Mind Hacks 3: The Magister
Copyright © 2015 z119z. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
Tim glanced at his watch. Almost 6:00. Roger would be calling soon. Every Friday, as Roger rounded the bend in the parkway, his eyes sought out the clock tower of the Chesterville Town Hall. On other days, he barely noticed it. The clock tower was too familiar a sight to engage his thoughts. But Friday was different. On Friday Roger had to see the clock tower. He couldn't help himself. That was how Tim had programmed him. Friday—clock tower. It was the trigger that initiated a chain of events. The sight reminded Roger that he would soon be home, and that thought in turn generated an overwhelming need to call Tim to receive his instructions. Of course, Roger didn't think that the purpose of his call was to get instructions. His mind always generated some trivial excuse for phoning Tim—Did he need to get anything at the market? What should they have for dinner? Eat in or go out? Should he pick up Tim's clothes from the dry cleaners?
What persona should he trigger for tonight? Tim ran over the list of possibilities in his mind. He hadn't been interrogated by the Sergeant for several weeks. Roger played that role so well—his notion of interrogation involved Tim's favorite tortures. Of course, the Sergeant had been programmed to use those tortures, but Roger's subconscious always came up with some ingenious variations. Or was it finally time for Jake to show Apollo what a real top was like?
He had, he reminded himself, been so lucky to find Roger. Roger's self-discipline and imagination combined to make him the perfect subject for hypnosis. It had taken only a couple weeks of daily sessions to leash his mind and harness its powers. Roger went into deep trances in which he became extremely susceptible to post-hypnotic suggestions. Awake, he was capable of carrying out elaborate scenarios.
Physically Roger was everything Tim liked—tightly muscled without being bulky, compact, lithe, energetic, and full of stamina. And short. That was the quality that first drew Tim's eyes to Roger. Tim knew that other gay men found his tastes odd, but he liked short men, the shorter the better. Tim was 6 feet 1 with a 48-inch chest and 19-inch arms. He wasn't the biggest guy around, but he was muscular and had good definition. He looked good. Roger was 5 feet 2. His chest measured 32 inches, and his waist 24 inches. Tim liked the contrast between him and Roger. He liked being dominated by a much smaller man. The difference in size served to emphasize the domination. Tim also liked Roger's smaller cock. He could suck all of it without choking, and he could take it easily up the ass. That meant that he could suck and get fucked for longer periods of time, which increased his pleasure. On the days he needed Roger to be "a pain in the ass," he had sheaths in various sizes, shapes, and textures that fit tightly around Roger's cock and turned it into a long, thick, lethal tool. They more than satisfied his occasional need for a severe anal workout. He especially liked getting reamed by the one with the nubs on the outside.
In the back of his mind, Tim knew that he was topping from the bottom. He had used hypnosis to turn Roger into a fierce, violent, insatiable top. Roger hadn't been like that when Tim found him. Quite the opposite, in fact. But Roger had the requisite physical qualities. Those were hard to find, and Tim had been more than willing to work on Roger to mold him into a puppet devoted to satisfying his needs.
When Tim had first encountered Roger, he had been shy and withdrawn, totally vanilla, capable of only timid blowjobs. Fucking, let alone anything more invasive and violent, had horrified him. With hypnosis, it had been easy to convince Roger that he was not just a top but a dominant top with sadistic tendencies and a need to powerfuck so compelling that twice a day didn't begin to quiet his urges. Once Tim had installed those convictions in Roger's mind, Roger had proved a quick learner. Once he had moved Roger into his house, he had been able to work on Roger's mind several hours each day until he had created an instrument capable of fulfilling even his most elaborate fantasies. Of course, he had to keep reinforcing Roger's training. If he neglected to trance Roger for a few days, the old Roger had an annoying tendency to pop out. The worst was his inability to control his orgasms. The old Roger came quickly. Sometimes within thirty seconds. At first Tim had barely begun to enjoy himself when Roger shot his wad. Hypnosis had taken care of that shortcoming, but, without constant reminders to Roger of the need to delay his orgasms, the bad old Roger resurfaced.
It was fascinating to experience what Roger made of the basic scenarios poured into his mind. He never ceased to surprise. His inventiveness and his gusto made every Friday night memorable. And when the character was turned off, he remembered nothing of what he had done. Sometimes he thought he slept through Friday night; other times he thought he was just arriving home when Tim woke him up. Roger's mind always found some way of explaining the missing hours.
Tim returned to his original question. Roger would be calling soon, and self-congratulation didn't solve the problem of what role to have Roger play out tonight. Was it too soon to trigger the new scenario? It involved elements an untranced Roger would find objectionable if he ever consciously learned of them. But so did the other scenarios. That's why they were necessary—they subverted Roger's conscious desires and injected new ones into his mind. Were more indoctrination sessions needed? It was hard to say. The new scenario was centered around breath control. Tim found the inherent danger—even the very thought of it—so arousing. And he had designed the controls built into the scenario so carefully. If everything went right, the new character would take him to the brink of unconsciousness before releasing him. But whenever Tim reached the point where he introduced the notion of breath control into Roger's indoctrination sessions, his partner began to show signs of stress. When that happened, Tim found it wise to back away a bit. Lately, however, Roger had seemed more accepting of the idea. Of course, Roger wouldn't step out of character. That was impossible for him now. But Roger's conscious mind might baulk at the high level of danger in the scenario and prevent the character from going all the way. If he behaved as he had early on with some of the other scenarios, his subconscious mind would substitute something close to the desired action but less risky.
Still, it would be interesting to see what Roger did with the character. That in itself would be useful for his future programming.
Tim's personal phone rang.
"Tim, it's Roger. I'm almost home. I'm stopping at the liquor store and getting some beer. We're almost out. Do we need anything else?"
"Magister mode on." The words tumbled out of Tim's mouth. He had decided without conscious thought. Tonight would be the new scenario. So be it.
Roger did not reply. He never did. He would finish driving home, park his car in the garage, and go into the house. If necessary, he would change and put on clothes appropriate to the character. He might find a hiding place and emerge later. But he was already in character. As soon as he had heard the trigger phrase, he had become the Magister. The game would play itself out.
"Tim, come in here."
The Magister spoke as soon as Tim entered the utility room from the door into the garage. His tone told Tim that he would tolerate no delay. Tim set his briefcase on the washing machine and hurried into the house. The Magister was waiting in the living room. He was dressed as Tim had programmed Roger to dress when he assumed that character. Tim knelt at the entrance to the living room and bent his head forward in submission. He kept his eyes on the floor.
"What is this?" The Magister sat rigidly upright in a chair. His knee-high black boots were planted firmly on the floor. The boots shone. No blemish marred their surface. The only item of clothing the Magister wore was a red nylon thong. It clung to his cock and balls. Every vein showed. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses with a mirror finish. His face was devoid of expression—it gave no hint of his mood. In his right hand, he held a riding crop. He was pointing it at the coffee table.
Tim saw the "transgression" immediately. "I am sorry, Magister. I was reading the newspaper, and I forgot to remove it before I left for work." The character was working. As he did almost every morning, Tim had left the paper on the coffee table. Roger didn't have time to read it in the morning and liked to skim it for the local news when he got home. The Magister had turned that fortuitous act into a pretext for punishment. Perfect.
"What were you doing in the living room? You know that you are forbidden to enter it without my permission."
Tim glanced up in surprise. That was unexpected. He hadn't programmed that rule into the Magister character. Roger had come up with that on his own.
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. May I remove the newspaper, Sir?" Tim tried to sound frightened, but it was hard not to indulge in a triumphant grin. The new character was working out better than he had expected. The Magister would brook no infractions of his rules. It was shaping up to be a great Friday night. His training of Roger's subconscious had been so successful that Roger was spontaneously fleshing out the character of the Magister along the lines that would most satisfy him.
"I am very disappointed in you, Tim. Very disappointed. You continue to be disobedient. I have been forgiving because you are new. But my tolerance has its limits. You have broken at least three rules. One, you left a mess in my house. Two, you were in my living room without permission. And three, you were sitting on my furniture. You are forcing me to take steps I had hoped not to have to take with you. You will be punished until you learn your lesson."
Tim got hard at the mention of punishment. The regret in the Magister's voice as he contemplated his slave's misbehavior was perfect. He was saddened rather than angered by Tim's errors. He sounded so cold and harsh and unforgiving. It was great.
The Magister picked the newspaper and shook loose the outer sheet. He held it up so that Tim could watch. He carefully tore off five strips, each about an inch wide, down the length of the newspaper. The Magister then crushed and rolled each strip between his hands until it was the size of a golf ball. "Open your mouth."
Tim sprung his mouth open so far that corners felt as if they were splitting apart. He didn't know what would happen next. Before he could react, the Magister stuffed a ball of paper into Tim's mouth and then clamped Tim's jaws shut with his hands. "Chew it and swallow it. And hurry up. If you don't eat all of these quickly, I'm going to feed you the entire newspaper."
The paper was bitter in Tim's mouth. The ball filled his mouth, and it was hard to maneuver it with his tongue so that he could crush it between his teeth. It quickly absorbed all the spit in his mouth, and he had to work to produce more. God, was ink poisonous? It didn't matter. Eating a sheet of paper couldn't be good for his system. Who knew what germs it contained? Maybe a dog had peed on the paper while it lay on the front sidewalk that morning. He needed to pause the Magister and quickly, but he couldn't speak with the paper in his mouth.
The Magister must have sensed that he was trying to speak. Before Tim could finish chewing the first ball, he slapped Tim's face. When Tim opened his mouth to cry out, he fed Tim another wad of paper. Tim began to gag. He couldn't swallow. He panicked. He tried to pull away from the Magister, but that brought him only another vicious slap across the face. Tim could feel his eyes watering. It was impossible to chew the paper—and impossible to swallow it without chewing into a pulp.
The Magister placed the remaining three balls in a line on the floor. He sat down in a chair facing Tim. He stretched out his legs and spread them apart. "When you finish those two balls, you will eat the remaining ones."
Tim nodded and mumbled something that he hoped sounded like "Yes, Sir." He had to clear his mouth so that he could deal with this. He had to turn the Magister off. It was clear to him that he needed to spend more time programming Roger so that the Magister character just skirted the edge of endangering him. Chewing wads of paper would definitely join the list of forbidden activities.
The Magister had set his feet far apart and was resting them on the heels of his boots. As Tim knelt on the floor, he could see the soles of the Magister's boots. The boots had never been worn outside. The bottom surface was still fresh leather. His eyes followed the boots upward to the inverted V formed by the Magister's legs and then to the Magister's crotch.
He certainly had improved Roger's taste in underwear. He had to give himself credit for that. Before he had begun training Roger, the idiot had worn loose-cut boxers in unimaginative colors—white usually, maybe light blue when he had been feeling adventurous. The most daring pair he owned had pale grey strips against a white background. He must have had three or four dozen pairs of boxers. Tim had never asked, but he suspected that Roger bought them in bulk at some big-box store. They had done nothing to highlight Roger's cock and balls. One of the first things he had done was to "prompt" Roger to toss all those boxers out and buy an assortment of tight-fitting thongs and skimpy briefs that hugged his assets and showed them off. In programming the Magister mode, he hadn't specified what underwear the Magister would wear. Roger's subconscious must have realized that he would respond favorably to the red thong.
Roger's cock always hung straight down between his balls. When he put underwear on, he didn't wear his cock either to the left or to the right. It always occupied the center of the pouch. The way Roger was sitting in the chair pushed his cock and balls out so that the nylon fabric clung tightly to them. The flange around the head of the cock was clearly visible, and there was a slight dimple in the fabric over the piss slit. Perfect. Maybe Roger's subconscious would remember how much he liked to lick Roger's cock and balls while they were encased in nylon and work that into Tim's "punishment" later. Roger's cock was so beautiful when it was teasingly revealed by underwear, and the action of his wet tongue made the fabric hug Roger's cock even more as it became aroused. Tim couldn't decide which he liked better—Roger's swollen cock in red nylon or Roger's swollen cock in black rubber. Luckily it didn't matter. He had taught Roger to display his cock in ways guaranteed to excite.
The Magister began tapping the riding crop against his left boot. As Tim watched, he slowly drew it up the inside of his thigh until the end rested on his cock. It was almost as if he was reading Tim's mind. Tim's gaze became transfixed as the Magister traced the outlines of his cock and balls with the tip of the riding crop. The message was clear. Take your punishment and earn the right to this.
Roger's equipment was worth any sacrifice. Without thinking much about it, Tim bent forward and closed his mouth around the next ball of paper. He was learning. The trick was to mash the ball between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and saturate it with saliva. That made it easier to gum it into a mass of pulp and chew it into bits small enough to swallow. The ink was probably staining his tongue and teeth black, and the paper went down his esophagus painfully, like a poorly chewed mouthful of a peanut butter sandwich. It was uncomfortable, but he wasn't worried. The safety protocols in Roger's programming would eliminate any danger. Roger's subconscious would take the necessary steps if he started to choke or something.
When he finished chewing the fifth ball, Tim spread his body flat on the floor and wriggled across the rug. "Please, Magister, forgive your slave." Tim lifted his head and licked the sole of the Magister's left boot. "I'll never do that again." (That didn't sound right. He reminded himself to work on his dialogue. Roger's characters always sounded more realistic than he did.)
The Magister shoved Tim's face away with his boot. He placed the tip of the riding crop under Tim's chin and lifted Tim's face. Tim averted his eyes. The Magister used the riding crop to turn Tim's head first to the left and then to the right. He was examining the effects of the initial stage of Tim's punishment. "You're damned right you'll never do that again. That was only the beginning of your punishment. You'll never forget the lesson I'm going to teach you tonight. Now crawl upstairs and remove your clothing. Kneel on the floor and wait for me. Your disobedience disgusts me. I am angry with you. I need to consider how to deal with you."
Tim hung up his clothes carefully. There was no need to upset the Magister further. The program would play itself out without additional stimulus from him. He knelt on the floor and waited. A quick glance in the sliding mirrors that served as the doors to his closets revealed that his lips and chin were indeed stained black. He stuck out his tongue. It was even blacker. Even his teeth were streaked with black. His mouth was dry. He couldn't work up any spit. He briefly considered washing his face and brushing his teeth. But the Magister had seen him. He would know that Tim had washed off the signs of his punishment. He would also hear the noise of water running and would know that Tim wasn't kneeling and waiting as ordered.
The Magister was in no hurry to come upstairs. Tim heard him moving about downstairs. The refrigerator door opened and closed several times. The Magister removed things from cabinets and set them on the table. Cutlery scraped across a plate. Water ran. Sometime later the downstairs toilet flushed. The TV came on, and the sound of canned laughter came through the furnace ducts. The hands on the bedside alarm clock moved past 8:00 and then 9:00.
Tim shifted about trying to find a more comfortable spot. He had been waiting for over two hours, and kneeling on the carpet was becoming painful. The fibers bit into his knees. He couldn't bear to hold one position for more than a few minutes. He thought about standing up. He would hear Roger approaching in time to resume kneeling. Plus he had to go to the bathroom. He debated whether to chance it or not. The Magister would hear the sound of the toilet flushing, and he had to flush the toilet. If the Magister discovered that he had used the toilet without flushing it, he would be even angrier.
Was he even supposed to use the toilet without permission? He hadn't programmed the Magister character that way, but then he hadn't instructed him to get upset about a newspaper left in the living room either. This was uncharted territory. Roger's subconscious had proven clever in coming up with innovations in the characters Tim taught him to play. Which was good. He couldn't anticipate everything. He installed the basic outline of the character in Roger's mind, but once he activated the character, it was up to Roger's subconscious to devise the means of carrying out the basic program. When he had found Roger, Roger had been almost totally ignorant of how tops behaved. But he had learned quickly, and now he seemed to be coming up with things on his own.
Tim's bladder was becoming even more insistent. He had to relieve himself. It occurred to him that he could use the hallway bathroom rather than the one off his bedroom. If he was careful, he wouldn't make much noise, and he didn't need to flush the toilet. He could do that later, after the game was over. Roger never used that bathroom, and the Magister would have no reason to look in there.
Tim was about to stand up when the tenor of the noise downstairs changed. The TV was turned off. Roger was moving about downstairs. Closet and cupboard doors opened and closed. The intensity of the light coming up the stairwell changed. It grew dimmer as the lights downstairs were shut off. Finally Roger mounted the stairs.
Tim tried to catch Roger's eye as he walked into the bedroom. He thought about pausing the Magister program long enough for him to use the bathroom, but his curiosity about the things Roger was carrying made him hesitate. Roger—no, he was the Magister now—the Magister ignored Tim. He placed a folded up plastic sheet, a roll of duct tape, and a pair of scissors on a chair, and then walked out. He went into the spare bedroom and opened the chest of drawers where Tim kept his supply of toys.
A second later he was back in the bedroom. He stepped behind Tim and said, "Open." A ball gag dangled in front of Tim's eyes. He automatically opened his mouth. The Magister had the gag locked in place before Tim remembered that he wanted to pause the program. Damn. All the commands were verbal, and now he couldn't speak. He tried to say, "Pause Magister mode," but all that came out were a series of mumbles.
The Magister slapped Tim across the back of the head. "Silence." He grabbed Tim's right arm and cuffed it, pulling it behind Tim's back. Tim began to struggle as the Magister reached for his left wrist. The Magister jerked up on his right wrist, sending a bolt of pain through Tim's body. His body twisted forward. The Magister took advantage of Tim's lapse in attention and quickly cuffed the left wrist. Tim's arms were now pinioned behind his back, pushing his head forward and down. He didn't even try to resist as the Magister chained his ankles together.
The Magister retrieved the plastic sheet. He unfolded it and draped it around Tim's neck. He wrapped the duct tape several times around Tim's neck to hold the sheet in place and then spread the sheet out tent-like until it covered the floor for several feet around Tim.
"I have decided that you need reminders of what I am and what you are. You forget your place when I am not around, and you take advantage of my good nature. I had hoped that you would be different from your predecessors and would be obedient. But I see that you are not. Therefore you will be punished for your disobedience. Now, you spend entirely too much time worrying about your hair when you should be focusing on me. Think about what that means for a few minutes."
The Magister stepped into the bathroom. Tim heard drawers being pulled open. He looked in the mirror at his hair. It was one his best features. A rich brown, thick, cut every Friday by his favorite barber. What was this maniac he had unleashed about to do?
The maniac didn't keep him guessing for long. When he returned, he had a package of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, and the electric trimmer Tim had bought when he briefly sported a beard. The Magister arranged them on the dresser in a neat row. When he picked up the scissors, Tim thought the Magister was just trying to scare him. That was how he had been programmed. The Magister was instructed to chastise Tim for his shortcomings, but not to harm him. Tim had been careful to instill that thought deep in Roger's subconscious.
He still thought that the Magister was trying only to scare him when the Magister grabbed a clump of his hair and flashed the scissors open and closed several times. It wasn't until hanks of hair cascaded over his face that Tim realized that he really was getting a haircut. He tried to escape by crawling away on his knees but lost his balance and toppled forward. The Magister held Tim down by pressing a knee between Tim's shoulders. He continued to snip away. Tim watched in horror as a mound of hair grew on the floor around him.
The Magister put the scissors down and then pulled and jerked Tim onto a chair. He bound Tim's chest to the chair back with a few, quick loops of the duct tape. The electric trimmer made short work of the rest of Tim's hair, leaving only stubble. The shaving cream and a razor took care of that. The Magister maneuvered the chair around until Tim could see himself in the mirrors. His scalp was totally nude. The plastic sheet was covered with his hair and blobs of shaving cream.
The Magister left the room again. Tim barely noticed. He was appalled by his image in the mirror. Bits of foam stuck to his ears and forehead. It would take weeks for his hair to grow to a length where it could be styled again. How was he going to explain this at work?
The Magister returned and stood behind Tim. He briefly regarded his handiwork. Tim tried to shift around in the chair, but the tape held him tight. All he could do was send a begging look toward the Magister.
A clear plastic bag descended over his head. The Magister held it close about Tim's neck with his hands.
Tim tried to take a deep breath, but the ball gag blocked his mouth. He panicked. The bag filled his nostrils as he tried to breathe in. Within a few seconds, the air inside the bag became hot and humid. He struggled, but the Magister just tightened his grip on Tim's neck. Black spots appeared before Tim's eyes. There was a roaring in his ears. His heart began beating wildly. The spots grew larger and larger. His lungs hurt.
What had he done? This wasn't the way he had programmed the Magister. God, what if Roger didn't realize what he was doing and stop in time?
When Tim regained consciousness, he lay spread-eagled on the bed. His wrists and ankles were secured to the bedposts with cuffs and rope. The ball gag was still blocking his mouth. His jaw trembled from the strain of his mouth being forced open for so long. He tried to swallow, but it was difficult. He could feel a line of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth. He was drooling.
Something scrapped against his balls. He lifted his head. The Magister was shaving his crotch. It looked like he was almost finished.
"You see, everything about you is under my control." Tim got the impression that the Magister had been talking for a long time. "I decide what you will look like. As I just demonstrated, I even decide whether you will continue to breathe or not. Your life is mine. These are only a few of the lessons you will learn in the next few days. If you do not learn to obey my rules quickly, you will join your predecessors. I will put that plastic bag over your head again, and I will tape it shut. When you cease to struggle, I will wrap your body in that plastic sheet and secure it with more duct tape. I will dispose of your carcass in the river. The choice is yours. Obedience or disposal.
"Now, my next demonstration of my control over you involves chastity." The Magister picked up a wet cloth and wiped off Tim's groin. "From now on, you will wear this." He held up a metal tube. "Some people like clear plastic devices like the CB series. I prefer metal. Chrome is such a nice reflective surface, and metal is so unforgiving. You'll soon learn that hard-ons are painful. You've had your last one, by the way. Say good-bye to erections. Of course, once this is in place, I won't be able to get at the shaft of your penis, but that won't matter. As you will see, this device leaves the head of your cock and your balls available for use as sites for my future amusement. The ring that secures the device behind your balls will be painfully tight at first, but you'll get used to it. That is, until you move. Every time you move, you'll be aware that your chastity is under my control now.
"In case you're wondering if you will ever have an orgasm again, the answer is yes. Occasionally my play will become so intense that you will come spontaneously. But you won't get hard. You can't. The metal tube around your cock will prevent that. Oh, your cock will swell up, but the tube will constrict it even more. Your orgasms will be painful reminders of your loss of control. Of course, I will have to punish you for coming without permission, but that will just add to my enjoyment. So for me, it's a win-win situation." The Magister held up his hand, fingers spread, palm open and facing downwards, and see-sawed it back and forth. "For you, not so much."
Tim didn't know where the chastity device had come from. He hadn't bought it. Until he had implanted the "fact" in Roger's brain that he was a dominant, Roger hadn't ever seen half the toys that Tim had, let alone purchased any. And yet here he was in the character of the Magister, holding a shiny chrome-plated metal tube with interlocking metal rings to secure it around his cock and balls. When had he bought it? When Roger wasn't triggered into acting out one of his pre-programmed roles, he was a mild-mannered accountant. When had he stepped into a phone booth and changed into SuperMaster?
Tim's groin ached. His cock and balls were being crushed by the chastity device. Hours earlier—at least it seemed like hours earlier—the Magister had grabbed his cock and balls in his fist and yanked them away from Tim's body. One of the thick metal rings went around his balls, forcing them out and away from his groin. The other looped around both his cock and his balls. The Magister secured the device in place with a small padlock. The pain was so overwhelming that Tim barely noticed the Magister threading his limp cock through the tube until the head protruded. He quickly locked the tube to the ring. Finally he had attached a short rod linking the base of the tube to the underside of the ring as it passed beneath Tim's balls. The rod forced his balls apart. They were throbbing with pain.
And then the Magister had left. Tim was still tied spread-eagled to the bed, with a gag in his mouth. He could lift his head enough to see his groin. The chastity lock gleamed in the light. He couldn't see all of it. From his perspective, he saw a metal tube stretching down away from his stomach, with his balls bulging out on either side.
Tim didn't know what the Magister was doing. The house felt empty. His brain had been so derailed by the pain in his balls when the Magister had walked out that he hadn't paid attention to the other man's movements. He thought the Magister had gone downstairs, but he wasn't sure. It had been a long time since he had heard any noises that could be the sounds of someone moving about.
Tim twisted his head to look in the mirror. He could see the face of his alarm clock on the nightstand. The image was reversed, and he had to work to read it correctly. 4:18. That couldn't be correct. He couldn't have been lying there since last night. Suddenly he had to pee. He tried to remember. He had last used the bathroom yesterday afternoon at work. Had he gone right before he left for home? Even if he had, it was at least ten hours since he had urinated. As soon as he thought of it, his need to piss became overwhelming. He was tied to a bed. He had no way to free himself. His cock was imprisoned in a rigid metal tube. And he had to go. Badly.
He tried to think of something else. The ball gag kept him from making any sound louder than a whimper. He pushed against the gag with his tongue to try to pop it out, but that just made the muscles in his jaw and mouth spasm. Even if Roger was sleeping in the next room, he wouldn't hear. The sting of the piss in his cock got hotter and hotter. Keeping the piss slit clamped tightly shut was all that he could think of, but concentrating on that made it even worse. He couldn't let go. He was lying on a hand-made quilt he had bought at a show. It had cost him $750. It would be ruined. And the piss would soak into the blankets and maybe the mattress too. Christ, who knew the need to piss could hurt so much?
He moaned with pleasure as he let go. The hot urine gushed out. The relief was so enormous that he didn't immediately register the wet stain spreading out beneath his thighs and buttocks.
A slap on the face woke Tim up.
"You're disgusting. I can't leave you unsupervised for a minute. First the newspaper and now this. I told you I am in control. I see that I will have to prove that to you."
A metal bead at the end of a stiff metal wire appeared in front of Tim's eyes. The character of the light in the room told him that it was daytime. The Magister was dressed in street clothes. He appeared to have just arrived home again.
The Magister grabbed Tim's cock. He pinched the head. Tim couldn't see what he was doing. He felt rather than saw the bead being pushed into the piss slit. It hurt like hell. The Magister maneuvered it about and then attached it to the chastity device.
"You've shown me that you can't be trusted. So now you won't be able to piss unless I remove the bead. I'm going to make sure that you don't shit without permission either."
The butt plug was huge. The Magister rammed it in without any preliminary preparation.
"I will schedule toilet times for you. If you're a good boy, I will let you go to the bathroom. If you're not, well, you'll just have to wait."
The Magister regarded Tim with what looked like satisfaction. He stroked Tim's head. "I'm gradually getting you into shape. You look so much better without your hair. I'm going to keep your entire body shaved from now on."
Tim moaned. His throat was parched. He hadn't had any liquids since yesterday afternoon. The ball gag felt glued to his lips and tongue. If the Magister removed it now, probably half the skin on his lips and tongue would be pulled off. He tried to say the word water, but only meaningless grunts came out.
"There, there. I know you want to be a good boy, don't you?"
The Magister's tone was so soothing. An outsider hearing him would think he was training a dog. Tim was helpless. He had to agree. He nodded his head yes frantically.
"You're probably thirsty, aren't you? Do you want a drink of water?"
Tim's nods became even more frantic. He had to get the Magister to remove the gag so that he could say the preprogrammed stop signal.
"I'll be right back. Don't go away." The Magister's smile was evil. "We'll get you changed too. You've ruined all the blankets and sheets. I'll deal with this mess. And then I will punish you."
The Magister went downstairs. Tim heard him in the kitchen. When he returned, he was wearing only his boots and the red thong. He had a glass of water in one hand. He set it down and then untied Tim's wrists from the bed posts. He helped Tim sit up. It was painful. All the joints in his body were stiff and sore. The Magister seemed to sense that. He massaged Tim's shoulders and neck. "Good boy. Just relax. I'll take care of everything." The Magister's voice was so soothing. Tim couldn't resist as his arms were pulled behind his back and cuffed together.
The Magister opened the drawer of the night stand and pulled out a small box. He smiled again at Tim as he removed two ear plugs and put them in place. He was still smiling as he unbuckled the gag and eased it off.
Tim couldn't swallow. He had no saliva left. The Magister held the glass of water up to Tim's mouth. Tim's gulped it down greedily. A drop of water ran down his chin. The Magister wiped it off with his thumb.
"Thank you," Tim croaked. "Magister Mode off."
The Magister pointed to the ear plugs and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was louder. "That won't work. What will work is the sedative I put into the water. It will take a few minutes. I'll be back in a bit."
The Magister rolled Tim's body to one side of the bed. Tim slumped. He couldn't control his body. He was conscious, but his mind was foggy. He watched as the Magister stripped the blankets and sheets off the open side of the bed. The Magister maneuvered Tim to the uncovered side and finished pulling the covers off the bed. He handled everything by the edges, avoiding the wet spot Tim had created. Finally, he took off the mattress pad and inspected the mattress. He seemed satisfied with it. He arranged Tim's body in the center of the bed. Tim's arms and legs flopped about and then settled into place. The Magister picked up the dirty bedclothes and took them away.
Tim's mind wasn't working properly. He struggled to think. The gag had been taken out of his mouth, and his wrists and ankles were no longer bound. He was free to talk and move, but he couldn't be bothered. He felt so heavy and sluggish. His right arm had come to rest across his stomach. He inched it down until it nudged the cock cage. Even that small movement sent a flash of pain through his groin. His balls were swollen, and the butt plug had grown in size. He was sure of that. The Magister must have put a new one in. It felt huge. Even the slightest movement brought it to life. His guts kept trying to push it out, but something was holding it securely in place. If only he had better control of his hands, he could remove it. But his fingers weren't capable of the small movements necessary. Besides, hadn't the Magister padlocked it in place? He wasn't sure. His memories of the events of the past few hours had gaps and holes in them.
There were words—words that would stop the pain, words that would end the madness. He almost knew them. All he had to do was say the right words and the pain would stop.
He didn't realize the Magister had returned until he found his hand being moved away from his groin. The Magister straightened his body on the bed until he was lying on his back with his legs outstretched and his arms and hands by his sides.
"Just relax now, Tim. That's all you have to do. Just relax. You will feel so much better in a while. Close your eyes, and just relax. It's so easy. Just listen to my voice and relax."
The Magister stroked his scalp. The Magister's touch was so soothing, so relaxing. His hands were so warm. It felt so good to relax, to just listen to the Magister's voice and relax. To listen and let the Magister's voice fill his mind. He felt so relaxed, just gently drifting in a warm cocoon of comfort. So warm, so comfortable, so relaxed, going deeper and deeper and relaxing more and more. It felt so good just to relax and go deeper and deeper. It felt so good to stop thinking and just listen.
He felt so good. The Magister made him feel so good. The only person who could make him feel this good was the Magister. No one else. Only the Magister. He was so relaxed. He was going deeper and deeper. He felt so good when he obeyed the Magister. Obedience to the Magister and only the Magister made him feel so good. Nothing felt better than obeying the Magister.
Tim floated on a warm sea of comfort and well-being. The pain faded and disappeared. He felt so secure and safe. Life was very simple. He worshipped the Magister. His sole pleasure in life was serving the Magister. He loved obeying the Magister's rules. He loved pleasing the Magister. He loved submitting to the Magister. He loved obeying the Magister.
The Magister would train him. It would take a long time. If he made mistakes, the Magister would punish him. If he carried out his duties to the Magister's satisfaction, the Magister would reward him.
Today he had to learn two specific lessons.
"One, I am erasing a phrase from your mind. The phrase has three words. The words are 'Magister Mode off.' You will forget those words. They no long exist in your mind. You cannot remember them. They are gone. You will not even remember that I commanded you to forget anything."
The Magister repeated the lesson several times, varying the phrasing. Tim's subconscious processed it. He was happy to let the phrase go. He never wanted to leave the Magister. He couldn't survive without the Magister.
"Two, you are addicted to my cock. Every time you see my cock, you feel an aching void in your body that can only be filled by my cock. Every time you see my cock, you want to suck it. You want to worship it with your lips, your mouth, your tongue, your throat. Sucking my cock is your reward for being a good boy."
Tim was kneeling on the kitchen floor. The floor was his place. Unless the Magister ordered him to sit on a chair or lie on a bed, he never used the furniture. The furniture belonged to the Magister. Only the Magister could use it. His responsibility was to clean the furniture, not defile it with his inferior body.
The Magister would arrive home soon. Tim was waiting for him, ready to serve the Magister. He had spent the day cleaning the house, taking care of the yard, and preparing the Magister's dinner. A few minutes ago, he had bathed and cleaned himself inside and out. He hoped he had performed his duties to the Magister's satisfaction. He felt so bad when he failed the Magister. His mistakes made the Magister so unhappy. He hated it when he forced the Magister to punish him. The punishments hurt not because of the physical pain but because of the mental anguish. He was wasting the Magister's time. He was so stupid sometimes. He couldn't remember things, and then the Magister had to punish him to help him remember. He didn't want to make mistakes. The Magister was so good to him. The Magister was putting in so much time training him. Disobeying the Magister made a mockery of all his hard work. Disobedience was poor repayment for the Magister's kindness in accepting Tim as his slave and training him in proper behavior.
Tim heard the garage door rising. The Magister was home. A surge of apprehension swept through him. He hoped he had done his work to the Magister's high standards. He tried his best, but he always failed. He crouched down on all fours off to one side so that the Magister would not have to step around him on his way through the kitchen. He pressed his forehead into the linoleum. He had washed and waxed the kitchen floor earlier. It gleamed. The door from the garage into the utility room opened. He closed his eyes and waited.
The Magister walked past him without stopping.
Tim waited. The Magister would return. First, he would remove the clothes of his street identity, the suit, white shirt, tie, and black lace-up shoes that he wore to work, and assume the casual clothes that he wore around the house—a pair of baggy khaki pants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt buttoned up to the neck, and scuffed moccasins over his argyle socks. Then he would inspect the house and property. That sequence at least was certain. What the Magister did after that varied with his mood and Tim's performance. He might order Tim to get him a beer and drink it as he read the newspaper or watched TV while Tim prepared his dinner. He might spend the evening watching more television or using his computer while Tim washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. He might go to bed, leaving Tim kneeling on the kitchen floor waiting for the morning and the opportunity to make the Magister's breakfast. Or he might . . .
Tim was allowed upstairs only to clean. Even then one room was always locked. He hadn't entered it for over seven months—not since the Magister had arrived. Nor was he allowed to open the Magister's closets or his chests of drawers—when he did the laundry, he left the Magister's folded and ironed clothes on the bed. Similar rules applied to the rooms downstairs. He was allowed into the living, dining, and TV rooms and the Magister's office only to dust and vacuum. Additionally he could enter the dining room to serve the Magister his meals. When he was not carrying out his duties, he remained in the kitchen and utility room. He was allowed outside only to do yard work. Indoors he wore only the chastity device and the plugs. Outside he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt in warm weather. He had a light and a heavy jacket for colder weather. Those were the only clothes he owned now. The garage had a drain and he shaved and bathed there using pails of water brought from the kitchen sink. Three times a day the Magister escorted him to the toilet and removed the plugs.
What the Magister looked at and checked during the nightly inspection remained a mystery to Tim. Some nights the inspection took only a few minutes. Other times the Magister spent half an hour. The inspections always resulted in a list of Tim's mistakes. The punishment for his failures could range from mild (a lecture) to severe (a beating).
Tim heard the Magister moving quickly about upstairs and then come downstairs. He remained kneeling with his forehead pressed to the floor as the Magister checked the kitchen, the utility room, and the garage. He felt a draft as the Magister opened the door to the back yard. He spent ten minutes outside, which did not presage a good report. Usually the more time the Magister devoted to the inspection, the greater number of faults he found. But today, he said only, "This weekend I will mark out a space back of the garage. You will prepare it for planting next week." The Magister sounded distracted, as if his mind weren't on Tim. "Bring me a beer. I'll be in my office."
The Magister was seated in front of his computer when Tim brought in the beer. The Magister's briefcase was open on the desk. Apparently this was to be a work night for the Magister. "I'll eat at 7:00."
Tim scurried back to the kitchen and got to work on the Magister's dinner. Just before 7:00 he set the table. When the Magister came in, Tim served him. The Magister ate quickly and returned to his office. Tim cleared the table and then cleaned the kitchen. He had everything washed and put away by 7:45. It took him longer than most people because of the restrictions on the amount of noise he was allowed to make. The Magister did not want to hear him working. When he finished, he dimmed the lights and knelt on the kitchen floor again.
The Magister came in about 10:00. Tim bent his body forward until his forehead rested on the floor. "Toilet." Tim crawled on his hands and knees to the downstairs toilet. The Magister removed the plugs. When Tim finished, he reinserted the plugs.
"Kneel. Face the wall."
The Magister left briefly and then returned. He placed a leather hood over Tim's head and fastened it tight in back. The eyeholes were zipped shut. Pinpricks of light shone through the teeth of the zippers. The Magister secured the straps so that Tim's jaw was held shut. He checked to make sure that the breathing holes were located over Tim's nostrils, and then cuffed Tim's hands behind his back.
"I had to finish some work before I could attend to you. But don't think I've overlooked your mistakes today. You made a great many. I really don't know what I'm going to do with you. You don't seem to be learning. I'm about ready to give up on you and start looking for a replacement. If it weren't so much work to train a new boy, I'd just slip a plastic bag over your head and tape it shut around your neck. I'm tempted to do just that."
The Magister stuck two fingers in the breathing holes of the mask plugging Tim's nostrils. "It would be so easy to kill you. It takes almost no effort at all to suffocate someone. Four-five minutes tops. It's been only a few seconds, but already your lungs are becoming hungry for air."
It was true. As soon as the Magister pointed it out, Tim felt a great need to breathe. He started to panic and pulled away. He took a deep breath in.
The Magister grabbed the metal ring on top of the mask with this right hand and pulled Tim's head back. He pressed his body against Tim's, forcing Tim back onto the floor. The Magister put his full weight on Tim's chest. He pushed Tim's jaw up with the heel of his other hand. "Bad boy. You know better than to try to avoid punishment. That's another mistake today. A big mistake. Why do you make me punish you? When are you going to learn? Bad boy. Bad, bad boy."
At the repetition of "bad boy," all resistance drained from Tim. He had been a bad, bad boy. He deserved to be punished. More than that, he needed to be punished. Punishment would help destroy the bad boy, the boy who disobeyed the Magister, the boy who struggled against the Magister. He needed to be purged of the evil within him, the evil that showed up in his attempts to avoid the Magister's punishments.
The Magister released Tim and stood up. "Kneel." The Magister pinched Tim's nostrils closed. Tim focused on not struggling, on demonstrating his complete obedience to the Magister's will, his complete acceptance of the Magister's control over him, of the Magister's power over him, of the Magister's right to decide whether he lived or died. The Magister put his other hand on the back of Tim's head and guided it down toward the floor. "I know you want to be a good boy. I know you want to be obedient and submissive. I know that you understand the role of punishment in making you obedient and submissive."
Tim nodded his head yes.
"Good boy." The Magister released him.
Tim tried not to take a deep breath in. His lungs ached, but he wanted to show the Magister his obedience and submission by breathing as quietly as possible.
The Magister pressed a wet pad against his nostrils. Chemicals stung Tim's nose and throat. His eyes began watering even as his mind dimmed. He followed the blackness down into oblivion.
"Just relax, Tim. You are a good boy. A good boy submits to his owner. A good boy obeys his owner. A good boy loves to serve his Master. You are a good boy. I am your owner. You submit to me. You obey me. You love to serve me. You worship and adore me."
It was true. He was a good boy. He loved to serve his owner. The Magister was his owner. He loved to serve the Magister. He obeyed the Magister. He existed only to serve the Magister.
He was bound to the punishment bench. His torso lay on the central board. His forearms and calves rested on the shelves at the side of the bench. A thick leather belt around his midsection bound his body to the bench. Smaller cuffs secured his wrists and ankles. The hood had been removed, and his head drooped off one end of the bench. The Magister was punishing him for his failures to obey the Magister in all ways and at all times. The multiple leather strands of the flogger lacerated his flesh. It was his punishment for failing the Magister. He deserved it. His wanted only to please the Magister, and he had failed to do so. He welcomed the pain that came at the end of the lash. He deserved it. The Magister was teaching him to be a good boy. He wanted to be a good boy. He was so grateful to the Magister for teaching him to be a good boy.
"Go deeper now. Deeper and deeper into trance. That's it. So deep. So relaxed. So comfortable. So deeply asleep. You are so deep that your conscious mind will not remember what I say now. Your subconscious mind, however, will remember and do exactly what I tell you to do. Tomorrow, as you go about your chores, you will try very hard to do them as I have instructed you to do them. But you will unconsciously do a few things wrong. You won't even realize that you have done something wrong until I point it out to you. Your subconscious mind desires punishment so much that you will give me a few excuses to punish you. Go even deeper now. Deeper and deeper with each breath in and out."
The Magister repeated the lesson over and over. Tim drifted in the smooth blankness of post-punishment pleasure. The Magister's voice was so soothing. He had been a bad boy. The Magister had punished him. It was the way his world worked. He glided deeper and deeper.
The Magister was crouching next to him, examining him. Tim could see his reflection in the Magister's mirrored sunglasses. A distorted version of his face stared back at him. His nose was so large and prominent. The rest of his face curved back and away.
The Magister's eyes were hidden behind the glasses. As always, his face was emotionless. He never gave anything away. He never smiled. He never scowled. Tim never knew what he was thinking. The Magister stood up. His body rose into Tim's view. At some point when Tim had been unconscious, the Magister had taken off the shirt and the khaki pants he had been wearing. He wore only a white T-shirt and a pair of roomy white boxers.
Hope and desire mingled in Tim. When the Magister stripped to his underwear, it usually meant that the punishment phase of his nightly service was over and that the pleasure phase might be about to start.
The Magister shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The fly of his boxers briefly gaped open. Before it closed, Tim caught a glimpse of pubic hair. It was so tantalizingly close to what he wanted to see. Would the Magister let him suck his cock tonight? Maybe once or twice a week, he was allowed to do that. He could never predict when it would happen. Sometimes the Magister fed him his cock two nights in a row. Other times, he might make Tim wait for two weeks.
The Magister stroked Tim's scalp. He seemed to be thinking. Tim relaxed. He couldn't do anything to affect the Magister's decision. He could only hope. The Magister's cock was only a few inches away from his mouth, hidden behind a thin layer of cotton. It was so close that Tim could count the number of stitches in the front panel of the Magister's boxers.
"Cock." Tim spoke his thoughts aloud. The word flowed out of him with his breath. As soon as he said it, he knew that he had broken a law. He was not to speak except in answer to a direct question from the Magister. And even then, the Magister would punish him if he used more words than necessary or failed to show the proper respect and humility.
The Magister grabbed Tim's throat and squeezed hard. "Bad boy." Tim jerked away. The Magister slapped him across the face. His fingers found the carotid arteries on either side of Tim's neck and pressed them closed. "You can't get away. You're tied down. Haven't you learned yet how little time it would take me to end your disobedience once and for all? It's just been a few seconds, but I bet there are already black spots before your eyes."
The Magister was right. Tim could already feel the effects of the interruption of the blood flow to his brain. He willed himself to relax and accept his punishment. He let his body droop over the frame of the punishment bench. He tried to convey his apologies to the Magister through his eyes and the expression on his face.
"That's better." The Magister relaxed the pressure on Tim's throat, but he kept his hand in place. "I don't like to punish you. It's a nuisance and a distraction, but you can't get away with misbehavior. I'm willing to put in the effort as long as your behavior improves, but if it doesn't, then one day I will decide you're not worth the effort. And you know what I do with boys who aren't worth the effort."
He reached over Tim's back and jerked on the strap that held the butt plug in place. The butt plug
slammed into Tim's prostate gland and bladder and sent a spasm of pain coursing through his gut. Tim's torso tried to arch away from the bench but the strap around his midsection held it in place. The Magister slashed the riding crop across Tim's ass. He counted off ten strokes.
"When may you speak?"
"Only to answer a question from you, Sir."
The answer brought another ten strokes. Throughout the Magister continued to hold the strap on the butt plug taut. With each movement of their bodies, the plug thrashed about inside Tim, adding to his agony.
When the Magister finished, he went back to stroking Tim's scalp. "So, my cock interests you."
It wasn't a question, and Tim knew better than to answer. He merely raised his head and opened his mouth wide.
The Magister laughed. "You can't get enough of it."
Again it was a statement, not a question. Tim tried to strain forward on the bench, to bring his mouth closer.
The Magister reached into his briefs and pulled the head of his cock out. It was level with Tim's mouth, a tantalizing six inches away. Tim couldn't take his eyes off of it. He felt so hollow. His mouth and throat and esophagus hungered for the Magister's cock. He wanted the Magister to thrust his cock into him.
"You like that, don't you? What do you want, Tim?"
"To suck your cock, Sir."
"Do bad boys get to suck cock, Tim?"
"That's right. Only good boys get to suck cock. And you have not been a good boy."
The Magister walked behind Tim. He pulled open a drawer and looked around inside. The bench prevented Tim from seeing what the Magister was doing, but he wouldn't have looked even if he could have. Curiosity about the Magister's actions was also forbidden. He was to accept what the Magister did to him, with gratitude and humility.
"Now that you're no longer working, you never dress up anymore." The Magister looped a tie around Tim's neck from behind. "You always looked so neat wearing a suit and tie." The Magister held both ends of the tie in his hands. The cool, smooth silk tightened around Tim's neck. The Magister slowly pulled his hands apart. The tie became a garrote. "You look so pretty. I should make you wear a tie more often." The Magister playfully tightened and released the garrote. He gradually pulled the tie tighter each time and held it in place a little longer. Eventually he kept the pressure on until Tim almost fainted before he released it and let the blood flow back into Tim's oxygen-starved brain.
Tim knew not to struggle. He concentrated on not provoking the Magister.
"I know you like to suck my cock, Tim. And I was going to let you do that tonight until you broke one of the cardinal rules. If I let you suck me now, I would be rewarding you for disobeying me. You see I want to get off tonight, Tim. Simply put, I'm horny. Very horny. And I know that you're always ready and willing to suck me off. I know that you love that. But your misbehavior means that I can't use your mouth. So, we're both going to have to settle for second best."
The Magister yanked off the strap holding the butt plug in place. The snaps flew open, and the plug shot out of Tim's ass. Tim barely had time to register the pain from the abrupt removal before the Magister shoved his cock into him and began pumping. The Magister made no effort to ease his cock in or lessen the shock. He slammed his cock all the way into Tim and began pummeling. Tim was so restrained that he couldn't move to a position that would ease the pain even a little. He had to take it. He hated being fucked, and he hated being fucked by the Magister. The man was so huge and so rough. Thankfully the Magister seldom fucked him. The last time he ended up bleeding for days.
The Magister's cock rammed into Tim faster and faster. Tim's ass ached. A column of throbbing agony shot up through his chest, growing larger and more painful with each thrust. Tim screamed. As the Magister grew more excited, his cock grew even bigger. He was tearing Tim open.
As the Magister quickly neared orgasm, he gripped both ends of the necktie and pulled it tight around Tim's neck. Tim struggled to breathe. The tie was slowly crushing his Adam's apple. And the Magister didn't seem to notice. He was so immersed in fucking Tim that he didn't realize he was choking him. The tie began to bite into Tim's skin. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his vision turned black. The Magister was pounding his ass so hard that he was pushing the bondage bench across the floor. That made the noose around his neck even tighter. He tried to speak or scream but nothing came out. Just "unnh, unnh, unnh." He was going to die. He knew it. If he somehow got out of this alive, he vowed to be the good boy the Magister wanted. He would never fuck up again.
The Magister shouted something. The pressure on his neck eased. Tim's last, grateful thought as he sunk into oblivion was that the Magister would use him again.