I had seen only one picture of Him, before I actually met Him. I couldn’t know, indeed didn’t care, how old the photo was or whether it was even Him. I could only take His word for it. That was a small, but important step: take His word for it. I would take His word for that picture, then for everything else, too.

Stepping off the bus, I knew He was watching me. There was a small crowd in the bus terminal and several men who could have been Him, who looked a bit like His picture. I had been instructed what to wear and how to proceed and I acted as I had been ordered. He would be watching me, He had said, observing my adherence to His directions. Arriving was my choice, after that I was His.

I had on the red sweatshirt, baseball cap, loose workout shorts, and flip-flops that He had told me to wear. No socks, no undershirt, no underwear. I adjusted the shorts to try to hide my erection. I held a book in my hand, a book I could read on the sixteen-hour bus trip, but nothing else. “You won’t need any other clothes. I only need your body, mind, and soul, not your possessions. Leave them behind, leave everything else behind, and come to Me.”

I sat down at the end of the bus station lunch counter, ordered a small Diet Coke, and waited. After the soda arrived, I was to sit and stare ahead for precisely five minutes, leave three dollars on the counter and exit the front door of the terminal. I was not to drink the Coke or talk to anyone. Just look straight ahead. The meaning of these acts, I suspected, had nothing to do with the action itself, merely the following of His directions. I stared at the counter in front of me. The clock on the wall above the counter ticked through the longest three hundred seconds of my life.

Outside the terminal, I put my book in the waste can, turned right and started to walk. “Stay on the right side of the street and close to the buildings,” He had written to me. “Walk three blocks to 7th Street, turn right. There is a shop there that sells men’s clothes. Stop for 60 seconds and look straight in the window on the 7th Street side. Look like you’re interested, like you care about the clothes in the window. You might even mourn their loss, for you will surely never wear a suit again in your life. Turn around. There will be a white van idled at the curb. Open the side door and climb in. Slide the door closed and lock it. Do not look at the driver or acknowledge him at all. There will be no seats, just a bare floor, a small basket, and a blanket. Take off your clothes, fold them neatly and put them in the basket. Lie face down, cover yourself with the blanket, and wait for further instructions.”

The van started to move as soon as the door slid shut. Lying there on the floor of the van, covered in a blanket, I presumed that further instructions would come quickly. Instead, we just drove. After a while, the van slowed and stopped. I heard the driver (was it my Master?) approach me. “Keep your eyes closed, faggot,” a low, mean voice ordered. The blanket was pulled away. He pulled a hood over my head. I kept my eyes closed but could tell it had no eye holes anyway. He tugged at some straps behind my neck and I heard a lock click. He pulled a thick leather collar around my neck, and then there were more clicks as the collar and hood were attached to each other. Cuffs around my wrists and ankles followed, which were then attached to the floor of the van. Fully restrained, I could feel Him kneel down next to me. His hands rubbed my back, felt my ass, touched my hole. He reached down further and yanked my genitals from under me. I was erect, my balls drawn up tight. I was completely exposed, completely at His mercy. He stood up again and shifted His weight. I felt the intense pain in my groin before I registered its cause. He had kicked me in the balls, a hard blow with steel-toed boots. I gasped for air, powerless to protect myself. There was another kick and a deeper, searing pain. He put the heel of His boot on my balls and slowly added His weight. The pain became unbearable and I began fearing that my balls would burst from the pressure. He finally stepped off me, landed another kick, and replaced the blanket.

He moved back to the driver’s seat. I didn’t move or speak, nor was I spoken to. I just laid there bound in pain, being bounced around on the metal floor of an old van. I had never been to this city before, and even if I was familiar with the geography of the area, I couldn’t know where we had gone or even how long we had driven. I might have ended up anywhere within a radius of hundreds of miles, no doubt. We drove for hours, slowing and turning, speeding and cruising. Finally, the van slowed, turned sharply to the left, and drove over a bumpy gravel road. We turned to the left again, and I heard a garage door open before we pulled ahead. I heard it close behind us as the van was turned off. The van bounced as He got out and the driver’s door slammed. Seconds later, another door, apparently to a building, opened and closed.

A few minutes passed. More doors opened and closed, then the van door slid open, too. The blanket was pulled away and the cuffs were unhooked from the floor.

“Out of the van,” I heard Him say. Still blinded by the hood, I felt my way out on my hands and knees, tumbled to the concrete floor, and kneeled. .

“Finally, My own pussy boy slave,” He said with His hand on the top of my head. “I’m going to take it to the dungeon. We’ll sign the contract, and then we’ll start. Stand up and follow me.”

I stood. He put my hand on His shoulder and walked slowly. While concentrating on following Him realized I was touching Him for the first time. His shoulders felt strong and muscled. We walked forward, through a door, and down some stairs. At the bottom, it smelled of dampness, along with mold and pine cleaner. We stopped.

“Kneel,” He said, and I did. “This is going to be your last chance to back out. On the floor in front of you is a contract with a pen. I’m going to take off your hood. You’re going to keep your eyes closed. I’m going to go up the stairs and close the door. You’re going to read the contract, understand what it says, and decide whether to sign. If you sign it, it will have been the last decision you ever make: you’re no longer a man, but My property, My slave. It will take great courage and strength to do. After You sign, put the hood back over your head, and lie down flat on your back on the floor. Don’t worry, I can still see you. If you decide you can’t do it, you can go up the stairs, knock on the door and put the hood back on. I’ll drive you back to the bus station, and you can go back to your pitiful little fucking faggot life.

He stepped behind me and removed the hood. I kept my eyes closed as I heard Him climb the stairs. The door closed and latched. I opened my eyes, surprised to see a well-equipped dungeon. Before taking it in, I looked down at my still painful genitals. My balls were swollen and purple and my dick had split open and leaked blood. He had wasted no time. Around the room, there was a low cage in one corner, long enough for a man, or slave, to lie flat. Next to it was a long padded table, with various eye hooks surrounding the surface. On the wall opposite, behind me, there was bare space, with more eye hooks protruding from the wall. To my right, there was a mix of shelves and hooks holding various implements, tools, and objects of torture. There was a high rimming chair, a toilet, a sink, and a hose connected to a water spigot. Beneath me, a smooth concrete floor was broken only by a floor drain. The ceiling was covered in sound-absorbing panels, broken by track lights. The room was windowless, and measured perhaps 20x20. My world was to be reduced to 400 square feet. On the floor in front of me, the contract beckoned.

The contract was a multi-page document, written in what might be called faux-legalese. Plenty of whereas, plenty of shall, plenty of under penalty of physical punishment, plenty of at the discretion of the Master. Of course, it wasn’t a real contract; it wasn’t really enforceable, I knew, but then, we wouldn’t expect a dispute over its terms to reach arbitration. Not with clauses like Section 6.1(a), “In the event of a dispute between Master and slave as to the provisions of this contract, the decision of the Master shall be final and without appeal. Further, the slave shall be determined to be in material breach of various clauses of this form requiring complete subservience at all times, and shall be severely punished.” There was no sense in trying to negotiate, I saw, not with clauses like Section 14.2(b), “The Master may change any provision of this contract, without prior notice, at any time and for any reason. The slave has no ability to change any provision of this contract.” There was no point wondering how He would use me, what with Section 12.3(a), “The Master is free to use the slave property in any way He sees fit, without limit or reservation. He makes no commitment to any particular care or treatment, and notwithstanding any provision of this contract, may use the slave at any time, any place, or in any way desirable, pleasurable, or advantageous to Him.” The meaning of the toilet in the room grew clearer, in the light of Section 9.6(d), “The slave is not allowed to urinate or defecate without explicit permission of the Master in advance, and will hold its waste until so permitted. In the Master’s home, the slave is not allowed use of the Master’s primary toilet. Unless connected to a catheter or other automatic extraction device, or otherwise directed, it will urinate or defecate while on its hands and knees into a secondary toilet in His basement or onto the open ground in the Master’s yard. Outside the Master’s home, the slave will relieve itself as directed, however, it will never urinate from a standing position, but preferably while on it hands and knees, as directed. Sitting on a toilet seat or any use of a urinal is strictly forbidden at all times. If at all possible, it will use a designated unisex restroom, or secondarily, a women’s room, and relieve itself on its hands and knees into a toilet. Since it is not a Man, the use of a Men’s room while Men are or may be present is not allowed.” My penis, despite its torment, grew rock hard as I read, especially Section 8.4(c), “Castration or nullification of the slave may occur at any time, without warning, whether planned or accidental.” There was more, a lot more. The contract reduced me to property, stripped me of the right to be human or male, and made Him Lord, Master, Owner, and God. I had already made my decision; I signed it with a flourish, put the hood back on, and lay down on the floor.

Seconds later, I heard His footfalls above. The door unlatched and somebody approached down the stairs. “Excellent, slave,” He said. “It’s time to begin.”

And so we did. For many days, He kept me hooded constantly. I was kept locked in the cage to sleep, locked on the table or the wall when He whipped or beat me. I was in constant, unremitting pain. He paid special attention to my balls and cock, punching them, kicking them, poking needles through them, pulling a tight cord around them and weighing them down, slicing into my penis. He fed and watered me by peeling back the mouth flap from my hood and pushing my face into a bowl of His table scraps or of water on the floor. He’d command me when to piss, kneeling down on all fours above the floor drain. He’d push the water hose into my ass, and then make me expel the waste while crouching on my hands and knees above the toilet. After I had been beaten to a pulp, fed and cleaned, He’d lean me over the table and harshly pump my ass full of His semen or He’d kneel me down, remove the mouth flap, and fuck my throat. He pissed in my mouth and ass. He’d position me under the rim chair, where He’d shit into my mouth and force me to swallow.

Sightless, I could concentrate only on Him and His needs. I put all behind me, living only for the moment, and gradually lost the memory of all that came before. I came to crave the attention and the ability to serve Him, even if it was to take His torture.

Finally, one day he kneeled me down and pulled the hood off for the first time. He pushed my chin up toward His face. “Look at me, slave,” He said, “And behold its Master.” I looked at His face. He was bigger than me and older than me, but well-built and, I thought, quite handsome. It was the same Man as in the photo I had seen so long ago, but now He was my God, and I worshipped Him. He had dark, hairy legs, a hairy, untrimmed crotch, a smooth stomach with a hint of a belly, and lightly hairy, worked out pecs. He was clean shaven, with a tight, military-style cut of dark hair above steel grey eyes. I smiled as happily as I ever had as I looked at my Owner.

He kept me in the dungeon for many more weeks. I no longer wore the hood, but stayed collared and bound much of the time. I lost all sense of time. I had no freedom, but I was given tasks to complete outside of the cage. I was to wash myself inside and out and shave my body. I was to lubricate my asshole and rectum. I was to eat the bowl of food provided. I was to piss in the drain. I wasn’t to touch my sore genitals, ever. The cage would unlatch automatically and I had only a few minutes to complete my chores. The training, I saw, was repetitive and based on rewards and punishment. If I completed my chores before He climbed down the stairs, I was rewarded with an affectionate pat on the head and a “good cunt.” If my ass was clean and tight, He’d take more time fucking me and moan energetically as He blew His load inside me. If I failed to perform adequately, the brutality of the punishment increased. As the training continued I merely did as He said, automatically and without thought.

Then, for several days, He didn’t beat me at all. He continued to use me sexually and I continued to be His toilet, but the bruises healed and wounds closed. My balls were slower in healing, however; they were still sore and swollen. I noticed that my dick, though not bloody, no longer got erect very easily. He instructed me, as well, on the rules of behavior, if not in public, at least when others were present

I certainly hadn’t been allowed to cum since I had arrived, but I noticed, that the feeling of Him ejaculating into me was more complete and more satisfying than any penile orgasm I had ever had. I could tell now when He was cumming. He’d pound me furiously, and then slow down, moving in and out only slightly. Then, with His bush rubbing against my hole and His dick pushed as deep as He could, He’d stop, breathe in deeply and hold steady. I’d grip His dick as fully as I could and He’d pull my body tightly into Him. He’d groan deeply, move His hips and plunge slowly in and out. I’d feel the looseness as He filled me with His semen; His body would relax and collapse onto me.

After days without punishment, the routine was finally broken. After I had cleaned and shaved, He appeared fully clothed in boots, jeans and a plain T-shirt. “Back in the cage, slave,” was all He said. I climbed back in and lay down; He locked the cage, returned up the stairs and turned off the lights. I couldn’t hear noise above the dungeon, but I could feel movement as the ceiling shook slightly.

Some time later, the lights came on and the door to the cage opened. I crawled out, but was a little confused. Should I clean and shave again? I wondered to myself. Before I could decide, He came down the stairs. “Well, slave, it finally gets to leave the basement, though just for a little while. Follow behind me, follow the rules and do as I say.”

He climbed up the stairs briskly and I followed. Outside the door we entered into a garage; a white van was still parked there. He turned left and out a side door into the open air. It was dark night. Above, the stars shone brightly in a clear, moonless sky. He walked to his left over an open, grassy area, heading toward a campfire where several other men had gathered. Beyond the fire there was a forest, dark and ominous. Behind us, I could see a large, modern house that we had exited, a driveway, and more woods. There seemed to be no neighbors, just a big house and wilderness.

Following my Master, we reached the gathering, where eight other men were sitting in folding chairs around the fire. They were talking and drinking bottles of beer, but quieted as we approached. My Master walked behind them and led me to a large tree about ten yards from the fire. He pushed me face first against the trunk, then attached the collar, along with the ankle and wrist cuffs to hooks drilled in the tree. I was spread-eagled and exposed. He stepped behind me and rubbed my right buttock. The men began talking quietly again behind me, seemingly in anticipation of something.

“Is that iron about ready?” I heard my Master ask.

“Looks red-hot,” someone answered.

“OK, men, here goes,” my Master said, further away from me now. The talking stopped; I heard them rise from their chairs. From my peripheral vision I could see them gathered behind me. I swallowed hard, anticipating that what was to come. My Master approached, holding the red hot branding iron and aiming it at my ass cheek.

He held it a few inches from me; and I felt the heat as He stopped to be sure it was placed properly. As He pushed it against me, waves of sensations washed over me. I felt the pressure first, then the tightness of the newly seared skin, and then smelled the burning flesh. The pain followed, building quickly. I screamed involuntarily and grew faint from the pain. The contact lasted only a couple of seconds, but I would be marked permanently with His brand.

The men clapped behind me. Someone threw cold water at the wound, ending the burning and snapping me awake. Flashlights were directed at my ass. Soon everyone commented on how great it was. There were congratulations and hearty laughs.

“That was just the opening act,” my Master said to them. “Grab another beer and we’ll move on to the main event.”

As they began talking and mixing, my Master unlocked me. He turned me around, then reattached the cuffs so that I was facing the crowd. He held my face in his hands, looked in my eyes, and said, “it’s doing great; the faggot is making Me very proud.”

As He did so, someone turned on two large flashlights and directed them at my crotch. A man carrying a small duffel bag approached and set it down beside the tree. He reached in and put on some rubber gloves, My Master did the same. The man handed my Owner a bottle of liquid, which he rubbed around my exposed, lit-up genitals. It stung slightly as he rubbed it in.

The Master stood in front of me and announced to the men, “Robert, I think it’s your turn.” He stepped off to the side.

The other man stepped confidently in front of me, and handled my balls; he pushed and pulled and finally seemed to satisfy himself. He didn’t look at my face or acknowledge my existence. I knew I was going to be castrated, but was surprised that it had been made into a party. He cut my scrotum open, tied and cut the cords, removed my testicles, and sewed up the wounds. He put my manhood in a jar and passed them around. It took only a few minutes. Given the punishment that had been directed against them in the previous weeks, there was surprisingly little pain. To be honest, I was relieved that they were gone.

When he was finished, my Master stood before me, smiling widely again. He kissed me on the lips for the first time, felt my empty scrotum and pulled on my penis. I got hard, or at least as hard as I could. He laughed and walked away.

The others turned their attention back to themselves, resuming their conversation as they sat around the fire. They ignored me hanging there, naked and emasculated in the cool wind.

After my Master had drunk another couple of beers, He released me from the tree told me to kneel, and loosed His piss down my throat. The others watched intently as He did so.

“Sorry, boys, it’s my slave, but the woods are open for you,” He announced as He zipped up. “Get me another beer, faggot,” He ordered to me. I walked to the cooler, grabbed a bottle, removed the cap, kneeled before Him, and presented it to Him. He moved back to His chair and sat down. As I had been instructed, I kneeled before Him, leaned down and slowly licked His boots. They tasted of dirt and grass, smoke and blood. He patted my head, the signal to stop; I sat up, still kneeling beside Him. He rested the beer bottle on my shaved head.

They talked of things I couldn’t know or understand, then began drifting away in ones or twos. We stayed even after they were all gone: my Master sitting and looking at the fire, me kneeling beside Him. After a while, He got up, and moved some chairs aside. I noticed a stack of blankets underneath one of them. He spread a quilt out on the ground next to the fire, and signaled for me to lie down on the quilt. He removed His clothes, lay down beside me and covered us with another blanket. He laid on right His side, His head propped up on His hand and pulled me with my back to His front. With His free hand He gingerly felt the empty scrotum. I felt His strong, warm body and the roughness of His hairy torso and legs against the smoothness of mine. His pubic hairs rubbed against the wound of His brand, stinging me. His dick grew hard behind me.

He slid into my already lubed ass and fucked me, slowly and soulfully. It was a relief, really, to be able to focus on Him and His pleasure, and not on the pain in my groin and buttock. He wrapped both arms around me, along with the top leg. When He came, He did so gently and peacefully seconds before He drifted off into a beer-soaked slumber.

I was supremely happy at that moment. My master held me tight beside Him as He slept under the stars, my ass full of His semen. Of course I couldn’t sleep. The pain was too intense to afford the gift of sleep. Besides, I knew I was serving Him well, and that made me happy. After the months of torture, I wanted to enjoy every moment of this tenderness with Him.

His hips shifted, and the last of His soft penis came out of my ass. His body twitched again in the way some people do as they fall asleep. I looked at the sky I hadn’t seen in so long, the stars high above and impossibly distant. How could I have ever wanted anything else?

He awoke behind me, rolled onto his back, stretched out his arms and groaned. “OK, slave, get up,” He ordered. I arose and waited for another command. He breathed deeply, rose also, snapped his fingers and pointed at a spot off the blanket. I kneeled where he pointed and opened my mouth for the stream of urine that I knew would follow. He walked up to me, slid His dick into my mouth, and loosed His piss down my throat. I surrendered to the stream, letting it flow directly without swallowing. Not a drop spilled, just as I had been trained. When He finished, He ordered me to suck out every drop, and lick Him clean. In my mouth, the taste of His piss mixed with the lube, His cum, and my ass.

“Slave, fold up these blankets and carry them back to the garage,” He ordered as He slipped His jeans and boots back on. I folded them quickly as He pulled the chairs back into a circle and dumped the water from the empty beer cooler onto the dying fire. He was shirtless and two steps behind His naked slave heading back to the house. As we approached the door, I stood aside and waiting with my head bowed for Him to enter first. “Set the blankets here, on this shelf,” He ordered, pointing at an open space. As I did so, He snapped His fingers, pointing toward the door to the dungeon. I walked down the stairs; He turned on the lights as He followed, still shirtless.

When He reached the bottom, He snapped and pointed to the table. “On your belly, faggot,” He directed. I climbed on the table and lay down. He washed His hands in the sink, unlocked a cabinet door and removed a bottle of what I could see was an antiseptic and a large packaged bandage. He stood over me and examined the brand, gently touching the wound his bare fingers. As he squirted the antiseptic onto His mark, I involuntarily jerked away from the sting. “Stay the fuck steady,” He growled. He squirted some more on, then rubbed it around the mark. He set the bottle on the shelf above the table, unwrapped the bandage, and gently placed it over the mark. He pressed down the adhesive around its edges to hold it in place.

“OK, slave, roll on your back,” He directed. I did so quickly, exposing my empty scrotum, and trying to keep my weight off of the damaged buttock. He touched the wound, examining the empty skin flaps and short sutures. A wide smile came to His face. He rubbed more antiseptic on the sutures and went to the basin to wash His hands. He retrieved a bottle of pills from the high shelf, removed two, snapped His fingers and pointed to the floor. I fell to the floor and kneeled. He pushed the two pills into my mouth and told me to swallow, then pointed to the cage. “These will help you heal faster and to sleep soundly,” He said as I crawled into the cage and lay down. The lock snapped on the cage.

As the Owner climbed the stairs, His ball-less slave property fell asleep, content in His dungeon.