by Casper D
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The other new slaves were due to arrive soon. I pulled my housecleaning duties and waited alongside my master who had outfitted my naked form with a collar and chain.
One slave had already arrived and currently lay unconscious in the center of the living room.
I had been too busy cleaning the house to watch as Mister P disposed of slaveboy Tony Antonelli (handsome, five feet six with dark curly hair and flashing brown eyes). By the time I’d finished washing the dishes, I did catch a glimpse as my master carried the unconscious young man from the sofa to the center of the room. Tony Antonelli, with his dark, classical features was almost the opposite of me. I am a little under six feet even, slim, with sandy hair and blue-green eyes. The fact that Mister P’s slaves were so diverse was further proof that it wasn’t their physical attributes that turned him on.
Mister P didn’t say anything when he saw me watching him as he hauled Tony across the room—only stared into my eyes. I tried to stare back, to boldly (albeit silently) protest my master’s treatments of his hapless slaves, but I cracked . . . and he didn’t come close to cracking. His face was medium brown: the angry inner-city-man-features were exaggerated, unflinching, and appeared to be carved from solid oak. Everything about him seemed to say he wasn’t in the mood to be disobeyed or disagree today. Everything: the unblinking brown eyes, the set jaw, the limp and seemingly lifeless body of the handsome youth in his stolid arms.
Currently my master and I were waiting in the living room—he on the sofa, me kneeling on the floor beside him.
It was around 12:30pm when the front door suddenly swung open with a bang.
I was terrified at first, fearing that the police—having heard the screams of the other young slave—had arrived to investigate. But when I looked, I saw that it was no one I’d seen before. It was a young man in an open white shirt, beige trousers and black boots. He was dressed like an overseer in the days of ‘them ole cotton fields back home’. His face was young and so fair-skinned that it had been tinged pink in the sun.
"What the fuck are you supposed to be, man?" Mister P asked.
"I’m your master, boy! With my whip and iron I’ve kept the discipline among a hundred slaves like you!"
I understood now. This young had misunderstood Mister P’s request for an S/M session. This young man actually thought that Mister P was going to play the role of sub . . . despite the fact that the ad clearly stated that my was not versatile . . . that he was a dom first, last and always.
I saw even before it happened what this error in thought would lead to. Assumptions were dangerous . . . and presuming anything as far as Mister P was concerned was harmful. This costumed young man had forged an image for himself . . . but Mister P’s image was the normal working stiff he presented to the general public. This young overseer had declared himself a dom, but Mister P WAS a dom.
What happened next might have gone quite differently if my master had not been so angry and disappointed by the frailty of the first slave who had arrived. I mean, Mister P was ready to tell this booted overseer boy to forget the whole thing and would have ushered him out the door in less than a minute. Mister P might have said something like, "this ain’t gon’ work out, cuz . . . I’m not a sub" or he even might have said "Yo’ dumb-ass automatically assumed that I was going to play the slave and you the master?? Shiiiiiiit." But as it happens Mister P’s eyes turned into narrow slits, and he charged at the young overseer and clutched him by the windpipe.
A young man with a head of close-cropped light brown hair is what I saw of the overseer when he was conscious. He had eyes that were greener than my own blue-green. He was maybe a couple of years younger than me. Just a year out of high school? Possible.
Mister P tightened his hands around the astonished youth’s throat. The overseer stared at him with bulging green eyes, and Mister P squeezed--dug his fingers into the tender flesh. I wondered if my master could feel the beat of the youth’s pulse beneath his fingers. I bet he felt it become stuttery . . grow increasingly weak as the youth lost consciousness.
I had never stood so close while Mister P choked the air out of someone before. I was so light-headed with bewilderment at the time that I can’t tell you how long the choking lasted. It seemed like quite a while. And the sounds they both made! Between Mister P’s grunting and the young overseer’s choking, the sound that filled the room were the noises two animals might make in a particularly brutal congical session.
When the young overseer was completely out, Mister P rose from the floor and brushed his pants knees. Sighing, he glanced at me and said, "Shiiiiit, I hope the next arrival has got more juice than these two simple weak mutha fuckas."
The next slave arrived no less than twenty minutes later. He was cute and almost obscenely Nordic—blond, blue-eyed, intent. He glanced sideways at the two unconscious slaveboys lying haphazardly in the center of the room.
Mister P hesitated before stepping towards him, because if he did, the boy would run. Mister P knew that blondie-boy wasn’t afraid of him; what the boy was afraid of was that this scene might not be as perfect as it looked; that what he was seeing was all just an elaborate role-playing session that would probably turn out to be unbelievable and unsatisfying. What this born sub wanted was a real adrenaline rush to accompany the sexual tension in his body.
Mister P was staring at the boy’s feet which were clad in flip-flops.
"Lose the footwear, boy," he ordered.
Blondie immediately kicked off his flip flops. He really did have nice feet. They were only about a size ten, but they were high arched with long, well-shaped toes and were very well manicured.
"Come here, boy." Mister P ordered.
Blondie looked uncertain.
"You retarded or somethin’?" Mister P said with the guttural anger in his voice that may or may not have been genuine. "Bring yo’ mutha fuckin’ ass over here!"
The boy practically sprinted my master . . . and immediately Mister P seized him.
Blondie bent under my master’s grip. Mister P got his hands around the blond’s throat and squeezed tightly before the youth could even begin to think about prying himself loose. There was a long, dry rattling sound and the boy collapsed. I closed my eyes . . . seeing the light fade from a vibrant person is painful to watch. When I opened my eyes again, the blond was being dragged towards the center of the living room, sweet bare feet scrapping on the carpet, blue eyes rolled up in his head.
The last young man to arrive was a cowboy that I’ll only refer to as "Tex". He was the most elaborately dressed sub I’d ever seen. He was dressed in full cowboy attire—hat, shirt (with that little string-tie thing) and boots with real spurs!
"Look," Mister P told the cowboy directly as he sprinkled a velvet cloth with a brown-glass bottled substance. "I’m too tired to throttle you, so I’m gonna take you down the easiest way. Now you have two choices, wrangler; either you come here and allow me to sedate you with ether . . . or I’m jus’ gonna take my fist and knock you the fuck out."
Mister P’s face was twisted with malevolence as he said these words, and this scared the cowboy more than the ether soaked cloth my master was holding. Scared me as well. The cowboy eventually cleared his throat and said, "That stuff’s safe?"
"Of course," Mister P said, almost to himself. "Plain ether. You’ll just sleep a while."
Tex knew that Mister P could kill him and all the other slaves while they were unconscious, but he was even more aware that my master was going to take him down right at this very moment if he didn’t cooperate. And he would take him down painfully.
Tex trudged over to Mister P as if his feet were weighed down with lead. He stood before my master with slumped shoulders and resignedly said, "Just do it fast, pard. Uh . . . if I inhale real deep, it ain’t gonna kill me or nuthin’?"
Mister P didn’t answer, he merely pressed the cloth over Tex’s mouth and nose and held it in place until the struggling cowboy went limp.
Pretty soon the prostrate bodies of four young men lay sprawled at our feet. The young overseer did regain consciousness long enough to clutch weakly at my ankle. Either he was seeking my help, or he was going to make an attempt at licking and/or kissing my bare foot. Whatever the case, he passed out again before he could make his intentions known to me.
Mister P ordered me to drag them to the den, strip them naked and bind them hand and foot. By the time I completed this arduous task, I was ready collapse amongst them.
* * *
The lighting was dim, so the den (which was strong with odor of eight pairs of sweaty male feet) was illuminated mainly by natural sunlight. Still, the room wasn’t the brightest-lit place, but it was bright enough for me to see the four naked and bound bodies sprawled upon the carpeted floor. When Mister P arrived he had to walk a cicuitous path, stepping carefully stepping between bare arms, legs and pale, unconscious faces.
Mister P turned to me. "Wake up these two ," he said pointing at the young overseer and the cowboy. "I want to practice with them for a while. After you wake them up, get to steppin’ for a little while, okay, cuz?"
"Just because they’re subs doesn’t mean they’re gay or weaklings, master" I said cautiously. "You took them down while they were off-guard, but they’re stronger than you might think."
"But I know they’re strong," said Mister P. "So I don’t think I’ll be surprised."
"I’m just saying you might not want to be alone with them, master." I said.
"And I’m just sayin’ that I might not want to give them the slightest indication that I fear them," said Mister P. "I’ve handled men more dangerous than these punk mutha fuckas—men with cravings and fetishes that would make your skin crawl. I hadn’t known anything about those men until they taught me by their actions. These simple bitches here aren’t any different."
So I dumped basins of water over the heads of the already awakening cowboy and overseer—then shook and slapped them into full alertness.
Mister P leaned over one of the slaves.
Tex lay before him, blinking his blue eyes, trying to understand his surroundings. Mister P reached down with one hand, took him by the throat, and raised him up almost to a sitting position, screaming at him in the most colorful language, the very least of which was, "Shit-kicking mutha fucka—you gave up without really putting up a fight. Where the fuck did you come from, Ranch Pussy?"
Tex’s first response—understandably—was not fear but rage. And Mister P was pleased to see this. Was pleased to see how the cowboy reached out with tattooed arms still weak from the ether and tried to plow my master’s face. "Ah, so you still think you bad, huh?" Still gripping Tex by the throat, Mister P yanked him up and off the floor . . . and flung him against the opposite wall.
"Shiiit, this too easy! D-man! Get in here and wake up the rest of these punks."
So I scurried in and woke the remaining slaveboys one at a time. Mister P made it a point to be the first face they saw when they regained consciousness. He also made it a point to handle them roughly and constantly. They felt his grip on their shoulders as they were propelled along the corridors. He pushed them ahead of him through the house. The only reason he did this was to see if his slaveboys would at least try to revolt against him, or if they’d submit and follow his every order like subjugated peons. They submitted . . . thus my master became bored with them really fast. When he got tired of terrorizing them, Mister P knocked out Blondie and Tony Antonelli again with more ether. He eventually ended up sucking on their sweaty toes while playing with their feet at the same time. My master had rendered them unconscious before worshipping their feet because he apparently didn’t want his unworthy slaves to enjoy anything this day.
When Mister P was done feasting on the feet of Tony and Blondie, he and I stared down at the remaining two subs. My master was now in the mood to tickle, so he started on the overseer’s sweaty back, then allowed me to join in. We each took one side, and slowly gave this youth an agonizingly slow and thoroughly ticklish tongue bath,. We lapped at the back of his neck, then down his shoulders . . . then up to his ticklish armpits. He giggled and screamed—and the more he screamed the larger the bulge beneath Mister P’s pants seemed to grow. The two of us then used feathers to tickle his big size thirteen bare feet. My master ran the soft feathers along the youth’s soles, while I tickled him along his ribcage and armpits. The helpless young overseer was able to stifle his laughter for exactly one minute—then laughter was erupting from him like an active volcano. He heaving with uncontrollable laughter. We mercilessly stroked his body with the feathers, brushing them between his toes. The youth was howling and trying to twist away from the torture, but I’d tied him well. There was nothing he could do but endure the torture, but plead with us to stop.
My master then trailed his tongue down the cowboy’s spine and sides, causing Tex to spasm as if he were possessed by some unearthly demon. Then he began to lick his armpits. The cowboy went crazy—screaming and yelling. He wasn’t nearly as tough as his image seemed to indicate, he fainted even before Mister P got to his feet.
Once he grew tired of using the slaveboys as his playthings, my master got a peculiar look in his eye. My heart began to race when I saw this look, and I could feel my own blood thudding crazily in my temples. Even my vision began to blur a little. I had seen this look in my master’s dark eyes before. And what became of his lowly subordinates at that time was not pretty.
