by Ty Marton
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, taking a seat. “Just a… long day is all. How have you been?”
Roberta frowned and shrugged. “I’m all right,” she said, eyeing him. “I’m clearly not as stressed out as you seem to be, dear.” Her frosty gaze turned to her daughter. “Honey, aren’t you taking care of him?”
Maggie frowned at her mother. “I don’t know what you mean, Mom…”
“It’s a wife’s duty to care for her husband, to alleviate his stress,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’d better believe that I took good care of your father, God rest his soul…”
“Unghh…”
Maggie and her mother turned to Michael in confusion as he let out a quick, pained gasp, seemingly out of nowhere, responding to the plug’s nastiest shock yet.
“Um, excuse me,” he said sheepishly. “Hiccups.”
“Anyway,” Roberta continued, moving on, “as I was saying, it’s a wife’s duty…”
“Can we talk about something else, mother?”
“What?” Roberta asked tactlessly, “Are you two having difficulties?”
Maggie gave Michael an exasperated look.
“Everything is fine, Roberta,” Michael quickly said. “Your daughter takes… wonderful care of me. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to her cooking all day. What are we having, honey?”
Maggie smiled, grateful for the topic change. “Well, it’s a pork roast with…”
Maggie stopped short, clocking the strange look that had suddenly grown across Michael’s face.
The shocks. They had stopped, and he hadn’t even noticed it at first.
“Honey?”
Michael looked to her, struggling to think fast.
“Babe, I’m so sorry, but I need to run back to the office,” he said, rising to the feet and grabbing his coat. “I left some work on my desk that I need to finish tonight for a… presentation tomorrow. God, I’m sorry… Roberta, sorry…”
And with that, he rushed back out the door, practically running out to his car.
As he hurriedly climbed into his car and pulled out his phone, dialing frantically, Maggie watched from the window, a confused frown upon her face.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Roberta said. “Michael just seems… overwhelmed. I’m sure it’s nothing…”
**********
Michael pulled away from the house, his phone to his ear. He pulled around the corner, then parked, waiting as the phone rang. Finally, he heard that familiar hushed voice.
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry,” Michael pleaded. “My mother-in-law was over… I did my best…”
“No excuses,” the voice growled. “You will obey.”
A few moments of silence passed before Michael weakly responded, “Yes, sir.”
The voice gave a low chuckle.
“Your punishment is waiting for you at the Grotto, slut. Tell the front desk you’re expecting a package from ‘Secret Master.’”
Michael gave a heavy sigh. “Right now… sir?”
“Yes, right fucking now,” the voice snapped.
“You will obey.”
And with that, the receiver clicked, ending the call, leaving Michael sitting in silence in his car. His day wasn’t over, he realized.
It had only just begun.
**********
Chapter Four
CRACK!
Michael could hear the sound of a whip cracking through the low steady hum of techno music as he waited in line in the Grotto’s front room. The room was brightly painted, with hardwood floors and elegant furniture, not at all the kind of room you’d expect upon entering the ugly, tin-walled warehouse, and not at all in line with the dark, intimidating décor of the club itself. Michael had always felt more like he was at his dentist than at a sex club.
“Next.”
He stepped forward, anxiously looking down at Janet, the pink-haired Goth lesbian who ran the front desk for the club. Apathetic as ever, she smacked her gum and slid a piece of paper across the ornate desk towards Michael.
“Sign at the bottom,” she said. “It’s a confidentiality agreement. And I’m going to need to see your ID.”
Michael handed her his license and took the pen, quickly signing the form and pushing it back to her.
“All right, you can go on in, sir,” she said, handing him back his license. “Complimentary condoms and lube are in that bowl by the door.”
“Um, one thing…” Michael began, as Janet looked up at him indifferently. “I’m expecting a package from, uh… Secret Master.”
She nodded and reached under the desk, pulling out a black box and handing it to him.
“You don’t happen to know who left it here, do you?”
Janet rolled her eyes, sighing. Michael took the hint, making his way into the club and quickly bee-lining into the men’s room, where he found his way into a stall and sat on the toilet, pushing the glory hole beside him out of his mind and cautiously opening the box in his lap.
Inside sat a tight, restrictive, black leather hood, with holes for his eyes and mouth. Scrawled on the inside of the lid:
“YOU WILL OBEY. WEAR THIS. NOTHING ELSE. CIRCULATE AROUND THE CLUB FOR ONE HOUR AND REJECT NO ADVANCES. I WILL BE WATCHING.”
Michael’s jaw fell loose, his mouth hanging open. The Grotto would typically attract deeply submissive men to attend wearing only a hood like the one sitting in front of Michael. It was understood that these men, known as ‘house slaves,’ were fair game for anyone who might be interested - chum for any horny Dom top looking for kinky play of any kind. On a given night, a house slave could expect to be beaten, gangfucked, humiliated, even used as a toilet.
And tonight, Michael was going to be a house slave.
True, Michael had strong submissive desires, but he had never done much more than suck a thick, Dominant cock, or endure a moderate flogging. He was a dabbler, the kind of guy who had flirted with submission as a diversion on the side. But now, there would be no such restraint, no such limits. Michael’s submissive desires were about to be put to the ultimate test, whether he was ready for it or not.
Reluctantly, Michael began removing his clothes, folding them and placing them on top of the box. Once naked, he carefully pulled the plug out of his ass and slipped it into the box, surprised to realize that he had all but forgotten about it. Finally, he took the hood and slowly pulled it over his head and face.
But something was already inside, uncomfortably pressing against his forehead. He pulled the hood off, reaching inside, finding a strange lump held in place against the inner leather with a piece of black duct tape. Michael pulled it out – it was a locker key, presumably to one of the lockers just outside of the bathrooms where men stored their clothing and belongings.
Great, Michael thought to himself with a forced smile, at least I won’t need to make change – although he knew that this likely wasn’t an act of consideration.
Something was waiting for him.
Resigned, Michael pulled the hood back on over his face, buckling it shut behind his head. It was a snug, encompassing fit, and despite the fact that he was naked and exposed, it made him feel restricted, locked under the control of his ‘Secret Master.’
He bent over, gathered his things, and exited the bathroom, glad that no one else had come in while he had been in there. Moving quickly to the lockers, he looked the key over, finding the locker’s number and opening it.
The locker was nearly empty – except for a small but thick padlock and another Polaroid of Michael tied to the chair, sucking cock. Michael squinted at it, hoping for a good look at his captor, but all he could really see was his midsection, and shapely ass. But then, another thought struck Michael.
The picture was taken from behind the captor… so who had taken it?
Unnerved by the thought that this might be bigger than he had initially realized, Michael turned the photo over for his instructions.
“YOU WILL OBEY,” it read. “LOCK
Michael winced. The lock came with no key – once he closed it over the hood’s ringed buckle, the hood wouldn’t be coming off until his blackmailer wanted it to come off...
And of course, that was the point.
Michael took a deep breath, then reached behind his head, moving the lock into place, slipping it through the metal rings in the back of the hood. He closed his eyes, and then:
CLICK.
He was trapped. There was no turning back now.
**********
The Grotto’s main club area was large and imposing, with high ceilings, shadowy, minimalist lighting, and smoky air. Michael stepped out into the crowd, doing his best not to appear afraid as he made his way past the wicked Doms and intimidating-looking muscle tops with leather chest harnesses. Somewhere in this crowd, Michael knew, his blackmailer was watching him.
“Nice ass, bitch,” a shirtless Dom yelled out as Michael walked by, giving him a firm slap on his ass. Michael grimaced, the Dom laughing and moving away to other interests.
Reject no advances, he had been instructed. He knew that as soon as someone made a real move, he’d have no choice but to welcome it…
It didn’t take long. As he made his way past the bar, two blonde tops turned from their beers and eyed Michael’s nude body up and down. Michael did his best to avoid drawing their attention, but he could feel their piercing gazes, and knew he was a marked man. Finally, as he tried to pass by, he felt a hand grab his shoulder and pull him backwards into a firm embrace, two large, muscular arms wrapping around his chest, a strong hand clenching over his throat and pulling his head back.
“My friend and I would like to have some fun with you,” the top whispered into Michael’s ear, his bulging cock pressing out through his leather pants against Michael’s bare ass. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you bitch boy?”
Michael took a breath, gathering his courage, knowing he had only one answer to give:
“Yes, Sir…”
It was all the Dom needed to hear. Clenching his hand around the back of Michael’s neck, he guided the slave over to an unoccupied piece of sex furniture – a padded leather spanking bench, his partner close behind.
“Go on, Rex,” the Dom commanded to his partner. “Strap him down while I get our things.”
Rex guided Michael over the bench, buckling his arms and legs down with tight, thick leather straps, his vulnerable ass forced up into the air.
“You’re gonna be my target practice tonight,” Rex whispered gleefully as he finished the last of Michael’s straps, leaving him firmly locked in place over the bench. His face was towards the wall, but it was mirrored, and he could see a small crowd gathering to watch the show, eager to see him suffer. The very thought of it sent him sinking deeper and deeper into an overwhelming feeling of complete helplessness.
The tall, blonde Dom returned, a long bullwhip in hand. “You’ll be playing a very special role tonight,” he said, twirling the whip gently a few times near his knees, working the kinks out. “I’ve been mentoring Rex here, and he’s been begging me to teach him the ways of the whip…”
CRACK!
Suddenly and without warning, the Dom flicked his wrist, sending the tip of the whip cracking against Michael’s ass with expert precision. Michael gritted his teeth, squealing with pain as the crowd began to laugh at the sight.
“Here Rex,” the Dom commanded, offering him the whip. “Take it.” Rex obeyed, moving into place behind Michael, the crowd clearing a path for his backswing.
“Now bring it up with your wrist, almost like holding a paintbrush…” the Dom commanded, guiding Rex. “Good… then, when you feel it…”
CRACK!
Rex snapped the whip down over the top of Michael’s ass, a wide, awkward strike that struck down viciously against his lower back, sending him into agonizing convulsions, tremors of pain searing up his spine.
“Not bad,” the Dom said, frowning, ‘”but not terribly accurate either. Here, try it this way.”
The Dom took the whip, holding it in front of him with one hand and pulling the tail straight back along his arm with the other.
“Just straighten it out in front of you, and then…”
CRACK!
The Dom snapped his wrist downwards, sending the whip rocketing forward, directly against the center of Michael’s cheek. He howled with pain, trapped and helpless.
Rex took the whip back and copied the technique, straightening the tail back along his arm to his shoulder.
“Good,” the Dom said. “Now, it’s all in the wrist from here. Just point and shoot…”
CRACK!
Rex connected, sending the whip thrashing against Michael’s other cheek. Tears began welling in his eyes from the scorching pain, welts beginning to form from where the whip had torn against his tender flesh.
“Very good! You see how much easier it is to aim that way?”
“Yes, sir!” Rex replied, eagerly lining up another shot.
CRACK!
The tip of the bullwhip snapped perfectly down over Michael’s ass crack, leaving his legs quivering uncontrollably as the pain flooded through his lower body. God, Michael suddenly realized, how the hell am I going to explain the welts to Maggie?
“Excellent,” the Dom said proudly. “Let’s try one more shot… You see his testicles hanging there?”
“Yes, sir,” Rex replied, pulling the whip back up into position.
“Good. Aim carefully, and make him scream.”
Michael felt a cold rush of fear sweep over him as Rex lined up his shot, his testicles hanging low and defenseless between his forcibly spread legs. The wait while Rex took his aim was pure agony – all Michael could do was close his eyes, bite his lips, and wait for the brutal pain…
CRACK!
The pain finally came – but not to Michael’s balls. Rex missed to the left, the whip striking the bottom of Michael’s cheek. Still, Michael cried out, an overpowering mix of pan, fear, and anticipation.
“Damn it,” Rex muttered.
“It’s all right,” the Dom said reassuringly. “Just try again. You can do it.”
Michael gave a soft whimper, knowing there was no avoiding the inevitable. Again, he closed his eyes, clenching at the padded leather, bracing himself…
CRACK!
Rex only needed to listen to Michael’s scream to know that his aim had been perfect. Michael felt as if his balls had been lit on fire, with gasoline coursing through his bloodstream. The pain was unbearable, an incinerating sensation of pure anguish that overcame his body and mind, sending him into sobs.
“Mmmm, very nicely done,” the Dom said smiling, the crowd behind them applauding his precision. The Dom pulled Rex in close, kissing him, then turned to the onlookers.
“Since this slave is already so neatly restrained… would anyone else care to use him?”
Michael breathed deeply, looking up into the mirror at the eager faces in the crowd behind him, several horny-looking Dom tops licking their chops for a turn with him. But one man stepped forward out of Michael’s sight line, laying claim to the helpless house slave and dragging along a slave of his own on collar and leash. “My boy and I will put him to good use,” he said.
My God… Michael realized, staring at the naked slave’s reflection in the mirror. It’s… Scott…
Sure enough, the boyish receptionist stood before him, the calm, tranquil look of satisfied submission across his face. He was happily owned, a piece of property. Michael never would have guessed.
But then Michael’s gaze slowly worked over along Scott’s leash, landing upon his owner, his smiling face finally come into view.
Michael couldn’t help but gasp at what he saw, and as the man locked gazes with him in the mirror, he felt his eyes growing wide. He was looking at another familiar face.
He was looking at Rick Pender.
**********
Chapter Five
SMACK!
Grinning, Rick slapped his hand down on Michael’s ass, giving it a rough grab, mercilessly digging his fingers into Michael’s welts.
“Yes,” he muttered. “I think this piece of ass will do quite nicely. Wouldn’t you agree, fuckslut?”
“Yes, sir, absolutely.” Scott quickly replied.
Michael’s head was spinning. Could it really just be a coincidence that Rick and Scott were both here, and about to have their way with him? Or were they somehow involved with the blackmail plot?
“You’ve been good tonight, fuckslut,” Rick said, removing Scott’s leash. “Go and get your ass licked.”
“Thank you, sir,” Scott replied, moving in front of Michael and pressing his tight ass against his face. Michael shuddered as he found his lips cupped around Scott’s asshole, his mind still desperately trying to figure out if Rick and Scott could really be the ones behind everything…
“He seems hesitant, sir,” Scott said. Rick snorted, rooting through a small suitcase filled with toys and restraints.
Rick smiled to himself from behind the two of them. “I suppose we’ll just have to find a way to motivate him, won’t we?”
WHAP!
Michael cringed as he felt the stinging slap of a thin bamboo reed land across his ass.
“Eat his ass, slave,” Rick sneered.
Michael whimpered and obeyed, lapping at Scott’s hole with the helpless hunger of a slave.
“Is he doing better, fuckslut?” Rick asked.
“Yes, sir,” Scott answered, bucking his hips back against Michael’s face, breathing heavily as he felt Michael’s tongue slide into his ass. “Much… much better…”
Rick gave a low chuckle, then turned to the crowd of masters and slaves eagerly watching the action unfold.
“Would any of you kind gentlemen like to assist me?” Rick asked, basking in the limelight. “This slave looks entirely too clean for my liking…”
A couple of the Doms snickered and nodded, stepping forward, pulling out their growing cocks. Rick grinned, pushing his leather pants down over his hips as he moved behind Michael, his long, thin, cut cock springing to attention. Soon, Michael was surrounded on all sides by a small crowd of horny tops, a ripe hunk of meat swarmed by piranhas.
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