By Taurus

Everyone has a reason to keep a slave. I’m kept as one by Master. He calls me a towel.

Please let me explain.

My parents were Scandinavian, but they moved to the US before they gave birth to me. Scandinavians are famously hairy (or so I think, since my dad was quite the fuzzball), hence why my body hair was the target of teasing for many years in high school. I tried to hide it by wearing long sleeves and changing quickly for gym, but that didn’t work, obviously.

This shame didn’t last long, fortunately. Behind people’s backs, I’d read through magazines and I’d be amazed at how many people lust for hairy bodies.

When I got into college, I decided to embrace the bearishness and sport a (very thin, compared to now) beard, I pretty much had the hair of someone more than double my age back then. My dorm mate noticed, and word quickly spread about me being a bear. To this day, I’m still nicknamed a bear by my friends, though it’s more a term of affection, and not of ridicule or for categorization.

Do Vikings hunt bears? If so, I hope my ancestors don’t try to kill me. Either meaning of “bear” applies, wink wink.

After I graduated from college, I found some time to work out and properly bulk up. At the same time, my beard and my body hair only kept getting thicker and thicker. I actually looked like one of those Vikings you’d see in a movie – muscular and a big, big beard. Shame that those roles are played by damned Americans with pitifully little hair on their chests; I could’ve made it so much more authentic.

As I got more freedom to do what I want, I began frequenting leather bars, where many incorrectly but understandably assumed I was a top. Of course, I liked seeing people get fucked, get edged, get flogged, whatever.

Actually, I most enjoyed seeing bootblack slaves on their knees, licking and cleaning and polishing leather. I wasn’t necessarily enjoying the leather, but I loved the idea that a slave was cleaning stuff, doing lots of monotonous labour instead of enjoying being used, if that makes sense.

I followed through with my strange fetish, and now I have a Master who does the standard stuff plus what I specifically asked for – cleaning duty. The tool of choice is my hair.

If you piss somewhere, I’ll soak it up. If you cum somewhere, I’ll wipe it up. That’s my modus operandi.

Master likes to invite people over for parties where people fuck each other and get everything dirty, so that’s where I come in. I wipe up any cum and piss and sweat and drool I can find. All the while I’m ballgagged and kept in chastity.

I’m not allowed to eat or drink the cum and piss, neither have I been plugged while doing so, because it’d be erotic otherwise. As Master says, I’m only a towel. When someone has sex, the towel is always there as a cushion, for catching fluids so they don’t stain the sheets, or to be used for cleaning up after play. No one uses a towel for sexual pleasure, like a dildo, a vibrator or a fleshlight.

Because I’m only a towel, I’m not allowed to speak with the guests, ever, and I must only communicate through Master’s mouth. Every word or grunt response (“uh-huh” for “yes” and “uh-uh” for no) that leaves my mouth equals an extra week in chastity, though this punishment means practically nothing, and could even be a blessing in disguise.

In the 6 years I’ve been with Master, I’ve had few to no orgasms, not full ones anyway, even though he makes me cum 3 times a week. Occasionally I’ll get “luckier” and the first shot feels nice, but most of the time my orgasm is completely ruined. I say “luckier”, not “lucky” without quotes, because there’s a trade-off to this satisfactory pump: the second pump hurts like hell.

One thing is clear though: I’m going to suffer no matter what. Even if I’m not constantly hard in my cage and hurting because of that, it still hurts from inside the cock.

I’ll just put this out there; Master knows exactly how to ruin an orgasm but still extracting the whole load. I don’t know what’s worse, the frustration of not being able to have a satisfying orgasm, or the almost existential terror of realising you desperately want to cum but there is no cum to shoot.

Master says it’s a big turn on for him, seeing what would otherwise be an apex male specimen so humiliated, used as nothing but a towel to wipe cum up with, a worthless object that doesn’t even deserve to be a cum dumpster. I think I like it too.

Of course, I wasn’t good at being a good towel from day one. I was very regularly spanked because I missed a drop, I didn’t clean fast enough, or I put my hand on the liquid. When I did get the hang of wiping up piss and sweat (because they were just water), Master transitioned to cum.

Master deemed me a good enough towel to use when I proactively wiped up the cum from the three friends he called over. My reward was eating Master’s cum straight from the cock. I couldn’t stop licking and licking, to the point Master had to slap me twice before I pulled myself together.

After using me for the day, Master brings me outside to hose me down. He then cleans my soles and wipes me with two tissues. Once the tissues are completely wet and unable to absorb more water, he stops and leads me back into the house. Like an actual towel, I’m laid out on the floor near a window to sleep and to dry off, ready to be used again soon.

I get used for other purposes too, as a more “normal” kind of sub. Much more pleasurable, and I have gotten full prostate orgasms (which Master allow), but by a long shot less notable, and hot, than my being a towel.

There is nothing hotter than seeing a hairy slave denied all dignity and pleasure, even the pleasure of swallowing the cum, because its only purpose is to wipe fluids up, not to get aroused doing it. In fact, Master has other subs he plays with; I’m the only one who lives with Master, because a towel must be close by (touching, actually) to perform its duty.

And guess who’s the towel?

The End

Metal would like to thank the author, Taurus, for this story!

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