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Story of dominance
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
I must confess that it didn't really occur to me to ask
Master whether he approved of my disclosing so much of our
private life in the first story of this series (LJ issue #1); we
have always had an open relationship--in fact, he's always
insisted that I have time exclusively to myself, and that I have
some sort of regular contact with the world outside our home--so
even after I quit my regular job to be formally his slave (once
the two of us got used to each other and it was clear that we
could live together--and that I was making a free choice), I have
always worked on things that interested me outside the house--and
writing, and that first story, are part of that. I never even
thought that he would object, not only because of the nature of
our relationship, but also because I had changed a lot of details
for the story and used a pen name too. I figured that our close
friends would know who we are and get off on it, and so would
Master--and nobody else would know who we are, or even care.
* * *
I was vacuuming the living room carpet one morning; my back
was turned away from the front door and the noise of the vacuum
had drowned out the sound of Master returning from running some
errands. I felt a sudden sharp and very hard whack on the left
side of my head and heard Master say in his topman Texan voice,
"Turn that thing off an' getcher butt DOWN, boy."
I shut off the vacuum, dropped to my knees with my hands
behind my back, and waited. Master grabbed me by my hairhandle
(he keeps my hair cut in a Mohawk that's long enough in the back
to grab onto), jerked me to my feet and looked me squarely in the
eyes; with a snarl in his voice and a glare that would cut
through lead he said, "What's THIS shit, boy?" He punctuated the
"this" with another whack to the side of my head--using a rolled-
up copy of the first issue to do it; he'd apparently bought it
while he was out. The rolled-up magazine was folded back at the
first page of my story, and he held it in front of my face.
"Well?"
"It's a s-s-story I wrote, Sir," I stammered.
"Ah figured THAT out, boy," he said, almost growling and
hitting me again. "It ain't no STORY, neither; pretty close to
bein' ree-por-TAGE. Did Ah say y'all could DO that?" The "do" was
punctuated by an open-handed slap.
He was using his Texan topman drawl and speaking quite
rapidly, a sure sign that he was turned on. I thought, he's not
REALLY pissed with me ... he's using his Topman voice so that
means we're playing ... except he sureashell SEEMS pissed...
"N-n-no, Sir, but you've always s-s-said that I could d-d-do
things on my own a-a-accord ..."
Another bare-handed whack. "Yeah, Ah SAID that, didn't Ah?
What Ah DIDN'T say was whether y'all could write public things
'bout US, huh?"
I said nothing, just stood there trembling, looking at him
with fear and pleading in my eyes.
He let me hang for at least another thirty seconds ... and
then softened his features and smiled. "HOT story, boy. Good
rePORTin, too. Ahm' PROUD of ya. --The fuckers PAID ya fer it, ah
hope!"
"Oh, Yessir!"
"An' the check CLEARED?"
"Yessir!"
"Good. An' the table of contents sez it's a `continuous
feature,' so you're gonna write MORE, hey?"
Finally! I thought. He hadn't used the time machine since
that incredible first scene with the pirates Will and Clancy, and
I hadn't dared to mention it in free conversations after his
initial sarcastic reaction to my request for more. "Well, yes,
Sir, but you haven't used the time machine since then and I don't
want to make up the next one."
"Don't worry about THAT, boy, Ah'll come up with SOMEthin'
fer ya ... combination of somethin' fer yer mag an' punishin' ya
fer not showin' that first piece to me in advance. But don't
expect this next one to be all that fuckin' FUN, boy; you stepped
WAY outa line here an' Ah gotta DEAL with that." He headed for
the playroom, dragging me along with him by the hair; once there,
he shoved me into the punishment cell, had me strip completely
naked except for my collar, and slammed and locked the door,
leaving me in darkness to contemplate my misbehavior.
* * *
It was a long time before anything happened, and I'm not too
clear exactly how it happened ... all I remember is Master waking
me up by whacking me upside the head, along with the realization
that I had been tied in a very uncomfortable position, laying on
my belly with my hands and feet tied together behind my back--I
could feel my heels with my knuckles and, apart from being able
to rock back and forth a little on my belly, I couldn't move.
Master dragged me into his workroom and deposited me in the
middle of the metal plating on the floor (attached to the time
machine), whipped out his cock and pissed on me; I moaned and
wriggled under the wonderful feeling of his warmth.
"Yeah, crapudine, you take it an' you take it GOOD, an'
you're really gonna GET it now, sleazepuppy," he said. "--You
talk French don'tcha boy?"
"A l-l-little, Sir," I stammered, not quite awake.
"`Little,' hossshit. Good; you'll need it ... y'all know
what crapudine means, hm?"
I thought for a moment and then said, "I think it means
`toad,' Sir?"
"Y'all got it, boy. That's what y'all are now, boy, nothin'
but a fuckin' TOAD." He ambled over to the computer and hit a few
keys; after a few seconds I could make out the features of a
moustached man in a military uniform, wearing a curious-looking
cap, standing in the midst of what looked like a desert. "Okay,
Andre, your crapudine's ready," Master said in perfect French,
pointing the television camera at me. The military man smiled.
"He's been a real asshole and he needs a GOOD one ... but
remember what I said: don't hurt him an' not too much sleaze
either, or you'll answer to ME."
Andre hastily assured Master that I would be returned to him
intact, albeit properly punished for my misbehavior.
"Good," Master said; "where should I put him?" Andre
gestured toward the bare ground at his feet and Master shifted
the view to follow. "Okay," Master said; "in a minute." He typed
a few keys and the screen view disappeared; turning to me, he
said, "Okay, fuckface, you're in fer it now.
"It's about 1872 an' yer gonna spend some time in the French
Foreign Legion prison camp at Colomb-Bechar, out in the Algerian
desert; a two-year sentence to this hellhole was regarded as the
equivalent of death--it's about one-twenny in the shade raht naow
an' there's a lotta triggerhappy muthaFUCKahs aroun'. Andre
there's what they called a `sous-officier,' a low-rank noncom ...
an' a SICK fucker, too; he likes whippin' an' fuckin' his
prisoners a lot an' yer JUST his type. We'll see how much ya like
time trips after THIS one, eh boy?" He leered at me and typed a
few keys; I felt a momentary tingling and then a sudden flip-flop
in the pit of my stomach ...
And then it was hot--VERY hot.
* * *
Master wasn't kidding about the heat: although it seemed to
be fairly early in the morning it was already blisteringly hot.
Trying to understand what people were saying (there's a big
difference between the 1980s French I know and the French spoken
at that camp) while at the same time lightheaded and confused
from the heat was almost impossible; a lot of the time I could
only make an educated guess at what they wanted me to do.
Most of the direct supervision of the prisoners was done not
by the guards but by "goums"--muscular, rifle-toting Arabs.
Although there was a higher echelon of officers at a camp a few
miles away, and Andre and three or four other officers (all of
whom carried whips) were close by if the situation called for
them, their presence was rarely needed: the goums really ran the
joint, one reason for that being that they were extremely
trigger-happy--I saw them shoot three prisoners during the
eighteen-odd hours I spent in the camp. Of course the goums
always told the officers that the prisoners had tried to escape,
and of course the camp rules said that doing that made the
"escapees" legal targets. One of the killed prisoners had in fact
tried to escape, but the other two had not--the goums shot out of
pure cussedness--and every time Andre left me to their anything-
but-tender mercies (which he did from time to time), I got really
scared.
Master apparently intended to scare the FUCK out of me, and
even though I knew he was watching every second of what was going
on and would yank me back to the present if anything seriously
threatening were to happen to me, I'm not ashamed to tell you
that I was indeed scared.
I spent the first two or three hours laying stark naked on
my belly with my hands and feet tied behind me in the crapudine
position. Someone had set up a canvas shade over me which kept
the direct sun off, but the ground was very hot and I squirmed
around a lot trying to keep my belly from being burned ... even
then I have blisters on my chest. Andre would drag me out into
the sun and shove his cock into my mouth now and then, and he
pissed on me once ... but it was mostly lie there and take the
heat, and moan louder than I normally would whenever Andre would
stroke me across the shoulders with a cat and demand, "Moan,
cretin!"
It must have been close to noon when one of the goums
finally hauled me out into the sun and untied the ropes. I was so
stiff and sore I couldn't stand for a few minutes--I had to sit
in the shade of the canvas to recover.
Finally I regained enough strength to be able to stand on my
own--and seeing this the goums grabbed me and dragged me over to
a large wagon-wheel and pushed me to the ground in front of it,
spreadeagled in the direct sun. The heat was almost overpowering.
I could see several of the prisoners through the spokes of the
wheel--a bunch of very browned, mean-looking guys with shaved
heads, wearing only jeans (and a few of them fronting hardons)--
and I could feel someone yanking my hairhandle and something
playing with my asshole ... and then something very hard and very
hot working its way in. And then the hand yanked my head around,
and I was face-to-face with Andre.
"So, this not-quite-a-man has misbehaved, eh?" he said--at
least, I think he said. "This boy has not followed orders and
must be punished like a man, eh? Well then, we will see to that.
Do you feel THAT, boy?" He reached around with his hand and gave
whatever it was that was in my ass a whack with his hand, and I
faintly murmured "Oui, Monsieur."
"Good," said Andre; "but do not wiggle too much, cretin,
because that rifle has a very light trigger ... You will do
exactly as I say and you will take your punishment like a man,
yes?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Good boy." He yanked my hairhandle, reached between my legs
and squeezed my nuts, and was gone ... for a moment.
Only for a moment. I heard the whirr of his whip in the air
and the crack of the whip. I flinched involuntarily at the crack
and at a puff of dust which rose from the hardpan next to my
right ear.
"Aha, my boy, you are moving; that is not acceptable. You
must be still--remember the trigger." SLASH! That one caught me
across the shoulder blades. I couldn't help it: it hurt so much I
screamed and shuddered.
"Huh," said Andre, " we have a problem here, do we not?:
this one cannot hold still and take it. But we do not want to
lose him to the gun, not quite yet." Two of the goums were
immediately beside me; they dragged me the few remaining steps to
the wagon wheel and lashed me to it. I felt a stab of pain in my
hole as whatever it was that was in it was yanked out.
Andre stripped off his shirt, unbuttoned his fly, and pulled
out his cock--a snaky, uncut thing that must have been at least a
foot long but very small in diameter. "Now," he said, "we will
give this one his due."
A whip crack and a hit--hard, right across the shoulder
blades. I shuddered and whimpered. Another hit, this time to the
back of the latissimus dorsi muscle, my favorite spot ... I
inhaled suddenly making a kind of a gasp, in reply to which Andre
grunted ... three or four more in the same place, irregularly
spaced. Andre stopped a moment, panting, walked up to me, fell on
me, pressed himself against me, whacked me upside the head and
told me to lift my hips, reached under me to feel my hard cock.
He stuck that snake of his between my legs and hugged and humped
me a few times, moaning softly and rubbing his head against mine,
and hearing my moaning and panting at the same time.
Suddenly he stood, backed off, and swung the whip again.
SLASH! Excellent aim and technique ... it caught me on the inside
of the left thigh, with the tip nicking the base of my nuts--hard
enough to sting and swat the nut but not quite hard enough to
open a wound. I didn't shake, I didn't shudder, I wasn't afraid
any longer, and none of that mattered anyhow; I let out a long
deep breath with voice, a sound of absolute ecstasy.
"Ah," said Andre. A couple of the goums stood on either side
of me (out of whip range) and began to slowly spin the wagonwheel
that I was lashed to. Andre started slowly whipping me again,
this time with a cat. I was in heaven, moaning and whimpering
softly, my dick hard and oozing precum ... and he apparently was
too.
"Ah yes my little one," he gasped out between strokes, "we
do indeed like this, don't we? Ah yes, we DO like this." His
voice broke a little on the "do." "Ah such a pity we have you for
so short a time, especially one who enjoys it so much."
Andre worked on me with the cat for another ten or fifteen
minutes as the goums slowly spun me around. He'd back off and
take a few strokes, then come up behind me and cuddle me, then
back off and swing again; his technique with the cat was as good
as his whipwork ... always just enough to keep me in a state of
ecstasy, never breaking the flow with too much or too little; I
must say that his technique is the best I have ever encountered.
(Forgive me, please, Sir; remember what you said about
"reportage.")
Finally he could take it no longer--he reached out to one
side, came up behind me again and played with my ass, then shoved
that snake of his in. It was so small that at first I didn't feel
it ... but it got very hard and straight and was soon almost like
a broomhandle up my ass. He grabbed my cock with one hand,
started beating me on the back of the lats with the open palm of
his other hand, and humped away furiously; it was only a few
seconds before both of us came.
* * *
Needless to say, there's a lot more, but my editor will kill
me if I get into it--this thing is already too long. Suffice it
to say that, as with the pirates, I was the camp plaything until
something like midnight; many of the guards, about ten of the
several hundred prisoners, and all of the goums had something
doing with me during that time. I suppose it was enjoyable, given
that I got off on the sexpain, but still there were those
triggerhappy clowns and the heat....
And I know one thing for sure: Master's gonna see THIS one
BEFORE I send it in!
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