A report written by slave 437353.


The men who used me that first week at the house of my new Master were generally men around his age, and they came to his house for sex parties. I was used to servicing men in groups, so it was not unusual to me. But my new Master had decided that I was also to be rented out, and he wasted little time in arranging my first paid gig.

I was given directions to a tony suburb of Boston, and went to a specific house. From the outside, there was no indication that the inhabitants of the house were anything but the most respectable members of the community. The house looked stolidly conservative, in a Republican stronghold. I rang the bell and was ushered in to a beautifully appointed entrance hall, with an impressive stairway to the second floor, antique furniture, mirrors, crystal and marble. The owner of the house warmly shook my hand, offered me something to drink, and then lead me to a door under the stairs.

We descended to the basement, which was finished and warm and inviting. We passed through what used to be called a Rumpus Room, and then through what seemed to be a wall panel – the paneling opened and revealed a hidden room.

The room was also heated and well lit, but sparsely furnished. A wooden bed was in one corner. The bed had no mattress but instead had rough planks, as well as hooks with ropes looped through them. A sawhorse was set up in the middle of the room. There was a collection of hooks on the ceiling, some of them with lengths of chain or rope hanging from them. Candles were lit around the bed and on the mantle across the room, and a fire burned in the fireplace. There were cameras set up at various vantage points, as well as chairs and a couch, upon which sat several older men, all wearing bathrobes. They were talking and drinking, but turned eagerly toward the door as I stepped through, and took in my slim young frame.

Illustration by Theo Blaze

As soon as the door from the outside room closed, the attitude of the man who lead me in changed. He said, “This is the fucking slave slut we’re gonna use today”, and all the men smiled and started rubbing their crotches. I stood with my head bowed, waiting, and quickly two of the men grabbed my arms and twisted them behind my back. The first man unbuttoned my shirt, then undid my jeans and shoved them down around my ankles. The other two men pulled off my shirt and threw it aside, and my hands were attached to the chains overhead. My shoes and jeans were pulled off, and my ankles locked in restraints, attached to chains that lead off to the sides of the room. I was completely exposed, and unable to move.

The men took time admiring my body, stroking my back and ass, playing with my hard cock and pulling on my balls. The first man gave a sort of signal, and everyone stepped back. He then said, “We first have to break this bitch in, and train it to be the slave we want.” Someone put a blindfold over my eyes, then shoved a gag in my mouth.

I sensed someone stepping up behind me, and he began whipping my back and ass. The first couple strokes were gentle, but he quickly increased to striking with intense force, obviously as hard as he could. The beating went on and on, and he didn’t spare any part of my body. My balls hung free between my legs, and were struck from behind by full arm lashes of the whip. He slowly moved around me, striking my chest, my stomach, my cock, my legs. I couldn’t scream, and the tears that brimmed in my eyes and then spilled were contained by the tight blindfold.

Each man took a turn whipping and abusing me, some of them sadistically, others with more finesse. The beating went on and on, and I could hear, as if from a distance, the men talking and laughing, egging each other on, and the sound of cameras clicking, but I was not completely aware of anything. This often happened to me in these situations: I didn’t know what an “out of body experience” was, but it seemed I stepped away from myself and felt the pain and abuse from a distance. I often found that the after effects of these sessions (the bruises, welts, sore joints) were more painful than the actual whippings, and that I had no memory of how they were inflicted.

Finally, the men were satisfied, and the beating stopped. I was taken next to the bed, and restrained spread eagle on my back. The ropes on my arms and legs were pulled very tight, and even before they had me completely restrained, I could feel my hands and feet becoming numb. My balls were tied off and stretched painfully toward the end of the bed, and a rope was put around my neck and tied tightly to the head of the bed. I could not struggle at all, and stayed in that position, blindfolded and gagged, for what seemed like an eternity. I heard the men pouring drinks and laughing, but did not pay attention to their words, for fear of hearing what was to come.

Finally, the next round began. I felt a burning sensation as hot wax was dripped onto my chest. At first it did not hurt too much, but the candle was clearly brought closer and closer to my body, and the wax became hotter and hotter. I tried to struggle, but literally could not move my body more than an inch or two. I heard a voice say, “If you try to move, that rope on your neck will strangle you, so I suggest you hold still, boy.” It seemed to be sage advice, which I attempted to follow.

The wax dripped everywhere, and the pain was exquisite. The wax on the head of my dick hurt quite a bit, but I found the most painful spot was when wax was dripped on the inside of my thighs. I could feel the wax splash, and often felt burning in more than one place with each drop. The little bit I could move was agony too: the planks beneath my body were rough and splintered, and the welts on my back and ass were rubbed raw against them.

Finally the wax stopped, and the gag was pulled roughly from my mouth. Someone was standing over me on the bed, and I was told to open my mouth. I felt his piss splashing on my face, and tried to swallow what I could. Soon more men were standing on the planks around me, all pissing on my face and body.

Next came the sawhorse. The men lead me over, and restrained me over the sawhorse, my legs pulled painfully apart, my knees pulled forward, my wrists stretched out. A man took his place behind me, and I felt him roughly shove his cock into my ass. There was no lube, not even spit, and he began fucking me mercilessly. Another voice said “Open your mouth”, and I complied, expecting another cock down my throat. Instead, someone’s ass was shoved in my face, and I was told to eat out his hole. This gentleman had not showered at any time in the recent past, and I cleaned his hole inside and out while the other man raped me.

Each man took a turn fucking me, and I rimmed and sucked others – never knowing who was who. Load after load of cum was shot in my ass, and the fucking grew easier and more pleasurable as each man used the last man’s cum as lube. Each man, once he had cum, made me clean his cock in my mouth, then pissed down my throat.

Finally, they were done, and I was left tied to the sawhorse. I heard them sitting on the couch and chairs, pouring more drinks, talking, sighing contentedly. Finally, one of the men approached me, and I expected I was due to be released. Instead, he grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. Then he said, “Did you enjoy that, slave?”

“Yes Sir” I answered immediately.

He laughed derisively. “You enjoyed that? You like getting fucked by men? You like eating their asses and drinking their piss? What the fuck are you, a faggot?”

I was unsure how to respond. The man said, “I think we need to teach this fucking fag a lesson, don’t you guys?”

Generally, I was not afraid in these situations: I trusted that Bill would only send me to people he had somehow screened, and that he ultimately wanted me safe and back, so he could rent me out again or use me himself. But at that moment, I became afraid. What were they going to do to me?

I soon found out. The man began beating me with what felt like an iron rod, but what was in all likelihood a cane. The beating was savage, and I could feel my skin breaking and blood running down the inside of my legs. I tried to take the beating in silence, but eventually began to beg for mercy. After 30 or 40 strokes, he dropped the cane on the floor and grabbed my balls, twisting them hard. Then he said, “I think we should castrate this bitch, what do you guys think?” I heard murmurs of agreement, and the man said, “Give me that knife”

I was terrified, and struggled against the ropes as I felt something cold and hard pressed against my scrotum. I screamed “No Sir, please don’t do this!” and felt the pressure of the metal intensify. The man leaned forward and said, “I can cut off your balls, or I can take the knife and just stab you with it. You choose.”

“Please Sir, don’t do this.” I sobbed, but the man said, “Boy, make a choice now, or I will.”

“Cut off my balls Sir” I said. He laughed and said, “Say it again, louder, and make me believe you want it.”

“Please Sir, cut my balls off. I beg you Sir, cut them off now. Please Sir.”

I felt the pressure of the knife against my balls, and felt the knife slide back, then forward. I waited for the intense pain I knew was coming, but after a few seconds, the knife was withdrawn. I shivered, wondering if the next thing I felt would be the knife being stabbed into my back, but instead the man used it to cut the ropes on my wrists, knees and ankles. “Stand up,” he said.

I got shakily to my feet, and I hear a voice say “Take off the blindfold.” As I did so, I could see the men reclining on the couch and chairs again, back in their bathrobes, as if nothing had happened. Most of them eyed me appreciatively, and one or two appeared to be dozing. The man who owned the house handed me my clothes, and I pulled them on. My knees were weak and I was sweaty and shaking. As I finished dressing, he lead me back upstairs, and at the door handed me a thick envelope, saying “For Bill”. Then he smiled, and gave me some bills, folded in half. “This is for you. Nice job boy. Thanks.”

Once in the car, I was too weak in the knees to drive, so I sat in the driveway and attempted to calm down. The envelope he gave me was in the glove compartment, but I took the bills out of my pocket and unfolded them. There were five of them, all one hundred dollar bills. A five hundred dollar tip! I wondered if it was worth almost having my nuts cut off to earn 500 bucks, and decided that it was.

I realized that my Master had figured out how I would pay for college. But I took the five bills out of my pocket, and after thinking a moment, slipped them under the floor mat of the car. I thought it was prudent of me to save any money I could, just in case. Then I drove back to Bill.


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