You were fresh out of college, broke, and with little to no prospects of finding a job in an increasingly competitive and impossible to break-into employment market. All that stress was just exacerbated by a huge mountain of student debt on your shoulders. You’d started out all bright-eyed and optimistic for the future, but as the years waned on, you started realizing why most older people were jaded and cynical.
Now that you’d been thrust out into the real world from a heavily flawed educational system with a debt that you couldn’t even begin to hope to repay, it’d become quite clear to you that the world as you knew it wasn’t fair in the slightest. Of course, most people play along. They don’t have a choice. They have to live, somehow, and sometimes that means taking a dead-end job, clinging to the vain hope that someday they’ll manage to pay off their debt and start moving up in the world.
Some people do, but it’s a tough ask. You, however, on the other hand, didn’t think that was an option. You were intelligent. You were resourceful. But you were also at the end of your rope after trying every little thing that you can think of. You were pretty creative so you tried to make a living off of creating for a little while. It was tough trying to stay afloat from month to month on increasingly demanding commissions.
Finally, you decided that the libido you’d struggled with all your life was going to be your ticket out. And if you had stopped it there, maybe you would have had a chance. You saved up to go to the gym and eat healthier, got a pretty nice body out of the deal, and started putting on cam shows to make money. You made a pretty penny, but it wasn’t going to be enough. You decided that what you needed was a sugar daddy.
And with looks like yours, it wasn’t going to be difficult to get one.
Lo and behold, some three weeks later, you had found someone. He was hot. He was mature. He was a daddy in every sense of the word, and had the sugar that you were looking for to boot. He put you up in his house, and all you had to do was walk around in your underwear whenever you were home, be a nice little slut for him, and you could live in comfortable luxury. And sex with him was pretty sizzling, too. For an older gentleman, he definitely had the virility of a young man like you. For once, you had a partner that could keep up.
There was one aspect of the bargain that you didn’t know what to feel about. He wanted you to get bigger and stronger. He wanted you to grow buffer. You were concerned at first, of course, but given that he was being more gracious to you than he needed to be, you couldn’t very well begrudge him the idea. And besides, you didn’t think it was all that bad to get bigger and sexier, anyway.
In the back of your mind, even though your sugar daddy told you that that wasn’t the case, you knew that your arrangement was going to be a temporary one. You thought that he would one day find someone younger and more attractive and that being hotter yourself would help your chances once you were replaced.
But that wasn’t at all your sugar daddy’s intention. Between the chemicals laced into your food, the supplements that you were taking to get bigger—which your body couldn’t metabolize and which penetrated the blood-brain barrier to collect in your head—and the steroids that your daddy had somehow managed to convince you to take, you didn’t realize that slowly, gradually, you were losing the mental acuity that you had once been so proud of.
More and more, you found yourself flexing in front of the mirror as your body continued to swell, chuckling dumbly as you ran your hands over your increasingly obscene musculature, as you squeezed and played with the man-tits that you had managed to develop. Your head felt fuzzy and cottony, your thoughts moving as though through treacle, but it was a pleasant sensation, as far as you were concerned.
You became bigger, slower, stupider. By the time that the white noise machines and their subliminal messages came into play, you were too far gone, and they were pretty much just there to reinforce what you already willingly did. Well, that and to destroy whatever dregs of resistance might have remained inside you despite everything.
With that came the gradual downgrading of your living quarters. At first you had a big room all to yourself. Then you were moved to a guest bedroom “for renovations” even though you never really did see any construction people around the house. If you had, you would have been fucked by at least one of them as you and your daddy were no longer exclusive and anyone in the household could come by your room and request a fuck.
By the time that you were moved to what were essentially the “servants’ quarters,” you were expected to take any and all requests for sexual satisfaction regardless of what you were doing. Not that you did much more than watch stupid shows, laugh your ass off, flex in front of the mirror chuckling dumbly at your huge body, and work out at that point.
When you were finally installed in the dungeon, your withered cock locked up in a metal cage much like the bars on the door to your “room,” you were thoroughly gone. Most days you just stared blankly, drooling, waiting for someone to come along to use you. Your master fucked you most of the time, leaving your ass leaking and loose for most of the day, but others came by, too, servants that wanted to have a good time, and even just random people who wanted to get their rocks off.
You didn’t complain. This was what your master wanted you to do. This was what your master created you to do. And you were happy. At least, as happy as you could be with your limited mental abilities these days.
Eventually, you were moved to another cell. Smaller, with only a mattress on the floor to be your bed. You slept not on your back but on all fours, your ass sticking out of a hole in the bars in front of your “room,” your wrists and ankles held in place by manacles while you drooled onto your fluffy pillow—the only measure of comfort afforded to you by then.
So, congratulations, dumbfuck. You’ve got your wish. You’ll live in relative comfort for the rest of your life. Nothing but a roided up beast who’s more ass than brain, hole loose and leaking most of the time, brain shriveled up just as much as your locked up cock. But you like it, don’t you? Yeah, you do. Those white noise machines and all those subliminals have made sure to destroy any thoughts other than unerring, unflinching, and unquestioning obedience to your master.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
le basculement de l’humain stupide vers l’objet
juste un it qui suit son cheminement normal vers sa fonction d’objet
Brandon’s parents decided to give him a slave for his irthday, one that was suitable for him to take to college with him. Although they did not totally approve of man on man sex, they were concerned that at college Brandon might meet predatory women who would try to have sex with him so that they could insist on marriage or threaten to cry “rape” if he refused to agree. So having a slave to work out his sexual needs seemed the least worst choice.
Brandon’s father, a man of the world, also reassured his wife that, after all, the slave would keep Brandon’s clothes neat, do his laundry, do his share of the upkeep of the frat house and so on, so leaving Brandon more time to study. And, he added, all his fellows will have slaves and it’s certainly not considered ‘gay’ to use a slave sexually.
So here we see Brandon evaluating four ppossible presents. Brandon’s father rather enjoyed his visit to the slave dealer to select “something suitable” as it rather reminded him of his own college days, and had four slaves sent arounf “on approval” for Brandon to selct one.
Whether you’re going out for a picnic, staying at home and cuddling, or even going out to an upscale restaurant, a good boy should always consider the possibility that he will end up as part of the menu and prepare accordingly.
You tried to deny it at first, the way that the stink wormed its way into your nostrils after a good workout, the way that your cock twitched in your pants. But it happened. Again and again and again. Eventually, even you couldn’t resist it anymore, and the moment you got home, pulling off your running shoes and practically ripping your socks off, you shoved your nose into your feet and drank in the scent.
It was intoxicating. It was addicting. It was thick, it was heady, and it flooded into your nose, making you warm and tingling all over. You palmed yourself through your shorts, your cock hard and twitching against your thigh, leaving a streak of pre-cum on your skin.
You rubbed your cock against your thigh, groaning as you mashed your nose into the sole of your foot, and quickly approached the edge. It was good. So good. But just as you were about to hit your climax, you realized what you were doing. You jumped. You let go of your foot, letting it snap down into its natural position but bumping your toes against the corner of the coffee table.
You cursed, looking at the sticky mess that you’ve made between your legs, the huge dark spot in the fabric of your shorts. You decided that it was just a momentary lapse of judgment. A passing weakness. You weren’t going to do that again now that you had satisfied your curiosity. Of course not. But you took a cold shower just in case.
Just before you went to bed, you turned on the white noise machine that your personal trainer had given you. You had mentioned that you were having some trouble getting to sleep. The little device, as seemingly innocuous as it was, was a life saver. The hiss of static filled your ears, and, after a few minutes, your head. You felt soft and fuzzy, like you were floating in a sea of cotton candy.
At first you had thought that there were faint voices in the static, and you’d said as much to your personal trainer. He’d laughed and told you that that was normal. It was called pareidolia, the human tendency to see patterns in otherwise chaotic stimuli.
It was a big word. And you were sure that you should have known what it meant, but for some reason, you hadn’t. You had worried, for a moment, at least until your personal trainer murmured a few words that you didn’t really catch but nevertheless sent a wave of warmth and calm washing over you. How silly that you had thought you knew the word pareidolia. You were smart, but not that smart.
You had thanked your personal trainer for explaining the situation to you, and walked away. If you hadn’t, if you had somehow found a way to resist, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up where you are now, but who knows? It’s not like there’s a chance for you anymore.
It wasn’t a momentary lapse of judgment. It wasn’t a passing weakness. You were definitely going to do it again even though you had satisfied your curiosity. At first, it had been easy to deal with. You just went home, gave your foot a sniff, palmed at your cock, and that was it. But as time went on, that became insufficient.
When you got horny, you got the urge to stick your face in your foot or in your shoe to drink in your scent. When you caught a whiff of your foot, you got extremely horny and couldn’t help but at least give your cock a squeeze. Again and again and again this happened until you were powerless under the thrall of your own feet.
You couldn’t cum without the stink on your face. And smelling that musk made it so that you couldn’t function without cumming. And you managed, for a little while. You darted into the washroom whenever you had to. You pumped out a load whenever it became too much. You said you had developed IBS, too embarrassed to admit why you were suddenly so fretful in the office.
But eventually even that wasn’t enough. It started taking you longer and longer to cum. One time, you desperately pulled and pumped on your cock for fifteen minutes in the stall, holding your breath in, hoping no one would come in to hear the toilet seat rattling underneath you because you knew you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. And after that, it became impossible to cum without your nose stuck down your shoe, or mashed up against your foot.
You didn’t remember where you got the idea from, or what made you think it was a good one, but you went and bought a chastity cage. You got horny when you were hard, you reasoned, so obviously the solution was to find something that wouldn’t ever let you get hard. You felt as though there was something wrong with that logic, but you couldn’t figure it out. It was hard to think. Like your brain was partly made of fluff.
It was a bad idea. It didn’t make you any less horny. It didn’t you crave the musk, the stink of feet any less. You whimpered and you whined in bed three days after you put the cage on, writhing because there was no relief from your overwhelming lust. You had a shoe pressed against your face, your hand down between your legs rubbing your locked-up nub.
You couldn’t take it. You didn’t know what to do. You needed to unlock. You needed to cum. You shook your cage and rolled over onto your side, using one hand to keep the shoe against your face. You reached for the key that you kept on your nightstand, but it wasn’t there. You felt a pang of panic. You looked around. It was nowhere to be seen.
Keeping the shoe on your face, you looked under your bed, under the nightstand. It wasn’t there. You decided it was time to break out your emergency copy, but even that was gone. You wept, pretty much, then and there. You were so pathetic, you couldn’t even look at yourself in the floor-length mirror that was standing in the corner of your room.
You were naked, on your knees on the floor, drinking in the smell of your own feet from your shoes, palming your leaking nub. And then you received a video call. It was from your personal trainer. You answered it. “Hey, bitch,” your personal trainer said. “Looks like the programming has done its work, huh?”
The video your personal trainer was showing you was of a computer screen. There was a live feed with two thousand viewers. It was of your room. You were on the phone, desperately humping the air with your locked up cock and flinging pre-cum everywhere. “Fag didn’t even know what hit him,” your trainer laughed, “Hey, why don’t you come over? My feet could use a good tongue bathing?”
You were repulsed. But not really. The moment he said it, it was all that you could think about. You moaned, the sound low and needy. It was all you could think about. Nothing else. No thoughts of resistance. No thoughts of escape. Just an overwhelming desire to drive over there, without even bothering to get dressed, so that you could give a pair of feet the worship that they deserved.
It was like heaven on earth when you finally got your tongue on your trainer’s big sweaty toe. It felt tangy and musky on your tastebuds. It was bitter and repulsive, but for some reason you thought that it was the best texture, the best flavor in the world. And you knew that he had just finished his workout, too. You could still smell the man musk, the stink of a real man off of him.
You were so enthralled, so far gone, that when he wrapped that chain choker around your neck, you didn’t really care, as long as you got another taste of his foot. And you did. He just laughed and called you degrading names. Dumb bitch. Stupid slut. Pathetic footslave. Idiot fag. Dumb footrest. Brainless foot cleaner.
At first it made you feel so humiliated, so degraded. Your cheeks would flush and you would quiver, all at once feeling so little, so meaningless, so pathetic, and so, so aroused. Eventually, you got used to it. The humiliation never went away. It still made you feel so… inferior. You enjoyed it, too. But it wasn’t quite as intense before.
Once you accepted it as a fact of life, you began to internalize the words used to describe you. You had never been an arrogant cocky stud, but you had had self-confidence. That was slowly stripped away from you, until you became a weak, simpering loser. And while you had never been particularly brilliant, you had at least been a little smart, but even that was taken away. These days, your thoughts moved at a snail’s pace, if at all, and most of the time what little brainpower you had left was dedicated to thinking about your master’s feet and how horny you were for his cock.
By the time that your master was done with you, you were beyond recognition. Brainless. Mindless. No will but your master’s. A kept slave for whenever he felt like he wanted to get his feet spit-shined. And you were all too happy to do it for him. It was what you lived for. It was the only thing you knew.
And you were horny. Always. Endlessly. Your master would come down and fuck you. Down your throat. Up your ass. At first, you had not liked it. You had been straight, in your previous life. But you realized that your master wouldn’t give you his feet if you didn’t start participating. So you did. He cunted you down both ends, making you the perfect receptacle for his cock.
Maybe it was the fact that he pounded your prostate every time he fucked you up your chute, or maybe it was the fact that he never stopped calling you a fag, or some variation thereof, but you eventually came to like it. You loved it, even. He called you a fucktoy. His cocksleeve. It made you feel so meaningless, but all that did was make your cock strain in its metal cage.
Master removed your plastic cage for a while. You thought he was being merciful, but you were wrong. He had your cock pierced. Then he fitted a metal chastity cage on you. It was tiny. No doubt your dick would shrink into a nub over the years. And it was going to be permanent. He welded it shut at his earliest convenience.
Master wasn’t being merciful. He was being evil. Once you had the cage on, he made sure that you always had a vibrator up against your crotch. Just enough to keep you straining, just enough to keep you riding the edge, but never enough to get you to cum. No matter how much you bucked your hips. No matter how hard to humped.
You were pathetic. You were weak. You had once had success, promise, but no longer. Even just a mildly threatening look from your master made you want to piss your pants. One particularly heavy step in your direction made you beg for mercy. You were broken. Thoroughly and completely.
Even your mind had been warped. Constant degradation. Constant humiliation. The endless deluge of stupid, idiot, moron, dumbass, dumbfuck, it wore away your sense of self, your own intelligence, until you could barely count. Until you forgot even the difference between night and day, the passage of the hours, your only notion that time kept marching on the fact that your master came for you at least twice in between your moments of fitful sleep.
You remembered your old life, but only in fragments. You dreamed of your old job. It hadn’t been great, but it had been cushy. You dreamed of your plans to advance your career. None of that mattered now, though. You were enslaved. You were broken. You were nothing more than a footfag for your master.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
In spite of many warnings this pony persisted in making human sounds when it was working, even though common sense should have told it that a pony is supposed to be a surrogate animal and shouldonly, and then if absolutely necessary, make animal noises to alert its owner to a problem.
The owner is not a cruel man and decided not to have th slave’s vocal chords cut as knows the ponies like to communicate with each other in the barn at the end of their working day. But the other ponies were becoming restive at the way this one consistently broke the rules, and something needed to be done. Thi simple punishment was therefore ordered for the pony – its tongue was nailed to a post in the pony stables, and it was left there overnight like that as a message and a warning to all. The advantage of a punishment like this is that the pony can still work the net day, and its hide is not scarred and spoiled as it would be had it been caned or even whipped.
POUR LES ANIMAUX COMME DOG PONY TRUIE OU OBJET
LA NECESSITE DE FAIRE COMPRENDRE
LA PAROLE HUMAINE EST INTERDITE AUX ANIMAUX OU AUX OBJETS
POSITION D AFFICHAGE SIMPLE ET CONFORME POUR UN OBJET
Slave processors and traders are always concerned about the powerful environmental lobby criticising their methods. After all, the popularity of using male slaves for work previously done my machines is largely driven by the concerns of the environmentalists for “greening the planet” and conserving the oil.
Regrettably the very large distances that many slaves have to travel from the processor to the new owner precludes them being driven there on foot, safely coffled to prevent escape. Road transport is often necessary, and we see here how environmentally friendly this can be: the slaves are packed in to three tiers in the truck, and very close together in each layer, to maximise the volume per truck. It’s tough on the slaves, crammed in and not able to stand for whet might be days. And urine from the top layers soaks those at the bottom. But the slaves’ new owners have the satisfaction of knowing that they are helping to save the planet.
LE BETAIL HUMAIN TRANSPORTE D UNE FERME A UNE AUTRE
Must be extremely difficult to understand that the alternative lifestyle of real slavery and even the training of part time slaves has less to do with fucking or getting fucked.
If I accept a slave for part time training or lifetime enslavement I use the slave to make my life more comfortable.
I use the slave for hard labour in my garden or I let the slave do house chores like cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking and so on.
And of course I do use the slave to satisfy my sadistic and sexual needs on him.
But that doesn’t mean that I would just tie a slave up and bash the crap out of him nor does it mean that the slave will get fucked several times per hour. Brutal violence has as less to do with this lifestyle as to get fucked every hour by multiple gangbang actions. Both might be a fantasy but both is far away from reality.
Slavery has to do with being used for many things, with exposure in private and/or public, with being humiliated, with being controlled in several aspects and with being molded and formed.
Yes If I want to satisfy my sadistic needs on a slave the slave will suffer. But that can be done in a million ways and in some of this ways I don’t even need to touch the slave to do that.
Need one example? Here it comes. Did you ever experience being kept in chastity? Slaves who have experienced this know to well that this can be one way to get punished/tortured. Can you imagine how it is to have your dick locked away and NOT to be used sexual for some hours, days, weeks or even months?
Your horniness will grow and grow, you will feel your dick in that cage trying to get hard. Can you imagine how it is to have your nipples pinched when I know that this is something you like while you are in chastity? And believe me, this is just one experience which is way more intense than just to get ordinary fucked.
Another example? Here we go. Imagine you are doing some hard labour in my garden. Moving rocks from one corner to the other or taking care of my little hill of garden rubbish or whatever. And while you are working for hours I suddenly take you with me, order you to drop down on your knees and than I take my dick out because I just want to piss on you. After having done hard labour your reward is that I piss on your body and straight in your face? Yes, that’s fucking humiliating, right?
Imagine I have guests. And I tell you that’s it’s your job to do the butler service this evening. It will be your job to make sure the glasses are never empty and and the food bowls always get refilled. And after my guests have arrived the first thing I do is to bring you in and to present you to my guests. You get exposed to my guests. You are shown naked to people you never met before and maybe we even make fun of you standing there naked and in chastity. Or maybe I will order you to get your dick hard in front of all those strangers. Another example of torture/humiliation where I don’t even need to touch you.
And this list could go on and on. Things that you even can’t imagine are normal for me to do.
And believe me when I say that some of these things will drive you crazy but will put you in a status of ecstasy at the same time.
Corporal punishment is one part of the slave training. But as I mentioned before it doesn’t mean you will get tied up and just brutally beaten.
Have you ever spent a longer period of time bound, arms up, legs spread? Try to imagine it. And than a loooong interrogation starts. During this interrogation I might just let my hands glide over your whole body or just over some special areas of your body. Combined with the lash of a flogger or bullwhip every now and than. Sometimes there might be just a few seconds between the lashes, sometimes minutes. This combination of lust and pain, this combination of being stimulated and punished at the same time is something so erotic, something so intense that you will never forget it.
Have you ever spent some time in a cage? Just sitting there and waiting what will happen next, thinking about what might be done with you next? This can also be a kind of torture. Will your master do the same things to you that he is doing now with your slave brother? Or will he ignore you today and not take care of you at all?
Ever heard about sensory deprivation? Imagine you are wearing ear plugs and a mask. You don’t hear anything, you don’t see anything, you even can’t smell anything. This combined with bondage is amazing. What will be next? Will you feel pain? A minute before you felt a hot drop of wax on your chest. Will that continue? What’s that now? A hand on your dick? What for? Will he let you feel some pleasure? Maybe he will reward you for your good and loyal service? If you just could see something but you are totally blind and this damned muzzle doesn’t even let you speak properly…
And when you talk about SM and being a slave all you have in mind is how often and from whom you will get fucked? That’s it? For you it’s all about getting fucked by your master and maybe his friends?
If that is what you have in mind do me a big favour and don’t contact me.
This lack of ideas, this lack of imagination and the fact that you abuse the art of well done SM, bondage and slavery with just having in mind how often you will get fucked is more than just insulting!
You want to piss me off? Start to get in touch with me and let one of your first questions be:
Even after the general humiliation of the enslavement process when the free man is stripped, clipped, displayed and fondled before being paraded in the nude across the auction platform some men find it very hard to adapt to their new status. This young slave has crept away to find a secluded corner of its owner’s estate where it can break down and cry about the life it has lost and the new difficulties it now has. The overseer has told it a few minutes ago that tonight it is to be thoroughly cleansed inside and out as its owner has decided it’s time to “take its cherry” – the slave was always totally “straight” when it was a free man, and the thought of being forced to take another man’s dick up its ass and down its throat is too much. The salve is forgetting that terms such as “straight” no not apply to slaves – slaves are simply objects, to be used in whatever way their owner chooses.
ESCLAVE AVANT SA PRISE DE CERISE COMME DOIT LE FAIRE TOUT PROPRIETAIRE SUR UN ANCIEN HUMAIN
