In the Den of the Beast

A surprisingly thin and cheap-looking (but incredibly long) wooden table dominated the length of the room but left large areas free on either side. Sixteen high-backed velvet chairs surrounding it. Most seats are occupied by older men in dated formalwear, some of whom have scrawny, bare-chested subs sitting next to them on humiliatingly low stools or standing behind their chairs at attention. There are two younger guys in suits and three middle-aged women in tasteful gowns of bronze, rose, and aquamarine -- although only the woman in bronze is accompanied by a thin little servant-boy.

"Ah, yes!" exclaims the man who had been speaking to Herr Kruger earlier. "The little cockslut from the agency. Fetch wine for my associates, cockslut."

The first hour or so felt much like the start to Vanessa and Alex's house party, although I missed the comforting presence of that enormous spade-shaped butt plug and I didn't get to eat between courses. I was given a bottle of wine, a carafe of ice water, and a silver tray to balance them on while I wasn't pouring. My task was to keep glasses full of whatever the guests were drinking and to endure whatever little pokes and tweaks they decided to give me when I served them. Some ignored me entirely, but others would slap my ass or twist my nipples until I winced. The half-naked subs all avoided eye contact and only spoke when asked by their masters.

"I say, good sir," shouted one of the younger man toward the head of the table after about an hour of conversation and drinking. "We've had plenty to drink -- is it about time to eat?"

He wrapped one arm around my waist, then licked my abdomen as if testing my taste. Several others shouted their assent, and the man on my other side cupped and squeezed my ass as if checking its readiness.

"Very well," muttered their leader. "If the little cockslut will hurry and top off my glass, we'll get started."

I was in such a rush to follow his command that I didn't notice that he had subtly placed his jeweled cane under the table so I would trip on it, which I did spectacularly, dropping the tray and spilling both the water and the wine on the woman in the bronze-colored dress who was seated to the man's left.

My clumsiness was met with cheers and raucous demands that I be punished:

"What did we expect, hiring a stupid little cockslut."

"The stocks would be too good for him! Thirty, no forty lashes is the only way he'll learn."

The gentleman at the head of the table raised one hand for silence. "The meal will be delayed because the young cockslut needs to be taught how to be careful and show proper respect when serving his betters. Selena, dear, you were the wronged party here."

"Give me your stool, boy. And fetch me a switch!" barks Selena to her little sub, who surrenders the squat piece of furniture and dashes away to retrieve the requested implement. He blushes as his poorly-tied loincloth slips and I catch a hint of the base of his delicate prick.

I was certain it had been planned that I spill the liquid on Selena when she easily strips away the rather matronly bronze gown to reveal she had been wearing a black corset and tight crotchless stockings that showed off her unkempt but otherwise respectable snatch. Her boy hands her not one, but a whole bundle of slender, pliable canes of willow or something similar. Satisfied, she picks one and takes a few practice swings.

"Will you be a good cockslut and assume the position on the stool? Or do I need to get Fredrick and Kurt to hold you down?"

If Frederick and Kurt are the ripped younger guys who look so eager to touch me they might burst out of their suits, I'm tempted to say that I need to be restrained, but I merely bow in acceptance and bend myself over the stool so my bare ass is pointed upward and presented to this woman. I had been spanked a few times with both hands and paddles, so how bad could it be?

I soon discovered the answer was "pretty fucking bad," since Selena is particularly skilled at striking the same spot repeatedly. The pain is also far more concentrated than some of the smacks I've had before that seem to spread warmly across my whole ass; it's cutting, visceral pain so precise that I can imagine exactly what each slashing red line looks like on my backside.

"Okay, Angel Boy. I want you to count the last set of ten for me," orders Selena. I squirm on my stool. I was kind of relieved that there were only ten to go since I imagined I could feel blood sliding down my leg, but several people had stood up to watch and I got a huge dose of the nervous-excited butterfly feeling of anticipation when I was performing before an audience.

Smack!

"O-o-one," I manage weakly.

Two comes far more quickly than I had anticipated, followed by three and four before I have a time to call out the strokes. They're accompanied by laughter from my onlookers and an admonishment from the mistress:

"Idiot! You were told that you were nothing more than a pathetic cockslut! You only should've counted if you were called cockslut."

"He should have to start again!" shouts someone from the back.

"Yes, yes, make him start the last set again," says the woman in aquamarine who was watching with interest. "But have the servants set up the table so we can eat. I'm sure we're all getting hungry."

"Okay, cockslut," growls Selena. "Try again from 'one.'"

Presumably to punish my additional failure, she uses the whole bundle this time, striking both cheeks with less precise force but greater weight and vastly more blows. This really just serves to further open and irritate my existing wounds more than it does to create new ones, which is fine by me. Although I'm starting to feel weak and see little stars before my eyes, I revel in each flurry of strikes because my mental picture of myself is that of the righteous, angelic martyr, wrongly persecuted, broken and bloodied. The little stool became my cross; the collar that read SLUT my crown of thorns.

When I made it to ten, the man with the jeweled cane commanded:

"Say thank you to your mistress."

I stayed quiet, having learned my lesson. This particular little charade of Simon Says had some pretty extreme consequences for slipping up.

"Good boy. Say thank you to your mistress, you clever little cockslut."

"Thank you for teaching me a lesson, mistress."

She says something in reply, but I miss it as I hear the scraping of wood against stone and feel strong arms lifting me into the air. I understand why the table looked so flimsy -- parts of it fold up and out then lock into place to form a very specialized piece of furniture that takes up much more of the room. The servant boys, despite their slight stature, seem well-trained in how to shift and assemble this unique table quickly, operating all of its hidden little switches and sliding panels with deft and skillful hands.

The end result looks something like a weird picnic table with built-in benches and a turntable in the middle. Once I'm deposited on this turntable, the guests sit around my and giggle as they reach out to grab the edge of the spinning wheel and rotate me around. Someone holds a red apple in front of my face until I bite it, a cruel parody of a suckling pig.

"We're ready to eat, cockslut!" Several shouted.

"Face down, flanks up, that's the way we like to sup!" laughed some others.

Picking up on their cues, I tuck my head down but kneel so that my ass is in the air. I am becoming increasingly dizzy, but that only mingles with the stomach-churning feeling of anticipation that's been building inside me to form a heady sort of high that is unique to this experience. I feel disoriented. I feel pain. I feel euphoria.

If I grab onto the edges of the table, I can manage to stay upright in the required position, and I'm quickly glad that I do. When the table stops spinning, a wet tongue runs up the back of my leg, then traces the lines of my welts from the switching. I spin again and a new tongue presses against me in a fresh location. Any pressure against the fresh wounds is agonizing, but the licking is exceedingly gentle and I find the saliva that soon coats my weary bottom to be incredibly soothing.

I try briefly to figure out who's mouth is upon my when, but they don't spin in a predictable pattern and my view is very poor. It is exciting that it seems so random; sometimes I get soft lips, sometimes the scratchy rasp of an older man's whiskers or the firm, sandpapery pressure of one of the young guy's strong, stubbly chins. When they finish licking my wounds, the group starts taking turns eating out my hole in earnest, their true feast all along. There are no fingers to start, just tongues trying to pry as deep inside me as they possibly can, but after half a dozen more spins they start trying to pry me open wider and wider, as if determined to find some new, delicious morsel deep within.

One of the two younger guys -- I think they were Frederick and Kurt, but I don't know which is which -- plunges his throbbing cock into me and my suspicion that at least most of this group was from the Grove is confirmed. I lift my head up but take a slightly more comfortable position for anal penetration. My next spin is a perfect 180 that positions me in front of the other one and I find myself wondering if they are twins because both feel the same as they stuff my soaked hole. Both have stripped away their suits so I can see every carefully-cultivated muscle; they are the same height, have the same crew cut, grunt at the same pitch when they pump me with solid, committed strokes.

Each time one is fucking me, the other stands looking at me hungrily, pulling at his cock while he waits for his turn again. After a few rounds of back-and-forth, I make a few more stops at others who take a few mouthfuls of ass and comment on the exquisite taste of the young men's cocks. Someone coats me in a fresh layer of some kind of lube before I'm spun again and someone works a metal hook inside me that directly massages my prostate. If I wasn't wearing the numbing cage, I might have exploded right then with absolutely no direct stimulation to my cock. As is, I just sucked in a sudden, gasping breath and made an involuntary face of surprise to the amusement of all.

I do a few more 180s between the twins, although when they're holding their own cocks they pick up the pace, getting ready to finish. I get both of their loads at the same time, one on my face and one on my back. The few, final spins of the table are so some of the loincloth-wearing subs can run up and lick the fat wads of cum off of me to a round of thundering applause.

The older man has one of the twins wrap me in a blanket and carry me into a side room where I am rested on a couch and given water, painkillers, and a delicious bowl of some kind of hearty stew that dulls the nauseous thrills of my stomach and warms me up. He tries to give me a stack of crisp twenties as a "tip," but I feel kind of weird about that and insist that I really enjoyed myself and was already getting paid once by Herr Kruger. He asked my what I enjoyed and didn't enjoy about the event and gives me a business card with his number under the name Edward Blake, telling me to call if I ever wanted to do something similar.

I definitely would've toned down the switching a few layers and all of the spinning left me kind of dizzy, but I tell him that I wouldn't mind being restrained more and I really liked being shamed and then handled by a large group of strangers. We agreed that we could try some fun setups and cock torture when I wasn't doing trying out a chastity vow that he referred to as "fasting." I was told I could keep the harness and SLUT collar and to wear them if we decided to do anything else together in the future.

Once I finished the stew, I wandered back into the communal shower area of the Den where Alex had been waiting for me. It was almost midnight and he had been off work for over an hour, but he had apparently chilled out and had a few drinks in a lounge area while waiting for me to finish my special assignment. He helps me shower, gently massaging my sore bottom and washing my hair for me. It's not until I shake myself dry and pull on my trench coat that he tells me the big news that he had been told to pass on to me by Herr Kruger:

The special request for me was for an hour in one of the VIP suites and had been made by a guest and the end of my last shift that had to have been Hasan. I was to keep up my vow of chastity, but also not bathe for twenty-four hours beforehand. I was also supposed to be told to come wearing "a collar that had special meaning to me" . . . and a tail.

10: An Angel and a Master

On Thursday, I go to lunch with my mom. It's out of the blue, making me panic initially. I didn't even know she was going to be in town. I try to think of a way to get out of it, but don't really want to be the kind of guy who has that kind of relationship with his mom. I still love her, I just can't tell her absolutely everything that I'm up to.

We agree to meet at a rustic little café on the other side of town. She offers to pick me up, knowing I don't have a car, but I say I'll just meet her since I've been staying with some friends that live closer to work. I expect her to have a ton of questions and she does, but they're not nearly as invasive or probing as my paranoid brain expects them to be.

How's work? Work's fine. I think I'm starting to enjoy it more. (I leave out that I'm not still at the "internship" and have taken on a very different kind of work.)

Why did you do that to your hair? Dunno. Trying something different, I guess. (Technically true.)

You've grown so much! Clearly, you're eating right. Thanks, mom. (I leave out that I had radical designer surgeries paid for by a near stranger and that half of what I'm "eating" these days is other guys' cocks.)

I'm ultimately glad I saw her, even if it means sitting uncomfortably in khakis and actually wearing underwear that helps position my chastity cage. She tells me about her friends and their various health scares, about a new fad diet she's been trying, and about the new grocery store that opened nearby that my dad hates because it's "too clean-looking." She giggles when I try to pay for lunch but insists that the server take her credit card ("they can't be paying you that well!") and smiles when I walk with her back to the car.

"Steven, dear, I know you're so busy, but you should come home some weekend and see your father. Oh! Pick a weekend in July, dear. Pick a weekend in July and we'll do a cookout and celebrate your birthday."

I give her a hug and tell her I love her, promising I'll call again and set up a time to visit. I do genuinely miss my family, and I worry I forget that sometimes.

I'll let things slow down soon. Maybe after tomorrow night.

It cannot come fast enough. I wander around Alex and Vanessa's place, agonizing about how to follow the new instructions I was given. The command about the collar has to refer to the black, spiked on that says "Property of James Moore," but how would Hasan know about that? Unless the special request was made by James . . . that had to be the case, if I was supposed to wear my collar and tail. Should I refuse? Tell Herr Kruger I was out? I could call my mom back, tell her to pick me up and take me home, away from all of this.

But if it meant I could feel James again, taste him—I had decided resolutely that I didn't want to keep living with him, but maybe one hour wouldn't be so bad. Maybe after a week to cool down he wasn't going to act so barbaric and needlessly cruel. We had just gotten into bad habits, that was all.

Are you rationalizing unacceptable behavior?

Fuck, I didn't know. I didn't know if it was "right" or "healthy," but I knew what I needed. I needed to talk to him again, to figure things out, to keep talking it through. I had been mentally preparing myself for Hasan, but if the special request was made by James there could be a chance to talk instead . . . or during . . . or after . . .

I decide to wear the collar and Alex lets me borrow a tail. It is a bit simpler, a plain white dildo with an exaggerated knob on the end and a long cascade of pale hairs spilling out of the end. Alex and Vanessa have a fun time playing with the hairs once I'm wearing the tail, trying to dirty and tangle them up a little.

At the Den, Herr Kruger greets me with all smiles, singing my praises about the great work I did on Wednesday and how highly the guests had spoken of me. I feel kind of bad that he again all but ignores Alex, but I have to reason that it's because I'm still new and getting a lot of attention. He leads me back to the private rooms and removes my coat.

"Good, good, I see you got the memo on the requests made concerning your apparel," he says casually as he unlocks the door. "Now, you will be in the Butcher's Suite tonight, which means a little bit of extra preparation . . ."

The "Butcher's Suite" is not at all what I expected. It's freezing cold and there's no bed, merely a large metal slab on one side of the room and a plain bench on the other flanked by two sealed cabinets. However, Herr Kruger directs me to the very middle of the room and retrieves an significant length of knotted rope from the right-hand cabinet.

He neatly places a large pair of scissors in a prominent place on the bench, then rubs me efficiently with some sort of oil with his short-fingered, calloused hands. I don't understand all of the elaborate system of knotting and trussing he uses to suspend me from a pair of large meat hooks from the ceiling. He works slowly but purposefully, testing his knots with quick little tugs and occasionally asking me about the feel. The end result has me spread-eagled in midair, each limb bound to a hook on the ceiling or floor. It puts a bit of strain on my arms, but the ropes wrap around my chest and waist in such an elaborate way that my weight is evenly dispersed and I can go limp and remain suspended. I expect Herr Kruger to say something, but he merely admires his handiwork and then walks away.

How long will I have to wait? It must only be minutes but feels like hours. I wriggle and twitch, testing the strength of my bonds. I'm not going anywhere. I entertain myself by playing with my tail, clenching and adjusting with my powerful muscles.

"So, it is Angel now, my friend," says a familiar voice at long last. "A bold choice, but one that I'm not entirely convinced suits you.

Hasan walks into the room slowly. He stands in front of me, inspecting my new appearance. For the occasion, he's donned a full-length apron of heavy black rubber and matching gloves that go up to his elbows.

"You seem surprised," he muses. "Almost as if you expected someone else."

He draws closer, reaching out to caress the words on my collar with one finger. My heightened position allows me to see that he's got something strange on his ass. It isn't until he turns around to retrieve something from one of the cabinets that I that Hasan is wearing a tail between the perfectly hairy amber globes of his ass. It's in the same style as my very first one, with the fringed cat o' nine tails, and the metal ball within must be particularly uncomfortable or difficult for him to hold because he walks very stiffly and carefully.

"But it was to me that you made a promise, one that you've succeeded at keeping," he says slowly as he unlocks my cage and tears away the pouch to reveal my smooth but swollen balls. "And for that, you belong to me until I can finish you three times, once for every full day we've been apart."

I feel something close around my scrotum and feel a sudden stretching. Even as he promised me bliss, my master was clamping a set of metal weights to my tender balls, something that they strain against in their delicate stage. Post-surgery, every time I try to avoid cumming even for a day my sack starts to fill up with excess fluid and remains pliable, but at the cost of significant distress. The sudden strain surprises me, and while I had expected to get hard almost as soon as the cage was removed, the numbness is lingering and excitement is difficult to find among the pain.