The Adult Story Hub

This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration.
By Jim Buttler (jimbuttler@yahoo.com)


What had I been thinking?

It was suddenly clear that this whole thing was insane, and I made a desperate attempt to remove the manacles from my wrists and ankles. She was still putting padlocks on my wrists, and when I tried to wrench my arms free her reaction was swift and vicious. She reached between my legs and grabbed my exposed testicles and squeezed hard. And with her other hand she took a full swing and slapped me across the face as hard as she could. I tasted blood in my mouth and I groaned with the pain in my balls.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to do this anymore!” I was doubled over and begging and she didn’t even twitch as she crushed me in her grip.

“You signed a slave contract, you fool. There is no way out. You know that, and I’m surprised you’re trying to welsh so quickly. The ink isn’t even dry on the paper!”

Pursuing my perverted fantasies, I’d found her on the Internet and convinced her to own me. I’d been so proud, because so many other men had applied for this position. Eventually, after much discussion between us, we’d agreed that I would become her slave. The contract I had signed placed no restrictions on the length of my slavery, or the manner of her ownership. We’d both agreed that if there were restrictions, then there wasn’t true ownership. Owners could do anything they wanted with their property.

It had all seemed so logical and exciting, and she had seemed so beautiful and awesome, and it wasn’t until she was locking me into the manacles that I realized – truly realized – what I was doing. Seconds before that I had signed the contract granting her total ownership of myself. Anticipating future legal questioning, I had scrawled the following mea culpa: “I am signing this because slavery is what I want more than anything in the world. And I want it to be permanent. I am hereby attesting that no matter what I say in the future, no matter how much I beg for freedom, I am only playacting out my fantasies, and I really do not ever want to be released.”

What a stupid naive fool I am.

“Are you done struggling?” Her question was matter-of-fact and calm. Fighting back tears and groans, I nodded my head yes. Anything to relieve the pain.

Moments later, all manacles were locked, and my arms were pulled behind me and locked together with another padlock. Then she stepped back and surveyed me, her new possession.

“You damn stupid fool. It suddenly dawned on you, didn’t it, that you’ve made a huge mistake? Well you got that right, moron. Yes, you sure have. You have given me yourself completely, and there is no turning back. This isn’t your fantasy we’re about to live. Sorry about that. This is slavery – brutal, abject, miserable slavery. And you volunteered.”

Walking to a small table, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and lit herself a smoke.

“Let me tell you how it’s gonna be for you,” she said, blowing smoke into my face. “For the first week, you’ll be just as you are – naked, ankles chained together, and hands locked behind your back. I’ll be abusing you almost continuously, until you’re a broken, bleeding, sobbing shell of what you used to be. I may even bring in help so my whipping arm doesn’t get too tired.”

I stood horrified, listening to this.

“At the end of a week, your hands will be released from behind your back. They’ll be sore and numb from the long restriction, and the manacles will still be on your wrists, but you’ll start serving me then. And you will do anything and everything I say, because if you don’t you’ll go back to punishment mode and you won’t want that, trust me.

“You’ll eat my shit if I tell you to after that first week.”

I was now petrified. This was not the erotic sexual fantasy I’ve always dreamed about. This was a nightmare.

“This is your nightmare,” she said, as if reading my mind, “but by the end of a month, you’ll be that perfect slave you’ve always wanted to be. And then I’ll sell you.”

I stared at her in shock.

“I have a sixty-year-old Greek widow who liked your picture and is waiting for you to be ready. She’s fat and ugly, but she’s very rich, and is paying me very well to get you ready for your life of slavery.”

With that she laughed and walked out of the room. At least for the moment, I was left with my own thoughts and self-recriminations.

END