Ted's Game

By Mike Mover

Published on May 15, 2013

Gay

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This is a work of fiction and all the standard warnings & disclaimers apply. No intended resemblance to actual people. No minors should be reading this material. If you are offended by frank adult reading, leave now. etc.

Many of you have asked when My next piece is coming out. It's been hard to work through as the characters hadn't quite fleshed themselves out, but progress is ongoing. In the meantime, though, here's a one-chapter stand-alone to stoke the flames.

Reach Me at not_your_typical_Master@yahoo.com

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Ted's got some friends over to enjoy the game.

I hear them above me in his home. The home I bought and lived in like an average guy in the world. Back when I was an average guy in the world. It is now forbidden for me to occupy it, to breathe the air up there; my home is here, in the basement, now his basement, my cell.

It's nice in here. Although there is no sunlight and I can never tell day from night, he keeps ceiling lamps on, all lit with sexy red lights. All I see is red. Red cinder blocks for walls. Comfy red furniture along those walls for Ted and his friends to relax and enjoy the game. Red iron bars, floor to ceiling, enclosing the center of the room. The bars are spaced far enough apart for men to walk freely, but they define my space. A heavy chain attached to the metal collar locked around my neck at one end and locked to a ring in the ceiling above me at the other insures I never leave my space. Ted is generous enough to often keep his fuck-bench located within the space, allowing me to rest on it and sleep. But only if I haven't pissed him off; otherwise, it is pushed away and I can merely sit on the floor, head help up by the chain, for hours or days at a time.

There is no clock in here. I have no need of a clock. I have no need to know how long I've been here. By seeing the length of my once-cropped hair and the length of my beard, I can guess it's been many months, maybe even years. But it's not important. I am always here. I will always be here.

There is a full-length mirror set into one of the walls. This is useful while I work out. If my body fails to satisfy Ted, I am punished. So I work out a lot. I have watched my timeless transformation into the fuck-animal Ted has always wanted, an animal with no other purpose than to provide pleasure to his cock and the cocks of his friends.

My ass is his well-muscled bubble to fuck at will. He has demanded the development of not just the glutes to make it a "muscle-pussy" worth looking at, but the muscles within to grab and clench cock, to pull it deep inside me, to jerk it off with my fuckhole. Likewise, my mouth and throat have been developed to press sensually against dick, to suck every inch, no matter how deep, to pull out the fluids that feed me.

Ted is very generous and feeds me often. Sometimes he has his friends come down and feed me as well. Once in a while, they come down here together to enjoy the game while I entertain them with my cuntface. I relish those times, because they often bring down people food and allow me to swallow the scraps they throw at me: crusts of the pizza, crumbs off their plates. Otherwise, I'm only allowed to swallow the daily ration of tuna, fruits & vegetables that Ted tosses into the processor to turn into a pulp for me. I cannot chew; Ted took care of that in the first few weeks I was down here so that I could properly adore cock without my ugly teeth getting in the way. My facecunt is as it should be, smooth and soft to best pleasure cock.

I have not spoken a word since I was locked down here. Ted says that nobody would want to hear what a stupid animal like me would have to say anyway. To make any noise beyond a muffled grunt or cry offends Ted. And if I offend Ted, I am denied the chance to sleep, or maybe to eat, until I have learned my lesson. Ted is a good teacher.

Ted allowed for a fancy toilet to be installed in the room and trained me to use it properly. It has many uses. Ted or his friends can use it while I pleasure them with my facecunt. I am allowed to use it myself as long as I immediately use the bidet setting to clean myself for use. And, of course, it is the source of the water I drink, as much as I want. Again, showing how generous Ted is with his fuck-animal.

I hear them coming down the stairs, Ted and his friends, to enjoy me and give me purpose. Maybe they'll piss down my throat or on the cement floor for me to lick up before they go back upstairs. Maybe they'll allow me to worship cock. Or maybe they'll just look at me and laugh. That happens a lot. That's what men do when they see the fuck-monkey that Ted has created for himself. His game. They laugh and then they put me to use, arrogantly ramming cock after cock into one of my holes. "You can't rape a fuck-monkey," Ted says, "because you're only giving it what it wants so fucking desperately." Ted is, of course, right. Ted is always right.

Sometimes his friends come down because they're pissed off at their wives or work or something. They come down and punch, kick, or otherwise use me. Ted used to have to lock my hands to my collar for this until I was properly trained to simply lock my fingers together behind my head, totally exposed and open to their aggression. I have been trained to gently kiss the hand that punched me, to lick the feet that kicked me, showing my gratitude for the attention they so generously provided. Then they go back up the stairs while I stare at them, wondering what it must be like to be one of them. To be able to see outside, to know the world, to be a man.

But I am just Ted's fuck-monkey. Ever since that night he said to me, "Hey, let's go down in the basement. I know a fun game we can play."

A game that will never end. Ted and his fuck-monkey. Ted and his game.

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