Mister/Master
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.
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