Satanic Slave II

Author: jasfrmn12
Title: Satanic Slave II
Date: 10 September 2010

Satanic Slave - Part 2

And thus began the longest 24 hours of my pathetic life.

As soon as he hung up the phone, I got dressed and walked over to where he
said to meet him tomorrow. Lucky fucking me: that monument was only a
10-minute walk from my apartment. I went to scope out the place, my dick
achingly hard and dripping, wanting it to already be the next day. I
eventually came back home, ate, and tried to watch TV. Yeah, like some
sit-com was going to pull my head away from the experience (maybe the
life?) about to begin. I kept wondering why I wasn't concerned about this
guy -- fuck, for all I knew he was a mass-murderer -- but I wasn't. I was
confident this wasn't bullshit.

The next day at work was spent mostly staring at the clock, trying to push
the minute hand forward. Finally it was time to get home and get ready.
And that began a whole new set of questions. Would he want me showered or
sweaty? In gear, in streetclothes, or as close to naked as possible? I
decided that if he didn't say, it didn't matter. I cleaned myself off,
cleaned myself out (just to be prepared), put on a pair of shorts, T-shirt,
and boots. It was 5:45.

I got to the monument just before 6. I took off my T-shirt and knelt at
the corner of the statue, at Hamilton's feet. I was tempted to look
around, to try to find him, but decided that I was better off just keeping
my head down like the subservient slave I was aching to become.

Moments later I heard a voice behind me. "Good little faggot."

The voice was deep, masculine, but it didn't sound quite like the guy I
spoke to last night. That got me a little concerned, but he then calmed
me: "No, bitchboy, I'm not the same guy. But we're all on the same team.
Nothing to worry about."

I then saw his engineer boots in front of me. Not some leatherboy's shiny
black play boots. Brown. Used. Dirty. The boots of a real working man.
I started wondering about the taste and smell of the feet inside.

His voice ended my conversation with myself. "I'm pleased to see a faggot
knows instinctively to look down, but now look straight ahead at my crotch,
bitchboy. And listen carefully to everything I'm about to say. Don't
speak. Just look and listen."

I lifted my head and found the fly of his jeans within millimeters of my
nose and lips. Daring me not to lick. Inhaling, I caught the whiff of his
pungent cum and piss. It was intoxicating. This guy was turing me into a
fucking junkie for his scent.

"I will explain the basic setup and offer the opportunity for a few
questions. Once that's done, there will be a few minutes for a decision.
And that decision, one way or the other, will be irreversible. Either move
ahead and find fulfillment, or walk away and spend the rest of your life
wishing you hadn't.

"We used to give cocksuckers a few months to get to know us, to get their
faggot heads wrapped around the concept, but that didn't work out well.
The bitches started falling in love with us instead of our cocks. Things
got messy and we quickly learned that the kind of fags we're looking for
were the ones who would have followed us from the get-go. So that's how we
do it now.

"And here's what we do:

"We're a bunch of straight men. Some of us are married, some divorced,
some with girlfriends, whatever. We love fuckin' pussy and tits. But most
women see sex as a means to intimacy ... and we enjoy sex as something more
primal and physical. And that's where faggots come in.

"Because, as you well know, although we men like to get our cocks sucked,
faggots NEED to suck dick. We like to be serviced, but faggots NEED to
please men. We like to get aggressive, a little rough, be pushy and
selfish, and faggots eat that shit up. So it works out perfectly ... the
little fagcunts are insatiable little suck- and fuck-toys that we use for
our pleasure. They get off on our pleasure as well. Everybody wins.

"We keep faggots locked in our facilities, 24/7, so that there's always a
hole to fuck should somebody want it. We have the tools to deepen a
cocksucker's submissiveness. And here's the first tool: faggots have no
identity. I don't know your fucking name. I don't want to know your
fucking name. If you follow through with this, `you' will no longer exist.
`You' will become `a faggot.' One of many faggots available for use.
Should there be permission to speak, any self-reference must follow that
rule. `A faggot is hungry,' for instance. Nod if I am understood."

I nodded, staring into his denim-covered crotch, seeing the thickness of
his meat and swallowing like mad to avoid drooling like some idiot.

"We take care of our faggots enough to keep them around long enough to make some use out of their holes. Ao that they're available for use. But
there's no intimacy, no affection. We don't give a fuck about faggots
except as servants and whores for our pleasure. We get out kicks from
their perversion, their depravity, their desperation. There is no fuckin'
limit to the kinds of humiliating abuse -- both physical and mental -- we
put some of our faggots through. But only some. After a faggot has been
properly broken in, we test each whorehole on a battery of specialized
talents. Among those is masochism. As is toilet training. As is ... well
... I'll just leave it at that for now. When we find a faggot excels at
some specialty, then that becomes a faggot's primary use.

"And as I said, we have learned how to deepen a faggot's submissiveness.
One of the deeper head-fucks we employ is in teaching a faggot to truly
worship cock. Answer this question, buttlick: Do you have a religion?"

"Sir, I was raised Catholic."

"I will take that to mean that there's no current belief in God. On the
one hand, that will make the process easier. On the other hand, some of us
get a perverse kick from watching some born-again cocksucker call our
pricks `God.' And that leads me to our second rule.

"Faggots, being the low-life scum that they are, don't have the privilege
to look a man in the face. Or even to talk to a man. Instead, they stare
at our crotches or our asses and speak to them. Because our crotches and
our asses our their gods. A faggot is too pathetic to be worthy of the
rest of our attention.

"So let's see if a faggot can wrap its little head around all that. This
is life spent in the divine worship of cock. Of men and the fluids they
provide that generously nourish faggots. Everything else, all the stupid
little distractions that fill up a faggot's empty day, are discarded. This
is a lifetime to be spent worshipping men who have no attachment to you, no
attraction to you, no use for you except as a cock-worshipping faggot."

At that point, with no warning, I started to sob. Still staring at this
man's fly, aching for what was inside it. This man, this God, ripped right
into the heart of me without knowing a goddamn fucking thing about me. He
found me. And he had me.

"Alright, pissbreath. Got any questions?"

"Sir, how do I, er, how does a faggot begin?"

"I see a faggot was smart enough to wear a watch. Good. That will be
useful. I will walk away. To the west is an old Chevy van. The back is
unlocked. After five minutes, open it, climb in, and strip. Put all
clothes and possessions on the curb. Then close the door. Inside is a
burlap bag, handcuffs, blindfold and headphones. Put on the headphones,
step into the bag, pull it overhead and pull the cord tight. Then put on
the blindfold and lock the handcuffs with hands behind the back.

"I will retrieve the clothing and all that remains of a faggot's identity.
I'll go to the address on the driver's license and make sure anything
pointing to our facility is removed. The our people will sell everything you own, empty all accounts and take out substantial loan in it's name along with maxing out all credit cards. In the meantime, the driver will
drive to one of our facilities and training will begin. Now nod yes or no
to answer the following questions. First, is the address on the license
current?"

I nodded, still sobbing and breathing in gasps.

"Good. Is there a roommate or anyone else there I should be worried
about?"

I shook my head.

"Usually the fags that accept our offer don't have the balls to let anyone
else know about us. Is that the case here, suckwhore?"

I chuckled inside at how well this man, these men, knew the kind of
cocksucker I was. Thankfully, that chuckle started to ease the flow of
tears. I nodded so he knew the kind of fag that was kneeling at his feet.

"One last question before I walk off, cuntface. Does a faggot want to
worship cock for the rest of its life?"

I practically broke my neck from nodding so hard.

"Excellent, whorehole. Look at the watch, wait 5 minutes and make it
happen." And that huge tube of crotch turned to the side and walked away.