact that I forbade him from wearing any clothes, and that I gave him a spare blanket to wrap himself in as he slept on the floor.
I am quite positively certain this was not quite as dramatic we had (secretly or outwardly) hoped for, but I was tired. According to the law, a contract signed while intoxicated by alcohol can be nullified. In a similar vein, I didn’t want to do anything of this importance if I didn’t have the facilities of my full attention.
Fortunately, I had the next day free. Training didn’t have to be done so late at night.
As I woke up, a pleasant surprise greeted me. Miraculously, Alec knew to fold the blanket neatly and set it aside in the corner without being prompted. He even sat straight, beside the bed on the floor, waiting for orders.
“Wash out, go to the backyard and stand there,” I said, then abruptly adding, “naked, and put sunscreen on.”
I made Alec kneel on a big, soft towel. 9 o’clock in the morning, in the backyard (with very tall walls) under a bright sun with no clouds. Now this is a perfect condition for how I want to officiate our relationship as master and slave. Well, nearly, since having neighbours meant that I had to keep my voice softer when I spoke, but I would never pass up this opportunity to thoroughly turn him into a slave, but in my own way.
It was also a bit hot. You win some, you lose some.
I laid out a bottle of silicone lube, a slightly squishy ball gag, an anal plug shaped to stimulate the prostate, a clear plastic chastity cage and a key to the cage, in that order from left to right, on another towel in front of Alec. After this, I pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.
“You are not allowed to talk. Nod once if you understand.”
“You will not move from this towel. Nod once if you understand.”
“You will put on these items in the order I tell you to. Nod once if you understand.”
I realise how mechanical this is, but Alec knows how to find fun in a difficult situation, and lots he finds. In a previous session, when I was tying him up, he had dry lips when only his legs were tied to a suspended bar. Instead of asking for a drink of water or a break, he aimed his cock at his mouth and just pissed. I adore the fact that he doesn’t take himself too seriously (and how he giggled with that silly smile afterwards), but I didn’t want this “ritual” of sorts to be disrupted.
This was sacred, and with the use of this word, it really does seem like a ritual to appease some god.
And some god I felt like.
“Gag and plug.”
Before you call me a sadist, at least acknowledge that I let him use as much lube as he wanted. Silicone, because he was in for a long ride.
(I’m probably a sadist, whatever.)
At this point, he was so very turned on. He likes his prostate getting tickled by toys very much. His cock pointed at the sky, like a little model rocket about to take off. His body glistened here and there; he was perspiring. Unsurprising, considering he was kneeling in the summer sun with a full coat of fur. The breeze hadn’t helped his case, since even that felt a little hot.
Like I said, you win some, you lose some.
I wanted to cum myself, right then and there. The man of my dreams was in my presence, and he’s kneeling in front of me, about to become my slave! But I must not cum, not yet at least.
I walked over from my chair and stroked Alec’s dick, slowly and deliberately, with three fingers slicked with lube. He closed his eyes and raised his chin ever so slightly, taking in the waves and waves of pleasure. As ever with a story like this, I stop just before he orgasms and he doesn’t get to cum. Is it just me, or is the focus in his eyes faltering?
His body responded with action. He blinked away the hesitance, and straightened his back again.
I repeated this two more times. All the while, he kept his hands crossed squarely behind his back.
By the third edging, he looked at me with his puppy eyes and furled eyebrows. He has stayed mute for this “ritual”, but I could almost hear his mind begging me to make him cum.
(The description of “puppy eyes” is fitting, since Alec really is furry like a dog.)
But would I really be merciful? Someone who leads their naked slave-to-be to such an exposed place, to have them gag and fuck themself, potentially for the whole world to see? Someone who would write about this experience of theirs in such great detail, accessible to the whole world? Would I let them cum one last time before they gave up ownership of their cock?
I went back to my chair.
“Cage. Do not cum.”
Alec’s eyes widened, and for the first time today, he made a sound. A tiny whimper, of fear, shock, disbelief. Maybe all of these together. Maybe it carried every emotion with a name.
I could tell precisely how much profanity is circulating in his mind by determining how desperate he was when he looked down at his manhood. The answer? About three or four words a second. That’s also approximately how often you’ll find yourself instinctively swearing mentally if you stub your toe while barefoot.
Yes, I tested this myself. May this useless fact enrich your life.
Nevertheless, credit where credit is due. Despite being edged in sweltering heat and brought near cumming, only to be commanded to forfeit his cock, Alec still hasn’t shown any cracks in his self-control or his posture. He has tied himself up with sheer will, tighter than a half-hearted sub ever could be with ropes and chains and belts.
This observation touched me to the core. I sincerely hoped he realised this too, and that it gave him solace, because God knows he’ll need it.
Alec put the ring portion around the base of his cock and balls, then stoically closed his eyes to steel his nerves. He opened his eyes and looked at me for a good while, but seemed very puzzled as to why I’m not doing anything. At this point, one would expect the top to push an ice pack against the sub’s cock, or do some smacking and hitting, but I had other ideas.
“Hrngh?” He grunted questioningly, chastity cage in hand.
“I said, cage.”
Cherry on the cake, diamond on the ring, ball in the goal?
Dick in the cage?
You get the point. I had some (considerable) difficulty concealing the emerging smile, so I took advantage of the cover I created when I wiped my face of sweat.
I wanted to make this clear: Alec asked to become my slave, so he will do the initiation himself. He should have seen this curveball coming a mile away.
“Dick in the cage, or don’t come back in.”
Alec gasped a little. He closed his eyes and tried to meditate, but whatever progress he made to clear his mind, the ass plug would always undo it all. I imagine his prostate feels really good right about…
He made a whine like that of a dog when it’s sad. He was expressly forbidden from having an orgasm despite being edged with a plug up the ass. How else could he feel?
When he moved in, he filled up my shelf for ass toys with his own. Need I say more?
He was growing truly desperate. His back, which had been ramrod straight for the past 15 minutes, started curving forward. His shoulders folded inwards, and his big, proud hairy chest deflated. He chewed down on the squishy ball gag and shuffled a bit on the towel, but all he did was shrink his allotted space for movement.
His dick was still the same rocket waiting for launch, but Houston, we have a problem.
More whimpering. More furling of eyebrows.
Lots of saliva. He drooled down his beard, down his chest, down the abs, into his bush. Some went down the legs. Maybe it’s just sweat – I can’t tell anymore.
He dropped the cage back onto the towel and thrashed around a bit with his fingers firmly pinching and twisting bits of skin around his body, in the hopes that the pain would make the erection subside.
No luck of course, the plug was still right up against his prostate. The only effect: he sweat even more from the pain.
Yet more drooling. The slobber hanging from his lips and beard increased in volume. What dripped onto his torso and cock and legs mingled with sweat. Droplets of liquid got tangled and halted their descent between strands of hair like dewdrops on blades of grass.
Like I said, a lawn.
As he struggled against his erection, a single drop of drool landed squarely on the cage he had failed to stuff his erect cock into.
A barely audible thump, the presence of which was more self-suggested illusion rather than a deduction based on auditory stimuli. Nevertheless, it reminded Alec of his seemingly impossible task; get soft and locked up.
At that moment, the task was, for all intents and purposes, impossible.
Finally, he looked at me and shook his head sadly. His arms hung by his side, hands indecisive whether to clench into fists or not. An aura of frustration emanated from him, yet I sincerely doubt he still had the mental capacity.
There goes another drop of saliva past the bottom lip.
Never before have I seen this hulking behemoth of a prime male specimen so defeated, so close to tears. I was almost sympathetic.
In an alternate universe, Alec must have been a celebrity who is more well-known for pictures of him taken topless rather than the movies and shows he stars in, and the crush of many guys and girls all around the world.
However, this isn’t that universe. Now, he looked absolutely miserable; naked, kneeling, gagged, sweating like a pig and drooling uncontrollably, but still hopelessly horny; his cock still points to the heavens.
He wants to get tied up and fucked and flogged, sure, but that’s not what he needs. What he needs is strict training to become a proper slave, one that doesn’t piss into his mouth for a drink without permission, but one that will enjoy, or at least accept the piss nonetheless.
“Get soft, and lock that cage on.”
Alec shook his head again. Did I hear him sob?
“You can’t get soft?”
He didn’t even make an attempt to affirm. All I got was a sad look.
His legs were trembling a bit. Another couple minutes is all it takes to have him collapse and to give me a reason to flog him until he got soft.
But I caved. I wasn’t ready to deal with a crying boy. That, and I wanted him to fight off the erection himself.
As the adáge goes, sometimes the best help you can get is self-help. Whether that’s true or not in this case, I actually don’t know. I don’t even know if this adáge is quoted correctly, nor do I aim to find out. Just let me look in peace at my very furry and very sweaty boy suffering, please and thanks.
“You can stop kneeling and sit, but all other rules apply. Nod once if you understand.”
Alec nodded, and immediately readjusted to sit with his head buried in his legs. Now that he was massaging his knees and his arms were no longer stuck to his torso, I got a good look at his sides and armpits – all sweaty. What he’s smelling right now must be pretty good.
What this is, is someone trying to recover from fatigue, physical and mental. He heaved great breaths, or at least tried to, since he still had a ball gag securely fastened in his mouth. He’d shuffle around, but I can’t tell if it’s because of exhaustion or the plug in his ass. The chastity cage lay between his feet where he left it, and he’d unconsciously poke at it with his toes.
I don’t blame Alec. I’ve taken him to hell and back.
Regardless of if it was pleasurable at all for Alec, I must say I enjoyed it immensely. He’s missing a pair of nipple clamps, but life isn’t perfect. Besides, I don’t want to risk injury if he takes a long time, if he moves around a lot, or if he curls up, all of which he has done.
I kept looking at Alec. Those rippling muscles, that glossed skin, the matted hair. Concrete proof of his suffering. Heaven.
All of a sudden, he sat straight again. He had a (frankly, frightening) look of determination, a drive so strong as if out for vengeance.
And some vengeance he had.
He grabbed the bottle of lube, squirted its contents into the chastity cage and jammed his cock into the tube, which had just gone flaccid. Fumbling slightly and pushing against his cock, he reached for the key and locked it up just in time, because when he finished doing so, he grimaced in pain as the cock that was so close to climax just a moment ago tried to get hard, and strained against the transparent walls.
I got him a transparent chastity cage so he would be reminded every day that he was owned. With a long, hard look and a dollop of drool again, he bid his manhood, or at least his command over it, farewell. With that, he had changed from man, to boy, to slave.
Despite having just done something most conventionally humiliating, Alec chuckled to himself, almost having reclaimed some dignity. With renewed spirit, he scrambled to get himself upright again, and walked, on his knees and smiling, over to me. He held the key in both hands, and raised it as if he was a knight giving his weapon to his king.
What can I say, my boy – er, slave, is anything but conventional. He is extraordinary.
I took the key. I approve of this knight – er, slave.
“Slave, kneel.” (Now this, THIS is some kingly shit.)
Alec adjusted his posture to that of last night’s in front of the couch – perfection.
I pulled out my cock and blew my load into his face. The first pump landed square on the gag, the second a little lower on the beard. The third and fourth landed on the chest with the last few drops wiped with the hair on his head.
“I will take out the gag. Do not swallow or wipe; let everything come out.”
As the gag came out, what pooled behind the gag poured out and showered him in another layer of slimy drool. Alec followed my command to the letter, though, and obediently kept his eyes trained at me, and never once paid attention to his mess of saliva and sweat. Again, I wiped the cum on the gag with his head.
I led Alec into the bathroom, but told him to kneel in front of the shower on the thick towel he made a friend of just now in my backyard. To his surprise, I took a short shower to wash away the sweat.
I left the shower naked, having thrown my sweaty clothes in the laundry basket and went to get new clothes, or so it seemed.
Really, I was spying on Alec, seeing if he would leave the towel, turn his head around, or try to use the shower, since his body was rife with cum, sweat and saliva. Maybe just to scratch a bad itch from a mosquito bite. I’d understand, we were outside for quite some time.
But he didn’t.
He just knelt there, as perfectly as he could.
I didn’t bother going back in. He’s done as much as he could at this juncture, and at this stage, he was nearly perfect.
“Slave, you need to learn the rules.”
I don’t actually have that many rules for Alec. I only required him to be naked in the house unless we were expecting guests, clean out every day, and to never cum without my permission, which was given rarely.
Oh, he was also required to keep his body hair and his beard thick and fluffy.
Alec had cum stuck in his hair for another 4 hours. He might have been a teddy bear reeking of sweat and saliva and cum (and maybe piss too, who knows at this point), but he is still my teddy bear. I spent an hour teaching him the rules and how to clean the chastity cage. I spent the next three on lunch (Alec sat on the floor and was fed) and on stuffing him into a simple cage where he sat alone, smelling himself.
When it came time for cleaning, I gave him a big bucket of cold water, a rag and a bar of soap. To dry himself, I instructed him to kneel in my heated bathroom and wait for the water to drip away.
Since that day, 3 years have passed. As I write this retelling of Alec’s evolution from my boy to my slave, his name has been legally changed to Alec. The outfit he chose (in part) (yes, really) for today, as he kneels by my side, consists of a leash, a bit gag, the butt plug I used in his initiation, plus chains between his arms and between his legs. That, and the chastity cage he fought so hard to lock his dick in. Fortunately no cum in his hair, pain to clean up if he rested his head anywhere.
The last time he blew his load was yesterday, though not permitted. I put vibrating nipple clamps on him. I screwed them tighter and he started moaning. I waited just 10 seconds, and he was reacting as if I was stroking his cock. I let fate run its course, and he shot a load which he mopped up with his beard. Of course, flogging followed (while the clamps stayed on, in all senses of the phrase). This also explains the leash he has on today.
The last “legal” cumshot he had was 2 months ago. He was hogtied face up with a blindfold, a gag, and a vibrating dildo in his ass, and he just had a standard prostate milking and cum-mopping with his beard, which he loves.
He works out using some home gym equipment we share. Since the quarantine came into effect, he has not worn any clothes (other than socks and exercise shoes) for almost 30 consecutive days now. He has no reason to leave the house or receive visitors anyway. That’s not to say it’s that different without the quarantine – he’s still naked basically all of the time and he’s happy with my efforts to make him so.
Love is another gamble. You may win, or you may lose. I think I won.
Will I be alone on my deathbed? It remains to be seen. To quote one of my favourite songs, Whims of Fate, “who knows where the whims of fate may lead us”.
Click for Part 2
Metal would like to welcome Taurus to the Prison Library!