u/oh_no_a_goose

[The following is purely fictional and everyone portrayed is above the age of 21)

~~~

The first time we met in person was electric. I’d experienced it a few times before, the rare electricity that can’t be explained, but nothing like this. Looking in my eyes, it was like you already knew me. I reached out for a casual hug and you held tight, pulling me even closer. I may have been a bit taller than you, but somehow my arms fit blissfully under yours. Holding me there tight, without words, it was like you already owned me.

After a while, you let go, and stepped back so we could get a good look at each other. You were wearing nice clothes. Not fancy, but I could tell they were expensive and tailored, and that you took good care of them. I was hit with a pang of insecurity. Compared to you, I was a mess in one of my “nice” outfits. What can I say, I loved a cheap sales rack. But the way your lips smirked as you looked me up and down, not just like I was your prey, but like I was a prize to prey on. After a few pleasantries, you grabbed my waist and led me to the entrance of the restaurant. The boldness with which you held and guided my body, like you needed it, god, it made me feel so sexy. So yours.

It was a fancy place, some sort of modern French restaurant you’d picked out. I was more of a hole-in-the-wall thai restaurant kind of guy, but you’d insisted on the eloquence.

You didn’t need small talk to fill the brief gaps between hosts and water fillers and the waiter, you just watched me as I fidgeted and scanned the menu.

“Have you been here before?” I asked to fill the silence, but you just shook your head and smiled at me. “What?” I insisted.

“I’m just… making plans for you.”

By the look on your face, they weren’t pure-thought plans, but I didn’t get the chance to follow up because the waiter approached and began his recitations. When he asked if we were ready to order, before I could say i was still browsing, you said yes and ordered a bottle of wine, then your plate - and then mine. Some sort of steak something. I was stunned, in the best way. By the time I came to my senses, the waiter was gone.

“Oh I was gonna get the-“ Just the look in your eye stopped me. It wasn’t menacing, it was almost entertained. And I could see the gears turning in your mind. “I just, I don’t like to eat a lot meat, I’d prefer something plant based if it’s on the menu.“

“Noted. Well we’re not going to bother the waiter again, so tonight you’ll eat the meat, but I’ll keep it in mind going forward. I’ll only order you meat when it’s worth it, or when I want to fuck with you.”

“Fair enough. For your ‘meat’, however, I’ll go, ya know, full carnivore diet,” I joked. Then you laughed. Just a bit. But it felt like a victory.

“Yeah you’ll be getting a steady diet of that,” you said, joking even though you meant it. And with that, the ice was broken.

From there it was a daze. I’d forgotten the feeling after being single for so long, so I wasn’t expecting it. I was at your beck and call. My free time consisted of waiting around for you. But it never felt pathetic because you were the same way. You checked in with me whenever you had a moment, you were interested in knowing all of me.

Anytime you knew I was home, you’d end up showing up. It kept me on my feet, but it was never exhausting. You’d come in, kiss me up against the wall, and never wasted much time before you got me screaming for you. You knew I’d fight back if I could, and sometimes you wanted that, but usually you’d just tie me up so you could enjoy my screams unencumbered while you used me as a punching bag and turning me into a squealing hog as you push me past my limits. Over time, you started to reveal more of your demons. We tried things I’d never even thought of before. You knew you had my trust, but you were always prepared to manage my instincts. I was tied up already when I realized you were going to fist me for the first time, and that was the right call.

But afterward, while I lay on the floor panting myself back to life, ass cheeks bright red and balls aching, you’d be in the kitchen making me a sandwich. There were days when I was not in the mood, and you coerced me into things I resented you for, but you always knew you had to earn the right to fuck me up the way you got to, and you never faulted on the effort. The exchange was real. You made me your prince, and I gave you a canvas for your sadism.

Slowly you gained more and more control. When we went shopping you’d pick out my new clothes, and over time I was wearing exclusively what you wanted me to. You encouraged the hobbies you knew were good for me by engaging in them with me, and you made trying to quit my bad habits fun, with challenges and rewards. You’d tie me up in stress positions and search through my phone, scrutinizing me, punishing me if you saw anything you didn’t like by fucking my gag-opened throat, squeezing my balls, or jack-hammering a dildo up my ass until I squirted piss.

By the time we were going steady, you knew everything about me, and I you. I carried your seed proudly in my ass, dried on my face, in my hair, or all over my body whenever possible. And you never once ceased to surprise me with what came next. Our demons must’ve been dancing in hell for centuries before surfacing in us for this lifetime, because you always knew how to get me past my limit, you never once had to ask. We were a match made in purgatory, and there we continued to dance.

You’d take me to sex shops and ask the men around what they thought you should buy next to use on me. Sometimes you let them try something out on me in the back room. In public we were discreet, a normalish looking couple. But you did whatever you could to constantly keep my cock swoll and craving. A quick trip to the bathroom to quickly finger fuck me, a subtle lougie on my plate in the restaurant right before I dig in, or when you didn’t permit me to eat at all, just stare at my plate and yours as you ate both of them, leaving the scraps for me I’m lucky. Anything to fuck with my mind, to keep me on edge.

But my god, were you a romantic, too. It wasn’t just the lust stored up in my balls that had me swooning for you — it was the way you made me feel. Never shamed. Never degraded. You cherished the opportunity to love me, and you constantly earned the permission to harm me.

You loved my mind. And I loved yours. You knew how things worked, you could build things and keep them in order. You helped my chaos take shape. For as much as you were teaching me, you were always excited to learn from me, too. About the earth, plants, history, politics, existentialism. You loved the way I could rant. You’d send me igniting questions just to hear my long ass voice memo rants. You loved my stories, too. You cherished me. I wasn’t just a hole. I was what made you whole. And visa versa.

We moved in together after a few months. Our places were both small so we started fresh together in a new place. That was going to be the real test of our yin and yang. You lived in order. Unused furniture. Cold hard tile. No clutter. Couldn’t keep a plant alive to save your life. And here I was with my zoo of pets, my forest of houseplants, my extensive gardening plans, my mountain of art, books, and rocks.

I didn’t know it’s what you’d been searching for. There was a life in me you’d been missing. A warmth in my atmosphere you craved to build into your own.

My pets had already gotten used to you being around my place, but within a week, they became your pets too. You gave me the reigns when it came to decor. Except for the front yard, it was important for you to maintain suburban appearances, even though I begged to let me make us the weird house on the block. Plus the big room in the basement, that was yours - off limits to me.

I worked from home, but you had a normal 9-5. Plus you traveled occasionally for work. Your longest trip was two weeks, which was the longest I’d ever been consistently caged.

Most days you’d leave me with some sort of predicament to keep me thinking of you while I worked. Always locked, but you’d also alternate between suctions on my nips, a plug in my ass, clothespins on my balls - whatever particularity you’d woken up with that day.

When I had to run errands, you’d plug me up with an app controlled vibrator and tracked my location to make sure it hit at the most compromising times. There was no detail too small to warrant your attention. I was so consumed by you, my doubts never had a chance to catch up. Eventually they fell so far behind that they gave up entirely.

You also loved to control my bladder. Give me outrageous water quotas to consume and then insist I get permission before I’m able to go. I’d spend hours in agony waiting for you to respond, knowing that if I went without permission I’d face the consequences when you got home. Sometimes I think you ignored my texts just so you could go extra hard on me that night. You loved waterboarding me with piss as a punishment, but sometimes I just became your and your dom friends urinal for the weekend as punishment.

Your dom friends didn’t come around often, but when they did, I know you loved watching me getting plowed and destroyed just so you could be the one to finish it off and nurse me back to health.

You liked turning my back and ass bright red, and as soon as the marks would fade, you’d be sure to replenish them. You’d had a thing for chewing on my nipples from the start, but it’d become a part of the daily routine so they were tough and callused and constantly swollen by now.

One night a concerned neighbor overheard my screams from a particularly painful group session and called the police. When they showed up, you had no choice but to let them inside and showed them me, fully tied up and disposed. They asked if I was alright and I said yes, and they left. It was the most humiliated I’d ever been. I guess one of the cops slipped you his card for a reason, because the next time you had a group over to use me, he was there, and that sick fuck certainly upped the ante. You always knew how to chose the right guys, and I always trusted you to be thorough in ensuring they were safe and sane… relatively speaking.

I started to enjoy domestic life more and more. You were working hard for a promotion. You wanted to be able to make my full time job being yours, and did too. I sent you off for work each day with a fresh packed lunch and a wet cock from fucking my face against the door before you walked out of it. Your cum was only breakfast until you decided at lunch if I could eat before you got home.

If I had a day off and you didn’t, you loved to tie me up, store me under the bed or in a closet, plugged, caged, clamped, and struggling for you until you got home. The days you decided to stay out late after work nearly destroyed me, but you were always there to pick up my pieces.

On weekends and evenings, you often liked to work in the garage, working on your car or building some new contraption to use on me. If I had nothing going on, you’d give me challenges. For instance, you’d whip the bottom of my feet until it hurt to walk, then send me on long barefoot walks with challenging time limits and track my every step. For every minute I was late, it was a minute of hell when I got back. When you got to tie me up and really go for it for a few minutes of time. Ball torture, whip lashes, or whatever devious thing you’d been aching to try but knew would be a tough sell on me.

I cooked for us most nights, I was lucky you loved my cooking, but we went out and ordered in a fair amount too. Sometimes you’d decide to control my food intake for a few months at a time. Crazy calorie limits for a few weeks, followed by massive calorie binges just to watch my belly grow and my discomfort as you pushed on it. Or you’d keep me so busy getting fucked and tortured or stoned and stored away for an entire weekend that I never get the chance to eat, and by the time you offer me substance, I’m willing to eat a rock dry steak covered in your piss and cum off the floor with my hands tied behind my back.

When you were around, you preferred me uncaged, because you liked how easy it was to get me swollen and leaking and desperate. The denial was even hotter without the cage. But when you were gone, whether for a work day or a work trip, you held my key. You let me keep an emergency key for my peace of mind, but you’d duct-taped it up and drawn an intricate pattern on it, so you’d always know if I’d used it. And I never did. Being your good boy was the easiest thing in the world.

One night you called me down to the basement, where the door to your private room was open. It was the first time I’d seen inside, and to my utter shock, it was a full on sound proofed red-room. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, I just thought you wanted a man-cave. You’d never had a problem using the whole house as a torture chamber for me. We’d only discussed a possible red room if we decided to start a family one day. I walked to the doorway and gasped. Inside the room, you were bent down on one knee, holding out a cock cage with a beautiful stone ring inside of it.

You wanted me caged for the entirety of the engagement, to finally be released on our wedding night. Of course I accepted, but on the condition that you also fake proposed not in a sex chamber so we had a story to tell friends and family. You’d already planned it. That’s where we were headed for dinner tonight, the same French place we first met. This just is day one. I’m hoping for a quick engagement, but you’re talking about a big ass wedding that’ll take ages to plan.

I’m not worried. I’d stay locked forever for you if I had to. You’ve got me right where you want me, and I’m right where I’ve always wanted to be.

~~~

I call that manifestation

Disclaimer: All people involved are over 18 and this is a work of fiction.

Note from the writer: This is a sensitive topic, even beyond the standard enormity of the sensitivities associated with this topic and subreddit in general. The truth is, other than the intense gay bdsm elements, real people in the world experience this kind of abuse and treatment on a daily basis. The warnings in this story aren’t benign. I don’t pretend to know why some of us find outlets for these parts of the human condition consensually and erotically, and why others have it forced upon them unjustly. But there is no doubt that these are parts of the human condition that can not be ignored. When they perpetrated against people non-consensually, they are crimes against humanity. And we must all stand up in unison and bravery to enforce and ensure human rights for all. Human rights including the right to consensually channel these aspects of our being into eroticism, a gift, I feel, as in the real world I carry no desire for these things to come true, to harm others, to have no nonconsensual harm done to me. Why do we fantasize about it? Perhaps a vestigial part of our brains. An evolutionary quirk. Perhaps we’re all traumatized. Perhaps it’s demons. Perhaps we’ll never know. Either way, if you’re like me and for some reason intense power dynamics make your cock hard, I sincerely hope you steward those demons responsibly, and I’m glad you’re in place like this getting your rocks off instead of hurting people in the world or getting hurt by the world. There are too many fucked up people in the world who don’t know the difference. I’m never sure if I’m feeding a monster when I post these or if I’m taming one. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter, fellow lurkers. Anyway, here’s a lil demon dance.

Executive Order

We’d all watched it happen. Well, not really, but there were signs. Rumors, but not enough to feel real. Not enough to wake us up before it was too late. It was easier to pretend it couldn’t happen to us. We all grew up watching it happen to people overseas, but how could that be our problem? Then we’d watched them rounding people up on the streets for years. Just immigrants, though. And agitators. It was just the super radical activists, the ones throwing things at the police, and the ones who funded them. Then they went after the scammers. Then the people who made our streets feel unsafe started to disappear. Parts of it felt good, but we all knew it was bad. We’d heard of the atrocities in the detention centers, the hours in the work camps. We all knew someone who knew someone who had been disappeared. But it was the new normal, so we chose to adapt. Minding our own business, grateful for the lives we had. Frogs in boiling water.

As I stared through the chain link at the sea of bruised faces, what I saw more than anything - more than terror, more than anger, more than indignity - was regret. I knew the hundreds of naked, freezing men kenneled in chain link cages in that warehouse were thinking the same thing I was. Why hadn’t I gotten out while I still could? What had possessed my complacency so deeply that I had ignored my better instincts in favor of comforts I may now never see again?

The executive order was signed about a month ago. Quietly. There were a few independent outlets left that covered it, but I never read the whole thing. Like most people, I got a short summary from social media, and I knew it was bad. My aunt even texted me, just to see how I was doing. But I’d spent decades watching the slow erosion of gay rights, so losing the right to be a homosexual didn’t seem like the end of the world. Plenty of gay people existed before it was legal, and I’d always been pretty good at blending in, so I’d adapt. Yes, it was bad. But none of us had a clue it’d be this bad.

I’d just finished purchasing a full cart of groceries, pushing them back to my car, stressing about the chunk it’s eaten out of my meager paycheck, when I heard a car tire screech behind me. I heard a door open, but before I could turn my neck to see, a black bag was pulled over my head. I was so taken off-guard that my first thought wasn’t terror, it was that I must be dreaming. My second thought was pain, as my knees were kicked out beneath me and my hands were pulled behind my back, causing me to fall face first onto the asphalt. A heavy knee pinched my neck to the ground as I cried out for help. I could hear a couple of bystanders run over and start berating the agents, no doubt recording what they saw. At least my family would know what happened to me.

My hands were tied behind my back, too tight, cutting off my circulation. They took off the watch my Dad had given me before he died, no doubt pocketing it for themselves. My ankles were also tied together, and then strung up to connect to my bound wrists, hogtied. There had to be at least three guys holding me down. At 6’4”, I wasn’t exactly an easy target. I’d never been particularly strong or athletic, but my size had always given me an advantage that people don’t tend to fuck with me, and when they did, I didn’t have know martial arts to get them off of me. But these dudes had spent years on the American streets perfecting their craft, and within 60 seconds, I’d been pinned, tied, and lifted into the back of a van.

It wasn’t until the van doors slammed and we started driving that the terror actually kicked in. I still couldn’t see anything from the black hood, but they hadn’t buckled me in, instead just throwing my down on my stomach with my feet and hands tied behind me. Every time they’d make a turn, my body would flop to one side or another. I didn’t see the use in screaming. I could hear radio chatter as they reported in, then it was replaced my blaring Country music. I tried to control my breathing, but there was no staving off this panic attack. The sack covering my face was soaking wet with my snot and tears as my face mashed against the floor. I let it all out. I knew I’d need my strength when we got to the detention center.

I was right. After driving for over an hour, they kept the hood on as they untied my feet and marched me into some sort of processing center. The sounds of screaming people, vicious dogs barking, the nipping winter cold, it was holocaust shit. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d marched me straight into a gas chamber. Instead, I was chained to a wall and left to wait my turn. There were a lot of people around, many clearly were agents, others were likely hooded and confused like me. One guy up the hall from me, clearly another gay guy by the inflection in his voice, was wailing and screaming and cussing everyone out relentlessly until I heard him get pummeled by a group of guards. I could hear his body squeaking through his blood on the floor as they drug him by me, finally quiet.

After who knows how long, I was brought into a small, quiet room, and finally had my hood pulled off. There was a blaring light shining directly at me, forcing me to squint and see nothing.

“Paul St.Pierre?” A man’s voice asked. He sounded bored. “2453 Mildwire St., Pittsburgh?”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. Until I felt a punch to my ribs. “Yeah, yes.”

My eyes were finally adjusting. I was standing by door, accompanied by a chubby guard with puffy eyes and a baton he waved in my face to remind me to be good. The questioner was sitting behind a desk, reading from a screen.

“Paul, you’ve been found guilty of crimes against decency,” he read casually. “In accordance with Executive Order 6B45 your citizenship has been formally revoked-“

“Wait, what?!” I finally found my voice. “What crimes?”

The man looked up at me slowly, perturbed by the interruption. He let out a groan and scrolled down on the screen he was reading from. I noticed that the placard on his desk said Judge as he read out my charges.

“32 lifetime counts of penetrative sin. 65 lifetime counts of sinful physical engagement. 767 lifetime counts of sinful online browsing.”

“Wha- what? How would you even prove that?”

“Palantir, baby,” the judge smiled. “Makes my job a lot easier. It knows fuckin everything. Anyway, you no longer have rights.” Then he looked at the guard. “So, take off his clothes, clothes are for people.”

I was truly aghast. The casual tone he’d been speaking in had me let my guard down a bit and forget where I was. There was no way he was serious. The guard next to me raised his baton and smacked hard into my stomach, causing me to bend over. He grabbed my underwear from under my pants and yanked them hard up, holding me in a painful wedgie as he tilted me forward to remove my shoes and pants.

“The socks,” the judge reminded the guard, who then pulled them off of me and shoved them into my mouth, followed by several layers of duct tape all the way around my head.

Once I was properly gagged, the judge continued as the guard stripped me down to nothing. “You’ll be here for processing for the next few days. Once you’ve been sorted you’ll be sent to training, then to auction. The executive order had a lot of fine print, not applicable to most people. But just so you know what’s coming to you, you worthless fucking faggot, I’ll fill you in.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. He’d been right to gag me, because I was screaming. I didn’t want to hear what he was saying, but he just got louder and louder as I shrunk to the floor in shock.

“You see, the great men who lead this nation, and the great ones who serve God, like Agent Dimon here… like Myself… have finally been recognized as… worthy. Worthy of much more than your pussy-lib bubble would ever tolerate from such worthy and noble men. We in this administration are working hard to bring back traditional values. To give a true man what he’s worthy of. A wife in the home, an obedient staff to manage it, a field of laborers who depend on his strong grip… and a faggot or two do with as he pleases.”

My screams weren’t just for me.

“You see, men have primal urges that must be tended to. Contrary to the popular belief, we are not revisionists. We embrace the truth of our history. The… power dynamics that were conviently left out of your history books. The truth that’s been too long hidden. That strong men have always taken as they pleased, and that empires have thrived because of it. There will be a transitionary phase, yes. But you will adapt. As all of you who aren’t born with the gift of worthiness historically have done.”

There was no point in screaming now. I’d always thought if the Handmaid’s Tale came true, I’d end up on the wall with the rest of the queers before the story even got started. I’d always known there was some sort of power-fueled homoeroticism baked into these super right wing fascists, but even I hadn’t thought up something so twisted, and I’d had a pretty twisted imagination for a long time. I’d grown up with the early Wild West days of the internet, and adopted a lot of the depravity that came with it.

As if reading my mind, the Judge stood up from his desk and bent down in my face. “And the great thing about these new federal AI programs, we literally know everything about you faggots. All your browsing history, every dark fantasy your perverted little mind has ever thought up. So the good news is, we can find you a perfect match. At auction, everyone will know exactly what kind of faggot you are, so I’m sure you’ll find a Master willing to oblige your depravities, as you will be bound to oblige his.”

I could see the bulge forming in the guard’s pants. The judge had one too. I knew exactly what this was - and I was powerless to stop it. I’d been so stupid to believe humans were better than they are.

I never got my clothes back. They didn’t bother putting the hood back on me. Instead, the judge pulled a box from behind the desk. It was full of at least 100 identical ball gags. They were the breathable kind, with one large hole in the center of each. Agent Dimon pulled the duct tape off of my head, ripping out what felt like fistfuls of my hair, but I was still choking on my socks so they couldn’t hear my screams. The judge came back over and pulled the socks out.

“Any last words?” He’d asked, holding the gag up.

I had a million words but only one could make its way to my tongue. “P-please…”

“Already begging for it? Good boy.” The judge laughed and jammed the ball gag into my mouth, pinning my tongue down. It was heavy, uncomfortably heavy. Solid metal, I could taste it as my teeth bit down on it. He then grabbed a metal collar from another box o plenty, and strapped it around my neck with a heavy padlock.

“All set?” Agent Dimon asked the Judge.

“Yep, this one will be fun. I know of some real psychos who’d love to break a tender mountain like this.”

“I dunno if he’ll even make it through training, see how easy he bruises?” Dimon pointed at my battered knees.

“He’ll adapt, most of them do,” the Judge said casually as he turned back to his desk. “If not, one less faggot to worry about.”

“Should I send the next one in?” Dimon asked as he turned to the door, taking his eye of of me for a second.

“Wait a few minutes, I’ve gotta take a piss break.”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t act. But suddenly, I did. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. Something deep within me wasn’t going to let this judge get away unscathed, even if my mind hadn’t caught on. I’d gathered a ton of thick, metallic saliva at the back of my throat from the ball gag, having to swallow it in deep, careful chugs. But this time, I exhaled as hard as I could, sending the spit pool straight up the tube through the center of the gag, splurting out and soaking the back of the Judge’s head. He turned around slowly, in shock, and pissed. I couldn’t speak, but I told him with my eyes that he knew he deserved it.

Then the anger turned into a devious smile. Agent Dimon had already grabbed the back of my neck, but as he saw the Judge’s smile, he started to squeeze. He pinched the back of my neck so hard until I couldn’t help but scream and shrink back to my knees. But the scream just came out of the tube as a dull moan, and the Judge’s smile was growing wider.

“You’re gonna spit on me, faggot?” The Judge asked, getting right up in my face. I could smell his breath, it made my eyes water on top of the tears that were already flowing. “Dimon, make sure this one gets put in Garcia’s block.”

The agent, still painfully pinching my neck, chuckled. “Haha, good call. He’ll sort him out. In the meantime…” Dimon pulled his baton out and smacked it hard across my face. The swelling was instant - heat and pressure across my eye and cheek. He whacked me again across my chest, then my back, then my belly. Each time I crumbled further to the ground, writhing in pain. The judge grabbed my collar and pulled me up to my knees, eye to eye, then spit on my face. It was thick and gloppy, covering one of my eyes so I couldn’t open it. He spit again, this time right down the tube of my gag. I wretched, but he didn’t care. He spit one last lougie on my face, then used his hand to wipe it all over. I could open both my eyes now, but they both stung with his breath.

Dimon was next, he’d been watching the Judge fuck with me and building up a huge lougie, which he landed right up my nose. He’d tilted my head back so my nostrils were facing the sky and covered my mouth and gag with his giant hand. The thick saliva blocked my nostrils, and I couldn’t breathe. He kept an iron grip on my mouth as I struggled for air. I was forced to suck the loogie straight up my nose, desperate for some air, but instead it just made me choke. I swear I was turning blue before he uncovered my mouth. My sinuses had been waterboarded by his thick throat slime and it dripped out of my nose painfully.

“Awh, cute. Look how sad his eyes look.” The Judge mocked. Dimon laughed and slapped me across the face hard - numbing my senses. By the time I could see clearly again, my eyes focused in on a cock, coming right toward my face. It was the judge’s. He placed the tip of his thick cock into the tunnel of the ball gag and immediately unleashed his flood of hot piss into my mouth, pulling both of my ears to keep me locked in place.

When the piss first hit my throat, I instinctually coughed, but he didn’t falter. The ball gag created a tight enough seal to not make a mess on his uniform. Piss was flooding out my nose, though, clearing out Dimon’s spit. Dimon looked offended, grabbing my nose and plugging it.

“Swallow, cunt” he said, checking his watch, running late. I don’t know how I did it, but eventually I was able to take a gulp. Then another, and by the third it was flowing, a steady stream filling my stomach.

The judge wiped his dick head off in my eyelashes, temporarily blinding me again until I opened up to a fresh layer of stinging.

“If you’re gonna do dumb shit,” the Judge said, bending down to me again, then sticking his hand down my pants quickly and grasping my balls in his palm. “You’re gonna regret it.” Then he yanked, and squeezed, and twisted, and beat my balls. It was unbearable. I weeped and convulsed, but Dimon kept an iron grasp on my collar and the Judge an iron grasp on my sack.

“Don’t worry, you won’t need these anymore,” he laughed as he pinched my testes between his thumb and palm. He kept going until my moans through the gag evolved into hollow screams. Until it was the most painful thing I’d ever experienced. Until I thought I’d die. And then, finally, until I blacked out. It didn’t take too long, I’d always had sensitive balls.

I’m glad I lost consciousness instead of bearing the ball torture any longer, but the break didn’t last long. I woke up to a brutal slap across the face from Agent Dimon. “Let’s go,” he said, yanking me to my knees.

The judge was back behind his desk. “Do try to have fun, faggot. We made these camps just for you, after all. Don’t want to disappoint the taxpayers.” The judge laughed as Dimon grabbed me by the collar off my knees, and out into the hallway, limping as my swollen balls bounced against my thighs.

My hands had long gone numb behind my back. My first thought was humiliation - to be walked naked down a crowded hallway wasn’t something I’d ever wanted to do, even in my wildest fantasies. But the embarrassment faded quickly. All of the prisoners, except the still hooded ones, looked as battered as I was, naked, bruised, gagged, terrified.

I started to count, but I lost track. They were all men, I suppose gay men, but I couldn’t tell. We were mostly quiet, except the occasional involuntarily sob. We were being sorted by age group. Then by body type. The twinks were all put in one cage, then the jocks, the normies, the bears, the chubs, etc. I was in the 25-35 group, but I couldn’t tell which body type group I was in. There was quite a variety of types in my group, unlike the others. The misfits. Like I’d always been. Tall, gangly, bearish without the mass. We must’ve been the rejects - the ones being sent to whoever Garcia was. There were about 50 of us in our group, and we were corralled into a tight chain link cage, where we had to squeeze our naked bodies together just to fit.

Every time I’d make eye contact with one of them, they’d look away. I think they were ashamed. But I refused to be. It wasn’t a totally authentic notion, I was still embarrassed to be where I was, but I fought it. If I was going to survive this place, that’s the way I was going to have to think. And I’d have to think. And think. And think. And eventually, those thoughts would add up to a plan. And that plan would mean survival.

So that first night, while I lay at the edge of the cage, pushed up against the cold bodies of dozens of whimpering men and the even colder chain link imprinting my skin with their design, my balls swollen twice the size of normal, even in the freezing cold, I refused to whimper. I could still taste the piss and smell the spit. My balls ached like it hadn’t been hours since they’d been crushed. I searched the warehouse. I scanned every cage. I thought about what led us here, and what it’d take to undo it.

In the crowds of hundreds of hopeless faces, one finally caught my eye. Across the hall from me, a few people in from the cage’s end. A tall, curly haired jock guy, staring right back at me. We seemed to be the only ones paying attention. Still, after all this, everyone else seemed to keep their heads down. I winked at the jock. He offered a compassionate smile.

I finally closed my eyes.

(Maybe to be continued)

I’ve been controlling a sub online for a week and he’s been a pretty good boy, staying chaste, mostly locked, desperate as hell. The longest he’s ever gone is a day or two, so a full week has been a huge accomplishment for him. Now we’re in the homestretch for his first orgasm and I need your ideas for tasks I can give him that will prove he deserves the release.

So far he’s been good about
-spanking, twisting and stretching his swollen balls whenever I tell him to
-nip clamps, tugging on the chain, hasn’t gotten strong enough to yank them off yet.
-ass spanks, though there’s lots of improvement to be made there.
-he has been good about using his 7” dildo, Edge 2, and a couple of plugs.
-writing me notes, bowing to me on his knees, slapping himself, twisting his nips.
-theragun to his cage and plugged hole, he handles it like a champ.
-some body writing, but only on his privates.

Current plans for his pre-cum marathon:
Some combo of the above plus
-Ice cubes in the ass
-Drinking a few bottles of water and watching him piss himself upside down in the shower
-eating or drinking out of a dog bowl
-jumping jacks and pushups with the clamps on
-fucking his throat with his dildo

It’s much easier in-person but he’s been a good boy and deserves a long, devious list of tasks he’ll need to achieve before he’s allowed to cum, and he wants all of your input. Thanks ;)

I’m not just your dom or your master. I’m your foundation. Being my sub isn’t for the weak. I will push my sub to discover his ultimate limits, both physically and mentally, but I also see him as human, and I will care for him all the same.

I’ve been playing in power exchanges like this for over a decade and I’ve learned a lot about what most subs need, what most doms need, and what I actually need. Step one of becoming my sub is letting me know what you actually need, and do it in detail if you want to catch my attention.

Before you message me, here a few things you should expect being my sub.

-Consistent check ins. You’ll be in chastity or at least forbidden from cumming unless I permit it. You’ll need to prove you are trustworthy and reliable. This is essential, I know how the sub-mind disappears after release, I need to hold you tight in my grasp.
-No secrets. I will know you completely, and I will respect that responsibility and trust you’ve placed into me. You will come to know me too, but only once you’ve proven yourself.
-Ultimate control. Over time, you’ll ask permission before you do anything. What you wear, where you go, what you watch, what you eat. Obviously this won’t be consistent and daily for long periods of time, it’s not practical and you are a whole ass person with a life, but expect some extremely tedious chunks of time while I warp your mind to revolve around my own.
-At minimum you should have a few toys I can torment you with, or be able to purchase some. At least in the first few months, you’re on the hook financially for any required gear. (Within reason)
-Expect pain, piss, and desperation. My limits are scat, permanent, and public - tell me yours.
-I’ve had a lot of years to build up my imagination library with fucked up things to do to you, I promise you won’t be bored, but you must be open minded, and willing to bend.

I don’t care what your body type is. What I care about is your ability to communicate, to go deep in conversations, to learn, to grow, and trust me to guide you. To tell me how you’re feeling instead of flaking out if it comes to it. And to send me pictures of you in compromising positions whenever I tell you to ;)

I don’t mind a brat, and I don’t want a drone. I need a man with an insatiable urge to be controlled, to be pushed to his limits, to revel in desperation… the rest we can work out.

I’m 31 years old, 6’4” 200lbs. I’m based in Southern California and with the right connection this could definitely grow beyond online.

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations on your attention span. If you want to dive deep into the depths of your depravity, if you crave intellectual stimulation the same way you crave my cock in your ass, introduce yourself.