I’ve been Mistress Princesca’s personal number-one slave for about two years now. She’s told me I am her favorite pet.
When I first came here, I was just one of the many slaves here. Or so I thought. I didn’t realize then that Mistress Princesca had special plans for me.
My first day here, I was scared and didn’t know what would happen. I only knew that I was naked, surrounded by a bunch of other naked men and that many of them walked around with striped butts in varying shades of red and purple. They all wore leather collars with a ring attached to the front. Some even had a leash that was held by either another man or, sometimes, a woman.
The women I saw all wore a flowing, gauzy, outfit. Some were in red and some were in white, but the style was the same for each. It was strapless, held up by elastic at the top, right above the breasts, and came down to about knee level at the bottom. At the waist was a belt, into which was tucked a lightweight leather crop with long knotted strips hanging from the end. It isn’t until you get close up that you realize the dress material is actually almost sheer —— so sheer that you could clearly see every line of their bodies, their nipples, and every hair on their pussies.
The outfit was designed, not only for comfort and to display their forms, but for easy access to their nude bodies beneath it. When a Mistress wants you to pay homage to her breasts, all she has to do is pull down her top to waist-level. And if it’s her pussy or ass she wants you to kiss or even —— if you’re very lucky —— to use your tongue on, then she simply needs to lift the skirt and tuck it up into her belt.
You can always tell a Mistress from a Novice by the color of their outfits. All the Mistresses wear red and the Novices wear white.
Trainers —— slaves who are a step above the rest, in that they were groomed to train the regular slaves in their duties to a Mistress —— wear a blue collar. They also wear a belt, which has a small pouch hanging down over the hip. The pouch contains a small tape recorder into which they dictate their daily journals, keeping track of the progress of their assigned slave trainee. Every day, one of the Mistresses reviews the journal and decides what disciplinary measure to take that will ensure that that slave continues to move forward at an acceptable pace.
Every slave here may be used —— sexually or otherwise —— by any Mistress or Novice. Even a visiting Mistress may choose any of the slaves to pleasure her during her stay here at the Compound. Any slave, that is, except for those slaves who wear a red collar. My collar is red, because I’m the personal body slave of a Mistress. My body, my heart, my soul is the exclusive property of my beloved Mistress, Princesca.
Now back to when I first arrived here: I’ve always been submissive, although I didn’t act like it or even realize it until maybe three years ago. That’s when I first found out that there were actually people living this lifestyle. I always had my fantasies, which I kept secret from everyone, even my girlfriends. They relied on me to make the decisions: where we’d go for dinner, which movie we’d see. How I longed to just be able to let go and follow. I didn’t want to be the leader. I didn’t want to always have to make the first move, whether it was asking for a date, or doing all the work when it came to seducing a woman into bed.
I wanted to be seduced. Not just once in a while, but always. Every time. Every day. And more than that, I wanted a strong woman to force me, to make me do things that I couldn’t even imagine doing back then. I desperately wanted to be controlled by a powerful woman.
But, like I said, I never knew it happened in real life. It was just my secret fantasy.
Until, that is, the day I overheard somebody mention a one-day convention. A bondage exposition. Bondage? The word made me think of “Masters” and their “slave-girls.” But I didn’t want to be a Master! Of course, I had heard about “Dominatrixes” but I thought you had to pay them big bucks just to have them whip you bloody and call you names. I didn’t want that! I wanted to be held down and rendered helpless. I wanted to be “forced” to accept what I secretly wanted. And I wanted sex. Lots and lots of sex.
But here was my opportunity and I couldn’t not go. I found out where and when the exposition was being held, and I told myself I would just go down there to look around a little. So I pulled together every last bit of my courage and I went.
As I walked in the door, after paying the entrance fee, I saw maybe a hundred people already there. Most wore either black leather or, in some cases, rubber. Some, like me, were just dressed in denim. The convention hall was arranged kind of like a small indoor flea market. There were two avenues with booths on both sides. Each booth had someone selling his or her wares: hand-made whips, paddles, collars, and clothing. There were handcuffs and chains. Some booths were even selling weird-looking furniture, most of which looked like it was designed to display someone’s ass for, I suppose, a whipping.
At the far end of the hall was a stage. As I got there, a show was just starting. A woman, wearing a long sarong-type dress, was climbing the steps at the side of the stage. Two naked men whose demeanor appeared to be very meek and subservient followed her. She was holding two long dog-leashes, each of which was attached to the very erect cocks and balls of those two men.
When they reached the center of the stage, the woman pointed to this gymnastic pommel-horse kind of contraption next to her. It was made of dark, highly polished wood, with a thick, rounded, well-padded top. It was shorter than waist-high and was about a foot or so wide at the top. Attached to the bottom was a horizontal bar with two fur-lined wrist restraints.
As soon as she pointed to it, the first man bent over it, so that his ass, now way in the air, faced the audience. You could clearly see that although he was straining to arch his back and spread his legs as far apart as he could, there was a kind of practiced grace in the smooth, quick way he accomplished it.
The other man buckled this guy’s wrists to the bar at the bottom and then brought over a long pole that he slid lengthwise, from right to left, through the padded part of the pommel-horse, behind the guy’s raised-up knees —— so that the guy was in kind of like a fetal position, but on his stomach, with his arms stretched down and his knees at either side of the top of the pommel-horse and his wide-spread ass way up in the air. Last, the leash attached to his balls was pulled taut and attached to the hook on the middle of the bar, near the floor.
From where I stood right near the front of the stage, I had a pretty good view. I could see his dick and balls between his thighs. I could even see his asshole very clearly, especially since the guy had no hair there at all.
Now, I’m not gay. Not in the least. But throughout this, my cock had grown hard and was straining uncomfortably in my tight jeans. And by the time the second man finished getting the first man into position, my breathing had become very shallow, almost panting, and quite audible —— at least it seemed that way to my own ears.
The second man was now standing off to the side, facing us in a military “at-ease” position: his hands were clasped behind his back at waist-level, his elbows pointed outward, and his legs spread apart.
Then the woman began addressing the audience . . . .
(End of Part 1)
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