Chapter Text
As soon as the man locked the door to his townhouse behind me, I knew I had made a mistake.
Don't get me wrong, I went over there to submit to him. I went over there to be corrupted and degraded by him. I needed it.
Years of bullying left me vulnerable to powerful men, addicted to humiliation. Normal hookups wouldn't do it anymore. Only risky, real, intense sex was enough to get me off, to scratch the itch on my soul. Not the kind of profiles advertising how kinky they were: the kind of profiles offering almost nothing. Sketchy sex. The drop into subspace as I walked into a dangerous man's apartment always made my stomach knot with fear, but my pussy kept dragging me back over and over. I couldn't even call it rape anymore. I guess it started out that way, but by now. I needed it. I sought it out.
Fucked up, considering I was only sixteen at the time.
But my abusers had really left a mark, and now, I couldn't cum unless I was at least a little bit afraid. Kinkster doms weren't enough. They had too many rules, just fucking play-acting. I craved the real thing: perverted abusers. Homophobes. Pedophiles. Monsters.
Men who hated me more than I did.
Still, as wild a slut as I was, something about the way he stood there between me and the door as it clicked shut terrified me.
His shoulders were so square. His feet so parallel and even on the tile entryway like a soldier at his post. He threw the deadbolt so hard it sounded like a gunshot. Unnecessarily hard. Like he was telling me without words that I would never escape.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Everything in my body told me there was no way I was getting out that door again. That I could try to run now, but I'd never make it past him.
I started shaking right then. Terror overwhelmed me without the man even speaking a word. No one knew where I was. I never told anyone when I was meeting men like this. I was in deep shit.
“Please,” I started to babble as he turned around, not even knowing what I was begging for. “Please, Sir, I-”
I didn't get to finish. He walked up to me calmly. Looked in my eyes. Gently took off my glasses as I stopped babbling. And struck me across the face, knocking me to my hands and knees on the floor.
The world went white. The room reeled. A high pitched ringing droned in my left ear, my face red-hot from the force of his blow. Tears started to flow.
Fuck. We hadn't talked about physical violence. We hadn't negotiated for this.
Honestly though, we hadn't negotiated for much of anything. I had spilled all my soul to him through the app, pouring all my trauma and secret shame into the little yellow bubbles on the screen, giving away pieces of me to any strange man who wanted them. My past. My fears. My fantasies. All of it. Every few screens of my pathetic fag ranting, he would send back a few brief words; a little blue bubble that I would CLING to for validation, relieved that I hadn't disgusted him or scared him away from using a fag as pathetic as me.
Now, I was here, in his living room, and he was clearly about to use all that information against me. He didn't need to say a word. He knew that a fag like me doesn't need words. It needs to be hit until it obeys.
Instantly, my fagpussy was SOAKED.
I bowed at his feet, pressing my face into his dirty white dad sneakers. Clutching to his ankles like he was going to help me, even though I knew he wasn't.
It's not that the fear disappeared. If anything, I was more afraid than ever that I had just made a terrible mistake. But the force of his blow and the completely blank look on his face instantly let me know two things. One, it was useless resisting. Two, I didn't want to. The same power that was chewing holes in my stomach was sending tingles down my spine and making me leak like a schoolgirl. The fear was still there, but the lust was stronger.
My brain dropped. I was in another dimension now. The Rape Zone. The rules of society, the norms of cultural morality, the comforts of sanity and safety and the law... They all fell away. It was like the whole world teetered like a see-saw. Everything shifted. All the power in the universe flowed into him, and out of me. As I knelt, he grew to be a hundred feet tall, and I shrank to the size of an ant in his divine presence.
Just like always.
Years of programming had brought me here. A block chain of rapists and bullies and abusers that stretched back into my earliest memory. Every time I was broken, it pushed me a little bit further down. Taught me to serve a little bit harder. Bow a little lower. Accept a little more evil. Find worse and worse men.
This time felt different, though. This time felt permanent.
He still didn't talk to me. He just grabbed me by the scruff of my T-shirt and pulled me into the kitchen, past the mess of his living room. Past the boxes and piles of children's toys.
In the living room, he pulled me up to a cluttered counter. Lying on it was an open box. One of those portable fireproof safes.
He dropped my glasses into it, and then spoke for the first time since I had come over.
“Phone. Wallet. Keys.”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh my God. Was this happening? I thought men like this only existed in stories…
He raised his hand to hit me again.
I scrambled into my pockets, pulling out my belongings and thrusting them quickly into the box with trembling hands. He lowered his hand, then raised it again quickly and hit me anyway.
Click.
The box snapped as hard and finally as the door.
I felt like I was about to throw up. And I had never been more turned on in my life.
Again, he grabbed the scruff of my shirt and turned, dragging me behind him.
We had talked so much more on the app before meeting. Well. I talked a lot anyway. His replies were few and brief, but they really had me going. He just. Got me. Enjoyed how broken I was. His insight into the mind of a faggot had me on edge all week as we texted. But now that he had me in his home, it was like I wasn't even a person. He didn't even need to speak to me. It was like he was alone, and I was just another of his belongings.
Why would he talk to the empty pizza box by the recycling? Why would he talk to the case of beer sitting by the refrigerator?
Why would he talk to a faggot?
I scrambled after him as he pulled me through a door in the kitchen and down the stairs.
Everyone romanticizes crawling on the floor after a master. It sounds so sexy, such a classic romantic form of submission. That's until he's pulling you down a flight of carpeted stairs, walking fast, and you're scraping over the rough pile of the risers like a cheese grater as he basically drags you downstairs by the scalp. By the time we got down the stairs, my knees and shins were fucked up, skin torn and scraped, shin bones bruised and wrists smarting in pain.
A lot of sex is like that. In a story, it sounds hot. But in real life, it hurts. It's exhausting. It's humiliating. It's not fucking fun. And yet. Here I was. Driven here because, despite myself, I needed this kind of abuse. Sex wasn't fun for me, it didn't need to be. I needed it to hurt. I needed it to take something from me and break me. I know that's fucked, but. You get it.
My shins hit the ceramic tile of his basement with a slap. Still he pulled me onwards. Past a basement bedroom where he no doubt hosted his more vanilla hookups. Past a bathroom. Past an unfinished play room with one of those wooden jungle-gyms folded up on a cinder brick wall. Where his kids used to play, I guessed.
He had pulled me all the way through the basement, to a corner of the laundry room. In front of me was a large soffit, a plain white drywall box sticking out from the wall and connecting to some duct work.
In the middle of the soffit was a tiny wooden door.
Oh fuck. NONE of this was what we discussed. He said I could come over to get the fuck of my life. That he would corrupt and degrade me. Show me how boys like me need to be used. But. Nothing like this. This was starting to feel like a horror story.
He turned, glaring down at me.
“Strip.”
Another one-word command, like I wasn't worth the air in his lungs. Fuck. I LOVED this man. Something about the way he was looking at me made me feel more seen than I had ever been in my life. Like, maybe this man was the only other person who really saw me for what I was. The whole truth. Not just a queer. Not just a fag. Something subhuman. Something that needed to be corrected.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I quickly shuffled out of my T-shirt and shorts, kneeling naked on the cold tile floor. In the cold basement air, my whole body was covered with goosebumps.
I looked up at him expectantly.
He looked STRAIGHT into my eyes. It was like he was looking into my soul. He put his hand on my cheek. I held my breath as our eyes connected. It was like God was looking right at me. I was terrified, but it was the most significant feeling of my young life.
He spoke to me. The only complete sentence I had earned in his presence.
“I chose you because of your mind. Your body is nothing to me. But your mind is a perfect container for abuse.”
I blushed. No one had ever said anything that hot to me before, but the tone he said it in made him sound kinda like a serial killer. If he hadn't been holding my jaw, I would have been licking the dirty tile at his feet.
“Hands behind your back.”
I obeyed.
He slapped me again. Not as hard as upstairs. Just hard enough to remind me that he could, if he wanted to.
“Look at the ground.”
I obeyed.
“Stay, bitch.”
You have to understand that his tone was completely calm. I still didn't yet understand what was about to happen, and his voice wasn't giving me any clues. It was like he was ordering a pizza. Not even. Like he was talking to an automated phone system. His tone was utterly blank. His voice held no emotions at all as he filled me with so much fear, I worried my heart would stop: and so much lust, I kind of didn't care if it did.
Click.
He opened the little door in the wall. But I had been ordered to look at the ground. I had been told to stay. And I needed him to know that I was his good bitch.
I felt his body behind me as he buckled leather around my body. Piece after piece. Thick padded restraints were padlocked around my wrists and ankles, then clipped together with a four way connector into a kneeling hog-tie. A heavy belt like a corset went around my waist, covered in O-rings. A thick posture collar went around my throat, holding my neck straight and upright like some kind of fucking mental patient.
Which, I guess, I was. A life of crazy and traumatized sex had brought me here, seeking out the men with expertise in my condition. Someone who might be able to help.
Not to make me better, just to help. Even if that meant getting worse.
I had put myself in his hands, and now, he was going to decide what was best for me. It was terrifying and freeing all at once. I caught his eyes whenever possible as he bound me, clinging to whatever I could in the absence of his voice to comfort me. He held my gaze a lot. It made me feel like prey. Like I was an antelope, and he was some big graceful leopard, moving silently and smoothly. An ambush predator.
Finally, I was prepared to his satisfaction.
He squatted in front of me, a half smile the only sign of emotion on his face. It didn't reach his eyes. They were intense and focused as they bored into mine. But not smiling.
The way he was looking at me terrified me. I felt like I was about to get eaten. Still, I couldn't look away. In the absence of his voice, I had only his eyes to connect to.
I think I fell in love with him a little bit. Please don't judge me. I'd just. Never felt so vulnerable. And no one had ever seen me so intensely.
In one hand, he held up a large black buttplug. In the other, a bottle of poppers. I looked back and forth between the two.
He shoved the plug into my mouth.
I mean, all at once. One second it was just IN me. The leather held me still as I struggled not to choke. The tip was stabbing my tonsils as the flared bulk of it forced my jaw wide. This was a big boy plug.
He held my jaw again. Fuck. Why did he keep doing that? My eyes watered as he lifted them to meet his.
He said nothing as he opened the poppers and held them up to my nose. With the plug packing my face pussy, I had no choice but to inhale. I looked him in the eyes as he did it, feeling like I was drowning in those bright blue irises as he glared into my soul. The poppers were taking over. I started to slump in my bonds. My throat relaxed around the plug. My hole was ACHING for use.
He was so close our foreheads were about to touch. My heart was beating a mile a minute.
He kissed the base of the plug in my mouth. As if he was kissing me. But I felt nothing.
Oh my God. I loved this man. I would die for this man.
He held my face tenderly as he looked at me, then HIT me. Not just once. Over and over and over. But his other hand was holding my skull. And I couldn't get away if I wanted to. I just knelt there, head cradled in his hand, taking the pain for him.
I couldn't even scream.
When he was satisfied, he grabbed the base of the plug, pumping it in and out of my face like a dildo. Like a plunger. It HURT. I gagged, coughed, blew bubbles around the toy. Slime leaked down my lips and onto my chest. But his eyes held me fast.
He ripped the plug from my facecunt, leaning close and wrapping his arms around me as he shoved it into my pussy with one stroke.
This time, I did scream.
Oh. My God. My God. My actual God. Please, I thought, never, EVER take me away from this beautiful man. Let me be his slave forever. Let me kneel and worship as he hurts me and looks in my eyes like that.
My pussy was screaming from pain of the plug-rape, but I didn't care. My stomach was full of butterflies. My heart was in my throat. I was completely in love.
I was lost in his eyes as he forced a gag into my mouth. A heavy leather pad that covered my mouth completely, with a short but thick black dildo. Like a fucking pacifier, made for some sick Leather Daddy's specifications.
With the gag too locked in place, he kissed me again. Well. He kissed the gag, anyway.
He closed his eyes as he made out with the flat leather. I didn't. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I melted into the “kiss” as his hands roamed over my body like it was our first date. Which. I guess technically it was.
But does it count as a first date if you're going to be together forever? It seemed like we might. I'm not sure whether that terrified me, or whether I owed him the deepest debt of gratitude that had ever existed between a Man and his fag.
As the kiss broke, so did my mind.
He pulled back and looked into my eyes again. Fuck. I wanted him to NEVER stop doing that. The look in his eyes told me that he was disgusted with what he saw, but he wasn't turning away. It thrilled me. Like he was REALLY seeing me. The true me. The secret me. He was seeing my worst self, the truth I was so afraid of, and wasn't shirking from it. He was meeting me there, in that broken place of fear at the core of my being. It hurt and healed me all at once. It made me certain that he was the most powerful male in the universe, and that I wasn't even male at all.
God looked at me like that for a few long moments, half smiling. I panted through the gag, not daring to look away. He held my eyes while I looked for love, for affection, for affirmation. Instead, I found only his pleasure in his own power.
Then, he punched me in the balls, HARD.
I buckled over. Well. I tried to. With all that leather binding me tight, I could only convulse in place. My balls radiated pain throughout my abdomen, shooting up my stomach and down my hip flexors. My hole grabbed the plug, pulling it further into me. The pointed tip was stabbing my stomach, the flare stretching my lips to the point of pain. My body was wracked with agony, and with nowhere to go, my muscles just spasmed, yanking at my bones, making me twist and turn against my restraints.
He stroked my cheek, his thumb rubbing over the gag as my eyes watered. Oh fuck. He was looking at me. This suffering was for him. I cried harder, wishing I could thank him.
He hit me again. And again. And again.
I was screaming behind my gag, but all that came out were muffled grunts and squeals, almost like pleasure. Like he was fucking me with a pillow in my mouth. I tried not to think about the pain, not to flinch from it or fight it, and instead just... experience it for him. Those fucking eyes. I would experience whatever he needed me to. This was my purpose. I wasn't even a person. I was just a container for this beautiful man to fill up to the brim with pain. With fear. With shame. With whatever he fucking wanted.
I think this is when it became clear to me that we weren't going to be having sex. At least, not regular sex. If the kiss was any indication, we were going to connect intimately, but in a way that gave him pleasure and left me feeling alone. The pain WAS the sex. Some men want to fill a faggot with cock. With cum. With piss. I had experience with these men, and hurting a fag was always part of their games.
For this man, pain WAS the game. He didn't need me to worship him or bring him pleasure. It was like he said. He didn't give a fuck about my body. Sex for him was going to involve fucking my head, and I had a feeling this was just the beginning.
I was right.
The brutal ball beating had left my clit flaccid and leaking, tiny and pathetic in the cold basement air. The look in his eyes told me that pleased him. He pulled something out of his pocket. It looked like a cock cage. I recognized the two part design - ring to go around the balls, and a cage to contain my clit. Other men had caged me before, one “permanently,” but I had always been able to wriggle out after while flaccid. One advantage of being a shrimp-dicked little excuse for a man, I guess.
This cage was different. The top part was unlike any I had ever seen before. It was a flat circle with seven little holes in the surface, like a manhole cover. A little tube extended from the center back of the circle.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh fuck.
I struggled. I really did. I legitimately tried to get out of the bonds, to unclip the restraints behind my back and RUN back up the stairs for that door.
It was no use. I could barely fucking move. My best efforts to escape looked like a pathetic little dance of eagerness as he forced the cage onto me. The tube, as I feared, went right down my piss slit. I was leaking from my ball beating, and from the overall hotness of this monster who was teaching me a new level of obedience. He didn't use any lube. He just shoved it in, as cold and unfeeling as the butt plug. Like he was gutting a fish.
Click.
I looked down, as much as I could over the posture collar.
I didn't see anything.
My clit was gone. Forced INSIDE my own body, leaving my crotch totally flat.
In its place, I had a smooth little circle, and a tight swollen ball sack, already purple and engorged from the constriction of the ring. My body was the least turned on it had ever been. It was in full panic mode. My soul, however?
He looked at me.
I strained forwards towards him, wanting him to hold me again. To kiss my gag. I needed to be close to him. To thank him for doing this to me, even though I didn't have a fucking clue what he was doing. Looking back, if I had known, I would have struggled for that “kiss” even more. I would need it, where I was going.
Instead, he pushed me back against the wall with his left hand. And with his right, he held up a little bottle of Loctite metal glue.
I started hyperventilating around the gag, my nostrils flaring as I fought to suck in air fast enough to feed my panicked lungs. But as he bent down to glue me shut forever, I stayed pressed against the wall. Where he had put me. Where he wanted me.
Obedience was all I had. I channeled all my fear, all of the flight or fight response, into keeping my body totally still, pressed painfully back into the cinder brick like I was trying to become one with it. My eyes darted around the room as he fiddled with my cage, sliding over his dirty laundry. Crumpled boxers. Sweat stained undershirts. Little kid laundry too, both panties and underoos mixed in with the mess. I wondered how many kids he had.
Well. One more, now.
He recapped the bottle.
I guess that was it. My life with a dick was effectively over. Obviously, I wouldn't need it for what Master had planned for me.
That was the moment he became Master.
If I suspected before that I was never getting out of here, the Loctite brought me clarity. Certainty. This man was my Master, and I was his object. His possession. I wasn't going to be his fucktoy. His dick was too good for me. I was going to be… fuck. I didn't actually know. But he wanted me for something, and that was enough. He was my Master, and I was whatever he wanted me to be.
I was about to find out.
He knelt in front of me and wrapped his arms around me again, and I stupidly thought it was for more groping and petting. I melted into his chest, drooling behind my gag, inhaling his scent like it was the only oxygen in the world. Nuzzling into his hairy pits. Smelling his unwashed man musk. Praying for him to spank my ass, to scratch my back, to play with the oversized plug in my fagpussy. To use his new toy.
He didn't hold me this time, though. He lifted me. Half carrying me, half sliding me, he moved me across the tile floor, forcing me backwards into the little closet.
I didn't get a good look before he forced me in the hole. But it wasn't a cell. It wasn't made to contain a person. It was little more than a soffit built to hide the water heater. A little drain was built into the floor, looking for all the world like the chastity cage on my clit - a flat metal plate with a few holes drilled in it. Screws stuck out from the inside of the two by four studs. There was a little air freshener thing plugged into an outlet on the wall, a weird touch, but maybe it was to keep away insects or something. Pipes crowded the space around me, dead bugs and loose screws littered the corners of the floor. It wasn't even titled like the rest of the room. Just bare concrete. With the water heater, there was barely room for me. But Master made me fit.
I know this sounds sick. Please don't judge me for what I'm about to say.
I worshiped him for it.
Here was a male, a REAL male. A fucking Man. He had everything I would never have. Not just a job, a career. He didn't just own a car, he was a homeowner. He didn't just have a relationship, he had a family. He was a father. His cock and balls had done their natural duty of creating new life. He walked through the world with his head high. He came home to his castle where everything was in order and how he wanted it, where he was King.
It felt honored that a man like that had made space for me in his life. In his home.
I would be another one of his belongings. Not just trash or dirty laundry strewn around on the floor. I was a special possession going into a special place. He took an unused little corner of his basement, a dark little appliance closet, and turned it into my new home. I was going to live here. I was going to be his deepest secret.
The feeling was so powerful and electric, I forgot to breathe. Maybe it was the fear. But I think it was the overwhelming sense of love. Of being needed. Wanted. Of finally having a place and a purpose. It was relief and despair, one and the same.
Maybe other boys got to feel and process those emotions separately. I did not.
He looked at me, kneeling and bound in his little hell hole. This time, he smiled for real. Not a creepy grin, not a corny smirk. A genuine fucking smile. He was happy. I was making him happy.
I was so breathless I thought I might pass out. I was shaking like a leaf, straining forwards towards him like he was the sun and I was a little weed. I clung to the light in his eyes, knowing it was about to vanish. That I was about to be alone in the dark for a very long time. Maybe forever. I had no idea how long I would be here in this hole, but I knew that me being here would make this strange man GENUINELY HAPPY, and that made all the pain and trauma of my life worthwhile. I would stay here forever, knowing that every time this beautiful man remembered the boy in his basement made he would just fucking… smile like that.
He pulled some things from a laundry basket out of my sight, fumbling around for a second. Then he turned back towards me.
He kissed me again. Not on the gag this time, on my fucking forehead. Like I was his little boy and he was my Dad. I wanted to cry. I wanted him to hit me again. I wanted him to RAPE ME. Anything. I just wanted this man to take everything I had, and make me take anything he had to give.
When he pulled his lips back from my forehead, he looked in my eyes for the last time, and said the last words I would hear from a human mouth for a very long time.
“Goodnight, faggot.”
Then, the world went silent and dark.
Master had put something over my ears and eyes. All light and sound was blocked out completely. I couldn't even hear the click of my prison door closing and locking. I was completely alone.