Monday, December 25, 2017

A story by recruit200267






A path that was built over years, that came into fruition this summer.



A challenge was made, based on the story "package delivered", which I directed and had him as the lead actor and one and only viewer.



I leave you with the preface to that happened, by his own words.




----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



A Rush Of Blood To The Arse





"The Master's there, always, anytime, ready to pump my arse."



That's how he announced the start of his total invasion of my heart, soul and body over the 3-night-2-day autumn weekend at the very beginning of September 2017.



"Press to play" to experience the words of the "Package delivered" post of Tuesday, March 5, 2013 instantly coming alive and real inside my anus!



Writing this now, on a dark November afternoon at work in Brussels, has me squirm again this minute, like I squirmed that night, my fingers shaking while they hover over the keyboard, my sphincter convulsing in an innate, born-slave need to relive that very first jolt that brought me down, no, UP, to the reality of being a slave to a Master, that night in that first washroom cubicle on the left at the Arrivals Terminal of Lisbon airport!



UP is the word, up is where my cock is now, releasing its tell-tale moisture in my trunks, enough of it there to even reach the outer fabric of my ultra-tight size 28 dark blue jeans - mercilessly sweaty bodyweight workouts, 19 km/h interval running bursts and finely balanced nutrition having enabled me to squeeze comfortably and proudly inside one of those perennial emblems of wanton sex cravings for the very first time in my life. It takes a True Master...



Mentally satistied, with my red-hot blood having massively invaded my head, my sphincter and cock still convulsively pulsing, I need to go and check in the mirror of the 6th floor restroom at my workplace now, get into a cubicle and PUMP!



Internet tells me my Master is 1,713,51 km away. Bollocks! He's RIGHT HERE!




The ride



Stop Start Stop...


Start Stop Start...




My Master is fucking me wherever, whenever, however.



"The hooded sweatshirt


The pair of trousers


The pair of handcuffs


The condom


The butt plug"



I knew about those, had been craving to feel them on me, in me, for all those years of counting down to Zero Night, September 1st 2017, close to midnight. "Back to slave school!", indeed.


"Package delivered", Tuesday, March 5, 2013, that's 4.5 years to full fruition in my Master's brain and mine.



My Master pulls up the car on the way from the airport to his home, and orders me to lower my head.



"The gag belt"



Body invasion through the second orifice.



A scarf covers my gagged mouth for the remainder of the car trip, "the discrete Master & slave on the road".



My efficiently stifled moans start as soon as my Master decides it's time for the next fine-tuned elaboration of the original "Package" list to really start manifesting itself.




"The electro butt plug"



Stop Start Stop...


Start Stop Start...




My Master probing my pulsing cock through the loose legs of my "pair of trousers" shorts at every traffic light.



Stop Start..... Start Start Start...
Start Stop..... Start Start Start...



Car parked, a 5-minute foot journey over the cobbled streets and alleys to his home, passing loads of fellow late-night wanderers, while I am getting fucked all along the way...



Wherever, whenever, however, at Master's chosen intervals.



My pace becomes distinctly shaky, irregular, over the sometimes unexpectedly slippery cal├žada portuguesa, never knowing when the next thrust will come. "Slave fucked while walking"



Arrived at Master's home, up the steps, frontdoor shut, hood down, gag removed, blindfold on, ushered into The Room.



Saturday September 2, 2017, extremely early morning, Darkest Hour, Brightest Hour, the Time to take Full Possession.


Slender hands all over my hairy torso, legs, hand-cuffed arms, tongue probing my mouth open, deep throat, pulses rising, hearts jumping out of chests.



No barriers, free-flowing sweat, no need for the shirt. Slender hands tearing, at the fabric, at my slave heart, every rip ringing louder in my ears, eliciting louder moans from my mouth.


Sturdy, unruly fabric, resistance is futile, scissors cutting, no hurry, no escape, Master and slave both savouring the ultimate symbolic moment When All Falls Away.




My heart, my soul, my body: all sunken to their knees, all feverishly heaving, all humbled, all empowered by awe and confidence, all "all over the place".



"The hooded sweatshirt


The pair of trousers"



Struck off the list.



Still there: My Master & I



Saturday September 2, 2017, extremely early morning, the light of my Brightest Hour has been extinguished again.



My Master switches off the single LED torchlight that lit the piece of paper in front of my shackled hands.




"Slave Contract"



It will hold up in every S&M court of law, this damning sample of my own handwriting.



"3 days a slave"



"YES" is the only possible answer in the next 60 hours.


Lights out.


Time to retire to my slave quarters for the night. Blindfold on, not far to go, just a few uncertain steps with my shackled feet, The Room is evidently only about a dozen square meters big. Butt landing up on a hard surface, legs swinging over and down into the invisible void.


No room to swing a cat, so just big enough for a 1.79 m toned muscle slave to stretch out onto a thin exercise mat, head on a bolster.



I've reached the end of my journey on this Zero Night, my Master gives me just enough time to blindly explore my sleeping quarters with my arms and legs, as far as their clanking restraints allow them to go.



My heart beats as hollow as the sound that my chained hands make as they whack into the wood of the encasement where I must try to find my bearings again and get some much-advised rest for the two long days of harsh slave-labour ahead.



Off comes the blindfold, but in the still pitch-dark and hot wooden coffin, my feverish eyes can't make out anything more substantial than the black contours of my Master hovering high above my head, quickly introducing me to the three very similarly-shaped objects that will be my only go-to, no: stay-here comforts for the night: the LED torchlight, a half-liter bottle of water, and a pee receptacle.



My Master grabs me by the neck, shoves his tongue in my mouth for one last deep-throat gauging of the level of my bewildered passion, and then swiftly and mercilessly shoves the heavy wooden lid of the coffin shut. The 3 breathing holes just allow one of my fingers to eagerly grope for a last fleeting touch of my Master's hand.



A slave, alone with his thoughts. Pitch-black scintillatingly bright night.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



As for the rest, you will have to get a ticket and set the reservation for the event of a lifetime.



As none return the same after such a ride.