by whipmagic
Rites of Renewal
I am sitting in my cage. Not your typical puppy cage, but one made of heavy black steel bars. With industrial-grade rubber flooring, and secured by a sturdy padlock. Frank never does anything half-assed. I am left here just with my own thoughts. Can’t do anything else – my hands are securely fastened to the harness behind my back, my cock is in a chastity cage, and a rather filling plug locked inside my ass. A stinking motorcycle helmet filled with piss and shit is locked onto my head. I better get used to the smell, as Frank told me. Get ready for my training. The details of which I’m not sure of. His last words to me before he left me alone were that by the end of tonight I’ll be eating his shit with abandon. My training will start with a bang, whatever that means. My mind keeps wandering between the things that I imagine are to come, tonight and beyond, my relationship with Frank, and how I got myself into this purposeful predicament.
Yesterday afternoon I was working out in the exercise room together with Tyrone. Tyrone has been living with us for two years. After Frank and I bought our Bethesda home, we soon realized it was too big for us to keep up, as we are both busy professionals. He is an accountant at KPMG, I’m a physician at Walter Reed – I have always had a thing for muscular bodies. We found Tyrone through an ad that we placed in The Blade, offering free rent in exchange for help around the house. Nothing else implied; we just needed someone who wouldn’t have a problem mopping the dungeon floor. What sold Tyrone on the deal was that our exercise room with plenty of free weights and some cable machines would be available to him; and I was sold on him by the prospect of seeing his muscle-bound twenty-five year old body there hopefully more than just occasionally.
Most of the time I work out while Frank is still at work. Our schedules are quite irregular and sufficiently busy that I don’t want to waste much of our time together on an activity in which he hardly partakes. While alone in the gym, I usually work out in the nude. Soon Tyrone followed suit, and more often than not, he joined me when I exercised, offered to spot a weight for me, and we encouraged each other to work harder. Not a difficult proposition with such an inspiring training partner! And the motivation got more intense with time: soon he began to slap me across the chest with a braided rope, or tie my wrists to the barbell until the set was finished. And it got even better: eventually, Tyrone shoved his amazingly large cock into my mouth while I was pumping iron on the decline bench, or sat with his sculpted glutes on my face, making me work for every breath of air.
I was in just that position when Frank walked in. Tyrone quickly got up and I raised my head just to see a flash of surprise and bewilderment, perhaps even anger, on Frank’s face before he quickly left the room. It slowly dawned on me what a compromising position I had put myself in. I never considered my workouts with Tyrone cheating on Frank in any way; for me, they were just properly incentivized exercise, with an admittedly sexually charged view and feel, though. Now I began to seriously worry about how Frank would see what he just saw. I ended my workout prematurely and went upstairs to take a shower and cook dinner. Tyrone was obviously in a somewhat befuddled state as well. But then, what did he have to worry about? He can take on Frank any minute of the day if it came to that. And my thoughts were still vacillating between “I didn’t do anything wrong” and the impulse to plea on my knees with Frank to please forgive me.
For dinner I prepared a light spinach salad, pork chops stuffed with dried plums and apricots – one of Frank’s favorite dishes, even though he jokingly argues that pigs shouldn’t be eating pork – and a blueberry dessert soup. Served with a dry Riesling in the formal dining room. Frank likes it that way. Dinner time together is precious enough and should be celebrated. But that night, dinner conversation was laconic. He inquired about my schedule for the next few days – tomorrow is Saturday and I’m off for the weekend – and I asked him about the state of some office politics that he used to complain about – same old, same old. His mind was clearly somewhere else, and so was mine. After I cleared the table, he poured each of us a glass of Armagnac. “We need to talk.” “Yes, we need to talk,” I replied, yet the ensuing silence was as thick as the humid summer air outside, mosquitoes included.
After dinner, he told me to go downstairs to the dungeon and strip. I was puzzled as to what he had in mind, as neither he nor I seemed at all in the mood for play. I just couldn’t make sense of it. He came into the dungeon shortly thereafter and quickly put a chastity device on my cock and balls. Didn’t say anything. I presumed it was still about Tyrone. In a different context, I would have loved to wear the thing for him, as I used to do a lot some years ago, but now it just didn’t feel right. The he told me to get into the steel cage. He gave me a small bucket in case I had to relieve myself during the night, and locked the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” And with that he turned off the lights and left the dungeon. My thoughts drifted over the events of the day, and I still couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. Maybe fifteen minutes later, the lights went on again, and Frank reappeared with a pint-sized bottle. “In case you get thirsty. And I expect it to be empty by tomorrow morning. Have a good night”. I started to feel more at ease. I used to spend quite some time in this cage, shortly after Frank and I got together. But as our professional commitments grew, we had less time for that and now used it only occasionally, just coincidental to some other quick play in the dungeon. Now being back in the cage for the night I felt my submissive mindset returning. I reached for the bottle; it contained his piss. Ah, the good old days of water sports. I drank it quickly, and settled in for the night, with a vague, but growing sense of optimism that perhaps something good for my relationship with Frank may come out of this after all.
I woke up in the middle of the night to take a dump into the bucket. I was a bit taken aback by the vehemence of my bowel movements. I thought it was the dried fruits at dinner, but maybe not. I didn’t really care. I went back to sleep as well as I could in the confines of the cage and with the unmistakable stench of shit in the air. The next morning, Frank got me out of the cage, barely saying a word, and let me take my morning shower. He was wearing his leather shorts and boots, something he likes to wear around the house when he is in a relaxed and playful mood. But today he was anything but – there was an awkward, acerbic tension in the air. I put my black rubber apron on and started to fix breakfast. Just when I was about to break the fourth egg, Frank told me to hold it – “You are making breakfast just for me – I need your stomach empty.” This was odd, as I always make breakfast for the two of us when we have the luxury of sharing it together. But then, the whole situation was rather odd. And by now enough of my submissive genes had sprung back to live that I knew better than to question him on this.
“Now it’s time to talk,” Frank said with just a hint of apprehension in his stern voice, “and we’ll do it downstairs, on my terms.” Back in the dungeon he took my chastity device off and pulled a M95 gas mask over my head. With this one on, it’s still easy to talk. Then he strapped me securely into the steel-frame bondage chair, with my legs spread and cock and balls exposed. Fond memories came back, particularly of my nipple training in this chair. Back then, we did two-a-days, forty-five minutes each, for a month to firmly hardwire my cock to my nipples. Frank, in his usual methodical way, had worked out a progressive training plan with increasingly more painful clamps, heavier weights, added electrical stimulation, stinging nettles, and just about anything else that would help us achieve our goal. During the morning sessions, he always brought me close to climax, but never let me cum. On went the chastity device for the day, and at the end of the evening sessions I was finally rewarded in due course. And in his zeal for perfection in discipline, he had the entire training plan posted at the dungeon door from day one, and never departed from its literal prescriptions even once, although he artfully adjusted details of the implementation such that my training was optimized. Now that I was back in the chair, the first thing he reached for was the nipple leash. It is our most severe nipple toy: Industrial-grade firmly spring-loaded clamps, connected by a heavy chain, with two pairs of holes drilled through each of them. Once the clamps are on, he pushes hypodermic needles through the holes and nipples in between, securing the clamps by temporary piercings. No way that they can slip off any more, no matter how hard he pulls and tugs or twists. When Frank pushed the needles through this time, it hurt more than usual. Perhaps he had to dig around more to find the exit holes, as he was out of practice, or I wasn’t used to this kind of pain any more. But I didn’t seem to care – I instinctively remembered the old training and my cock went rock hard in an instant.
Frank looked me into the eyes through the gas mask “How do you think our relationship is going?” “Ok, I think,” I answered somewhat hesitantly. I didn’t want to make any mistake. Frank still meant a lot to me, and as volatile as the situation appeared, I just didn’t want to take a risk. Once more, he asked “Do you think we are doing well as a couple?” and I stammered something about perhaps trying to find more time for each other. “This isn’t very productive – let’s deal with the other issue first”, he said. Not productive – we have barely talked two sentences. I know how impatient he can be, but such a short attention span? And the other issue? “I did not appreciate one bit seeing you tied to the bench and barbell yesterday, with Tyrone on your face. I am your lover – he is not, and these boundaries have to be clear.” With that, he pulled firmly on my nipple leash. Ah, that’s where he is coming from. “I like you to continue your workouts with Tyrone; I like your body strong and well-toned. But we have to put a few rules in place. Your holes, cock and balls are mine. To ensure that, you’ll be in chastity, have a plug locked in, and wear a locked gas mask hood at all times when working out with Tyrone. As long as that’s in place, he can give you all the motivation he wants. Is that clear?” And he pulled hard on the nipple leash again. My cock sprung to live. “Yes, Sir!” I answered. “I’m glad to see the old instincts are still there. And just that you remember, and for your infractions…” he tried to kick me into the exposed balls. Being in the bondage chair, that wasn’t easy or effective, in fact, almost comical. It brought a brief smile – or was it a smirk? – to my face and I thought I saw something similar in his. If that’s all I get for my play with Tyrone, I got off easy, I thought. And Frank is usually very good at putting matters behind him quickly, so I hoped that may have been it. And thinking of my new gym outfit made horny, to be sure, no real punishment there. But I was too quick with that thought – Frank’s fist came down hard on my balls, and I screamed in agony.
After a brief pause, he looked me into the eyes again. “We need to work through the underlying issue of our relationship. Let’s see if we can make the start of that conversation a little easier on both us.” He fetched a bong, and soon my gas mask was filled with sweet smoke. Through the haze I thought I spied him taking a hit as well. We usually don’t smoke, so I figured he got it from Tyrone. Then he started talking. “First of all, my apologies. I haven’t been as good a lover as I could have been. I was so busy making partner at my firm that I forgot that I had a partner at home. I love you very much, and nothing can change that.” It was reassuring to hear that – I certainly hadn’t expected a mea culpa – and I started to relax a bit; I wasn’t sure though whether this was due to his words or whether the weed that started to have its effects. “We will make this work, boy, I swear we will make this work.” And he grabbed my nipple leash again. “But you got to tell me what’s on your mind.” As he pulled harder on the leash, it was like he had broken through something in me and I burbled out everything. From how much I love him, to how disappointing our sex and play has been lately – hardly more than a fuck in bondage during the week, maybe a little more on the weekend – my frustration with how often I had made dinner for us and he didn’t come home because something kept him at the office all evening, or my feelings of guilt every time I had been called in to work on a weekend and couldn’t be with him. And how great things used to be years ago – when I felt that I belonged to him, that I genuinely served him, and of course all the great sex, play, and training in the dungeon. And how badly I want to go back to that magic.
Once it was all out, I was exhausted, and in tears. He leant over to me and whispered in my ear “We will make the magic happen again,” and then, after a pregnant pause “But on my terms.” What the latter meant was not obvious to me in my somewhat confused state, and as emotionally exhausted as I was, I didn’t ponder it any further. “How did you like it when Tyrone was sitting on your face?” – Shit, I thought, he still isn’t over this… I didn’t respond. “Did you eat his ass?” he demanded. I barely managed a “no.” “Would you have liked to?” “Uhhm, yes,” I confessed somewhat belatedly. “Will you eat my ass?” – now that didn’t make any sense to me. I have eaten Frank’s ass so often, and it’s still one of the things we occasionally do in bed. Don’t even have to go to the dungeon for that. Frank re-lit the bong and took another hit. “I mean, going all the way?” Then he blurted it out: “I want you to be my shit slave!” A brief pause. “Do you want to be my shit slave?” I was stunned, but instinctively responded with a proper “Yes, Sir!” “Then say it!” he demanded, gripping my pierced nipple clamps and twisting them brutally hard. “Yes, Sir, I want to be your shit slave, Sir!” I yelled out. Then I saw a big smile on his face as he took my gas mask off and gave me a deep kiss, while I blissfully enjoyed the moment, including the small trickle of blood that was running down my chest.
The wrap-up was quick: He removed the nipple clamps and needles, put two band-aids across the wounds, untied me from the chair, and put me in a rubber harness with butt plug and chastity device. Hands secured to the back of the harness. He took the bucket with my shit from the puppy cage, pissed into it, and then dumped it all into an old motorcycle helmet with blacked-out visor. The stinky contraption went over my head quickly, and was secured with a lock. Finally he shoved me back into the cage. “Enjoy the smell – you better get used to it. And tonight, we’ll start your training. With a bang – you’ll be gulping down my shit with abandon.”
So I am sitting in my cage now, contemplating these latest developments. Never in a million years would I have guessed that this is what Frank wants. Even though I’m still not sure what this exactly is. Eating his shit will be involved for sure. But how, how much, how often, and what else this may entail? I have no clue. But just thinking about all the possibilities gets my cock stirring in its chastity cage. Perhaps Frank will make a training plan for me again and post it on the dungeon door. A meal plan, so to speak. I take a deep breath – I better get used to the smell. The taste will come soon enough. On occasion I had fantasies of serving Frank like that, but I relegated them to just that realm: fantasies, fantasies that perhaps better just stayed fantasies. And now they are coming true. On his terms. I try to relax a little as the hours go by, but it’s difficult with all the anxiety and diffuse yet exciting expectations in the air – not to mention the stink from my helmet.
I hear the dungeon door open and close a few times, and then the noise of Frank rummaging through our toys. Then he opens the cage, lets me out, and unties my wrists. Hands me the key to unlock the helmet, and tells me to take it off and put it in a large plastic storage pail. “You’ll be wearing this helmet a lot – no need to waste good shit”. As I wipe some shit off my face, I can see that Frank is wearing the motorcycle racing leather suit that he custom-ordered a year ago. It has easy access in the front and back, and a rather peculiar color scheme – black with blue and brown accents that I didn’t pay attention to at the time. My rubber harness with the plug and chastity device comes off quickly. He is cautious not to get his hands dirty on any of the shit residues. He hands me the plug back: “Lick it clean – you better get used to the taste.” I had done this a few times before – always disgusting, but quite doable. Then he hands me the Russian gas mask that we had modified with a three-quarter inch PVC feeding tube gag, right into my mouth. It was our favorite water sports toy back when, apparently now about to be put to new use. It’s a wonderful device that prevents me from speaking and lets me focus entirely on swallowing instead. Although I can’t quite figure out how he will get shit down such a narrow tube. No need to wonder, though, as he now pulls out his cock from under the codpiece of his leathers and pisses into a large zip-lock bag that contains a substantial turd. And grinds it all together inside the bag into a liquid shit-shake. Now the pieces of his plan are falling into place – at least in my mind. He beckons me over to the rubber bondage sling, puts rubber bondage mitts on me, and straps me tightly into the sling. A head harness secures my gas-masked head in place. He stands with his semi-erect cock right behind the sling, next to my exposed hole, and puts the finishing touches on the set-up: a large funnel with hose and clamp is attached to my feeding mask, and the shit-shake poured into it. Ok, now it’s clear what I’m supposed to do once the clamp is released – but gulping this down with greedy abandon? I still can’t see it happening.
Then I see him out of the corner of my eyes picking up something from the table behind him. Not quite sure what it is, but it’s certainly not in the script that’s developing in my mind. “You’re going to get an elastrator band around your balls. That’s how they castrate sheep.” This is sheer terror, and I’m panicking. He quickly reaches for a bottle of poppers, and puts a drenched cotton ball into the gas mask filter. I get a quick high, and he pulls on my balls and skillfully places the rubber band around them. The pain is intense, followed by a dull ache as if I had just been severely kicked into the nuts. As the poppers wore off, the panic returned, worse than before. I was defenseless: I couldn’t speak with the tube in my mouth, and the bondage sling is inescapable, as I knew from previous experiences in which he raped me mercilessly with ever bigger implements to get my hole ready for a fist. And I couldn’t figure out why this is happening in the first place. We never talked about this, and I certainly don’t want to lose my balls. Did I misunderstand his demands for chastity earlier, his remarks that my balls are his, or is it punishment for Tyrone? If so, he is out of his mind. Crazy. But there is nothing I can do about it now. Or is this in his mind just part of turning me into a shit slave, with a bang, mind you? After all, toilets don’t have or need balls.
Six hours without blood and my balls are going to die. If you’re unlucky, the damage is done in as little as fifteen minutes. And the pain is extreme, probably the worst way to lose your balls. And yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Then Frank chimes in, piercing trough my panicked thoughts: “The band stays on until you finish your shit shake. You are now becoming my shit slave – swallow fast to save your balls!” Panic turns into sheer ecstasy. Drinking this big bag full of shit and piss was a small price to pay for saving my nuts. I pray that Frank opens the clamp quickly, to get started gulping everything down as fast as possible. Frank replenishes the poppers in my gas mask, takes the clamp off the hose, but pinching it shut with his fingers. He looks me deeply into my eyes, says “Go boy!” rams his cock brutally into my hole – unlubed – and lets go of the hose. I am now his shit slave.
Rites of Renewal
I am sitting in my cage. Not your typical puppy cage, but one made of heavy black steel bars. With industrial-grade rubber flooring, and secured by a sturdy padlock. Frank never does anything half-assed. I am left here just with my own thoughts. Can’t do anything else – my hands are securely fastened to the harness behind my back, my cock is in a chastity cage, and a rather filling plug locked inside my ass. A stinking motorcycle helmet filled with piss and shit is locked onto my head. I better get used to the smell, as Frank told me. Get ready for my training. The details of which I’m not sure of. His last words to me before he left me alone were that by the end of tonight I’ll be eating his shit with abandon. My training will start with a bang, whatever that means. My mind keeps wandering between the things that I imagine are to come, tonight and beyond, my relationship with Frank, and how I got myself into this purposeful predicament.
Yesterday afternoon I was working out in the exercise room together with Tyrone. Tyrone has been living with us for two years. After Frank and I bought our Bethesda home, we soon realized it was too big for us to keep up, as we are both busy professionals. He is an accountant at KPMG, I’m a physician at Walter Reed – I have always had a thing for muscular bodies. We found Tyrone through an ad that we placed in The Blade, offering free rent in exchange for help around the house. Nothing else implied; we just needed someone who wouldn’t have a problem mopping the dungeon floor. What sold Tyrone on the deal was that our exercise room with plenty of free weights and some cable machines would be available to him; and I was sold on him by the prospect of seeing his muscle-bound twenty-five year old body there hopefully more than just occasionally.
Most of the time I work out while Frank is still at work. Our schedules are quite irregular and sufficiently busy that I don’t want to waste much of our time together on an activity in which he hardly partakes. While alone in the gym, I usually work out in the nude. Soon Tyrone followed suit, and more often than not, he joined me when I exercised, offered to spot a weight for me, and we encouraged each other to work harder. Not a difficult proposition with such an inspiring training partner! And the motivation got more intense with time: soon he began to slap me across the chest with a braided rope, or tie my wrists to the barbell until the set was finished. And it got even better: eventually, Tyrone shoved his amazingly large cock into my mouth while I was pumping iron on the decline bench, or sat with his sculpted glutes on my face, making me work for every breath of air.
I was in just that position when Frank walked in. Tyrone quickly got up and I raised my head just to see a flash of surprise and bewilderment, perhaps even anger, on Frank’s face before he quickly left the room. It slowly dawned on me what a compromising position I had put myself in. I never considered my workouts with Tyrone cheating on Frank in any way; for me, they were just properly incentivized exercise, with an admittedly sexually charged view and feel, though. Now I began to seriously worry about how Frank would see what he just saw. I ended my workout prematurely and went upstairs to take a shower and cook dinner. Tyrone was obviously in a somewhat befuddled state as well. But then, what did he have to worry about? He can take on Frank any minute of the day if it came to that. And my thoughts were still vacillating between “I didn’t do anything wrong” and the impulse to plea on my knees with Frank to please forgive me.
For dinner I prepared a light spinach salad, pork chops stuffed with dried plums and apricots – one of Frank’s favorite dishes, even though he jokingly argues that pigs shouldn’t be eating pork – and a blueberry dessert soup. Served with a dry Riesling in the formal dining room. Frank likes it that way. Dinner time together is precious enough and should be celebrated. But that night, dinner conversation was laconic. He inquired about my schedule for the next few days – tomorrow is Saturday and I’m off for the weekend – and I asked him about the state of some office politics that he used to complain about – same old, same old. His mind was clearly somewhere else, and so was mine. After I cleared the table, he poured each of us a glass of Armagnac. “We need to talk.” “Yes, we need to talk,” I replied, yet the ensuing silence was as thick as the humid summer air outside, mosquitoes included.
After dinner, he told me to go downstairs to the dungeon and strip. I was puzzled as to what he had in mind, as neither he nor I seemed at all in the mood for play. I just couldn’t make sense of it. He came into the dungeon shortly thereafter and quickly put a chastity device on my cock and balls. Didn’t say anything. I presumed it was still about Tyrone. In a different context, I would have loved to wear the thing for him, as I used to do a lot some years ago, but now it just didn’t feel right. The he told me to get into the steel cage. He gave me a small bucket in case I had to relieve myself during the night, and locked the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” And with that he turned off the lights and left the dungeon. My thoughts drifted over the events of the day, and I still couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. Maybe fifteen minutes later, the lights went on again, and Frank reappeared with a pint-sized bottle. “In case you get thirsty. And I expect it to be empty by tomorrow morning. Have a good night”. I started to feel more at ease. I used to spend quite some time in this cage, shortly after Frank and I got together. But as our professional commitments grew, we had less time for that and now used it only occasionally, just coincidental to some other quick play in the dungeon. Now being back in the cage for the night I felt my submissive mindset returning. I reached for the bottle; it contained his piss. Ah, the good old days of water sports. I drank it quickly, and settled in for the night, with a vague, but growing sense of optimism that perhaps something good for my relationship with Frank may come out of this after all.
I woke up in the middle of the night to take a dump into the bucket. I was a bit taken aback by the vehemence of my bowel movements. I thought it was the dried fruits at dinner, but maybe not. I didn’t really care. I went back to sleep as well as I could in the confines of the cage and with the unmistakable stench of shit in the air. The next morning, Frank got me out of the cage, barely saying a word, and let me take my morning shower. He was wearing his leather shorts and boots, something he likes to wear around the house when he is in a relaxed and playful mood. But today he was anything but – there was an awkward, acerbic tension in the air. I put my black rubber apron on and started to fix breakfast. Just when I was about to break the fourth egg, Frank told me to hold it – “You are making breakfast just for me – I need your stomach empty.” This was odd, as I always make breakfast for the two of us when we have the luxury of sharing it together. But then, the whole situation was rather odd. And by now enough of my submissive genes had sprung back to live that I knew better than to question him on this.
“Now it’s time to talk,” Frank said with just a hint of apprehension in his stern voice, “and we’ll do it downstairs, on my terms.” Back in the dungeon he took my chastity device off and pulled a M95 gas mask over my head. With this one on, it’s still easy to talk. Then he strapped me securely into the steel-frame bondage chair, with my legs spread and cock and balls exposed. Fond memories came back, particularly of my nipple training in this chair. Back then, we did two-a-days, forty-five minutes each, for a month to firmly hardwire my cock to my nipples. Frank, in his usual methodical way, had worked out a progressive training plan with increasingly more painful clamps, heavier weights, added electrical stimulation, stinging nettles, and just about anything else that would help us achieve our goal. During the morning sessions, he always brought me close to climax, but never let me cum. On went the chastity device for the day, and at the end of the evening sessions I was finally rewarded in due course. And in his zeal for perfection in discipline, he had the entire training plan posted at the dungeon door from day one, and never departed from its literal prescriptions even once, although he artfully adjusted details of the implementation such that my training was optimized. Now that I was back in the chair, the first thing he reached for was the nipple leash. It is our most severe nipple toy: Industrial-grade firmly spring-loaded clamps, connected by a heavy chain, with two pairs of holes drilled through each of them. Once the clamps are on, he pushes hypodermic needles through the holes and nipples in between, securing the clamps by temporary piercings. No way that they can slip off any more, no matter how hard he pulls and tugs or twists. When Frank pushed the needles through this time, it hurt more than usual. Perhaps he had to dig around more to find the exit holes, as he was out of practice, or I wasn’t used to this kind of pain any more. But I didn’t seem to care – I instinctively remembered the old training and my cock went rock hard in an instant.
Frank looked me into the eyes through the gas mask “How do you think our relationship is going?” “Ok, I think,” I answered somewhat hesitantly. I didn’t want to make any mistake. Frank still meant a lot to me, and as volatile as the situation appeared, I just didn’t want to take a risk. Once more, he asked “Do you think we are doing well as a couple?” and I stammered something about perhaps trying to find more time for each other. “This isn’t very productive – let’s deal with the other issue first”, he said. Not productive – we have barely talked two sentences. I know how impatient he can be, but such a short attention span? And the other issue? “I did not appreciate one bit seeing you tied to the bench and barbell yesterday, with Tyrone on your face. I am your lover – he is not, and these boundaries have to be clear.” With that, he pulled firmly on my nipple leash. Ah, that’s where he is coming from. “I like you to continue your workouts with Tyrone; I like your body strong and well-toned. But we have to put a few rules in place. Your holes, cock and balls are mine. To ensure that, you’ll be in chastity, have a plug locked in, and wear a locked gas mask hood at all times when working out with Tyrone. As long as that’s in place, he can give you all the motivation he wants. Is that clear?” And he pulled hard on the nipple leash again. My cock sprung to live. “Yes, Sir!” I answered. “I’m glad to see the old instincts are still there. And just that you remember, and for your infractions…” he tried to kick me into the exposed balls. Being in the bondage chair, that wasn’t easy or effective, in fact, almost comical. It brought a brief smile – or was it a smirk? – to my face and I thought I saw something similar in his. If that’s all I get for my play with Tyrone, I got off easy, I thought. And Frank is usually very good at putting matters behind him quickly, so I hoped that may have been it. And thinking of my new gym outfit made horny, to be sure, no real punishment there. But I was too quick with that thought – Frank’s fist came down hard on my balls, and I screamed in agony.
After a brief pause, he looked me into the eyes again. “We need to work through the underlying issue of our relationship. Let’s see if we can make the start of that conversation a little easier on both us.” He fetched a bong, and soon my gas mask was filled with sweet smoke. Through the haze I thought I spied him taking a hit as well. We usually don’t smoke, so I figured he got it from Tyrone. Then he started talking. “First of all, my apologies. I haven’t been as good a lover as I could have been. I was so busy making partner at my firm that I forgot that I had a partner at home. I love you very much, and nothing can change that.” It was reassuring to hear that – I certainly hadn’t expected a mea culpa – and I started to relax a bit; I wasn’t sure though whether this was due to his words or whether the weed that started to have its effects. “We will make this work, boy, I swear we will make this work.” And he grabbed my nipple leash again. “But you got to tell me what’s on your mind.” As he pulled harder on the leash, it was like he had broken through something in me and I burbled out everything. From how much I love him, to how disappointing our sex and play has been lately – hardly more than a fuck in bondage during the week, maybe a little more on the weekend – my frustration with how often I had made dinner for us and he didn’t come home because something kept him at the office all evening, or my feelings of guilt every time I had been called in to work on a weekend and couldn’t be with him. And how great things used to be years ago – when I felt that I belonged to him, that I genuinely served him, and of course all the great sex, play, and training in the dungeon. And how badly I want to go back to that magic.
Once it was all out, I was exhausted, and in tears. He leant over to me and whispered in my ear “We will make the magic happen again,” and then, after a pregnant pause “But on my terms.” What the latter meant was not obvious to me in my somewhat confused state, and as emotionally exhausted as I was, I didn’t ponder it any further. “How did you like it when Tyrone was sitting on your face?” – Shit, I thought, he still isn’t over this… I didn’t respond. “Did you eat his ass?” he demanded. I barely managed a “no.” “Would you have liked to?” “Uhhm, yes,” I confessed somewhat belatedly. “Will you eat my ass?” – now that didn’t make any sense to me. I have eaten Frank’s ass so often, and it’s still one of the things we occasionally do in bed. Don’t even have to go to the dungeon for that. Frank re-lit the bong and took another hit. “I mean, going all the way?” Then he blurted it out: “I want you to be my shit slave!” A brief pause. “Do you want to be my shit slave?” I was stunned, but instinctively responded with a proper “Yes, Sir!” “Then say it!” he demanded, gripping my pierced nipple clamps and twisting them brutally hard. “Yes, Sir, I want to be your shit slave, Sir!” I yelled out. Then I saw a big smile on his face as he took my gas mask off and gave me a deep kiss, while I blissfully enjoyed the moment, including the small trickle of blood that was running down my chest.
The wrap-up was quick: He removed the nipple clamps and needles, put two band-aids across the wounds, untied me from the chair, and put me in a rubber harness with butt plug and chastity device. Hands secured to the back of the harness. He took the bucket with my shit from the puppy cage, pissed into it, and then dumped it all into an old motorcycle helmet with blacked-out visor. The stinky contraption went over my head quickly, and was secured with a lock. Finally he shoved me back into the cage. “Enjoy the smell – you better get used to it. And tonight, we’ll start your training. With a bang – you’ll be gulping down my shit with abandon.”
So I am sitting in my cage now, contemplating these latest developments. Never in a million years would I have guessed that this is what Frank wants. Even though I’m still not sure what this exactly is. Eating his shit will be involved for sure. But how, how much, how often, and what else this may entail? I have no clue. But just thinking about all the possibilities gets my cock stirring in its chastity cage. Perhaps Frank will make a training plan for me again and post it on the dungeon door. A meal plan, so to speak. I take a deep breath – I better get used to the smell. The taste will come soon enough. On occasion I had fantasies of serving Frank like that, but I relegated them to just that realm: fantasies, fantasies that perhaps better just stayed fantasies. And now they are coming true. On his terms. I try to relax a little as the hours go by, but it’s difficult with all the anxiety and diffuse yet exciting expectations in the air – not to mention the stink from my helmet.
I hear the dungeon door open and close a few times, and then the noise of Frank rummaging through our toys. Then he opens the cage, lets me out, and unties my wrists. Hands me the key to unlock the helmet, and tells me to take it off and put it in a large plastic storage pail. “You’ll be wearing this helmet a lot – no need to waste good shit”. As I wipe some shit off my face, I can see that Frank is wearing the motorcycle racing leather suit that he custom-ordered a year ago. It has easy access in the front and back, and a rather peculiar color scheme – black with blue and brown accents that I didn’t pay attention to at the time. My rubber harness with the plug and chastity device comes off quickly. He is cautious not to get his hands dirty on any of the shit residues. He hands me the plug back: “Lick it clean – you better get used to the taste.” I had done this a few times before – always disgusting, but quite doable. Then he hands me the Russian gas mask that we had modified with a three-quarter inch PVC feeding tube gag, right into my mouth. It was our favorite water sports toy back when, apparently now about to be put to new use. It’s a wonderful device that prevents me from speaking and lets me focus entirely on swallowing instead. Although I can’t quite figure out how he will get shit down such a narrow tube. No need to wonder, though, as he now pulls out his cock from under the codpiece of his leathers and pisses into a large zip-lock bag that contains a substantial turd. And grinds it all together inside the bag into a liquid shit-shake. Now the pieces of his plan are falling into place – at least in my mind. He beckons me over to the rubber bondage sling, puts rubber bondage mitts on me, and straps me tightly into the sling. A head harness secures my gas-masked head in place. He stands with his semi-erect cock right behind the sling, next to my exposed hole, and puts the finishing touches on the set-up: a large funnel with hose and clamp is attached to my feeding mask, and the shit-shake poured into it. Ok, now it’s clear what I’m supposed to do once the clamp is released – but gulping this down with greedy abandon? I still can’t see it happening.
Then I see him out of the corner of my eyes picking up something from the table behind him. Not quite sure what it is, but it’s certainly not in the script that’s developing in my mind. “You’re going to get an elastrator band around your balls. That’s how they castrate sheep.” This is sheer terror, and I’m panicking. He quickly reaches for a bottle of poppers, and puts a drenched cotton ball into the gas mask filter. I get a quick high, and he pulls on my balls and skillfully places the rubber band around them. The pain is intense, followed by a dull ache as if I had just been severely kicked into the nuts. As the poppers wore off, the panic returned, worse than before. I was defenseless: I couldn’t speak with the tube in my mouth, and the bondage sling is inescapable, as I knew from previous experiences in which he raped me mercilessly with ever bigger implements to get my hole ready for a fist. And I couldn’t figure out why this is happening in the first place. We never talked about this, and I certainly don’t want to lose my balls. Did I misunderstand his demands for chastity earlier, his remarks that my balls are his, or is it punishment for Tyrone? If so, he is out of his mind. Crazy. But there is nothing I can do about it now. Or is this in his mind just part of turning me into a shit slave, with a bang, mind you? After all, toilets don’t have or need balls.
Six hours without blood and my balls are going to die. If you’re unlucky, the damage is done in as little as fifteen minutes. And the pain is extreme, probably the worst way to lose your balls. And yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Then Frank chimes in, piercing trough my panicked thoughts: “The band stays on until you finish your shit shake. You are now becoming my shit slave – swallow fast to save your balls!” Panic turns into sheer ecstasy. Drinking this big bag full of shit and piss was a small price to pay for saving my nuts. I pray that Frank opens the clamp quickly, to get started gulping everything down as fast as possible. Frank replenishes the poppers in my gas mask, takes the clamp off the hose, but pinching it shut with his fingers. He looks me deeply into my eyes, says “Go boy!” rams his cock brutally into my hole – unlubed – and lets go of the hose. I am now his shit slave.