+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Even The First - PART NINE
THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE.
CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com IF YOU LIKE.
SEARCH NIFTY FOR sharper@inorbit.com or this link www.bit.ly/1VSsqpI TO READ OTHER TALES BY ME.
REMEMBER TO MAKE YOUR DONATION TO WWW.NIFTY.ORG !!
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Even The First - PART NINE
[quote] Use your anger. [unquote]
I stared at the cabinet.
Inside its drawer was Paul's book, "Foundations of Enslavement".
That book.
That book.
That book
That book had been dictating my whole life for the past seven years.
Sometimes I thought, I am so angry, I can never get over this.
Sometime I thought, I am so wounded, I can never recover.
Sometimes I even thought, The only way is to hurt him, to plot revenge.
Sometimes I thought, The only way is to hurt myself (but that's what I've been doing all these years, just to please him!).
Sometimes I thought, All I wanted was to have an ordinary life with an ordinary boyfriend with an ordinary job. Meet his parents. Spend xmas with them. Go on holiday with him to cheap Mediterranean resorts. Sitges - well, it isn't cheap, but you get the idea. That book had stolen that possibility from me. It had stolen my future happiness. And my past happiness.
At last, I got up from the floor and went downstairs. I went down to the basement, did some chin-ups and pushed some weights, just to lose some little of the tension that was shaking me, and then I cold-showered, just to calm myself down. Then I went back to the kitchen. I began to prepare Paul his dinner.
I peeled some new potatoes. They looked silly in my big man's hands.
Tears of anger and desperation in my eyes, over and over again I thought, "What can I do? Who can I turn to for help?" and I knew that there was no one cs relying on other people is what had got me into this mess, relying on my Army mates, relying on Paul; I'd never relied on myself. I'd never stood up for myself. And now I thought to myself, "It's too late..."
Everyone has let me down. I let down myself. I have been abandoned. I have abandoned myself. Idiot.
I threw one of the potatoes into the sink out of frustration. The water splashed everywhere; I would have to clear that up.
I have no choices.
That book. That book. That book had ruined my life. Well, now I needed a different book, a book I had written myself.
I wiped the area round the sink and put the potatoes on the stove. They would cook later.
I tried to imagine a future, and I cast my mind back; I thought of all the men I'd known. No one to help me. I felt all my attempts to reconstruct myself collapse, like sticks. I was aghast at the gaping hole into which my entire existence had just disappeared. I wanted it to stop. "I deserve better."
I finished my chores and went back to the cold wooden cellar door at the top of the stairs, switched the light on and descended. Paul had bought a full length mirror, so that he can watch himself fucking me. He likes that. He like to stand behind me in front of it and watch his hands groping my groin and my chest. He kisses my neck and steals glances as he is doing so to see how it looks. He likes it when I am on my back and he is fucking me and he can look at himself fucking me, his wood going in and out of my cunt, like he is watching himself in a porn movie. Or like when I have my back to the mirror and he can watch himself whilst I am sucking him off and he can see me from two sides at once. Paul fucking loves that mirror.
I looked at my face and my sad eyes: "This is real. This is actually happening!"
My butt-plug was hurting. It needed adjusting.
I stood before the mirror and inspected myself, checking my appearance for Paul's imminent return. My perfect face. My oval head. My gorgeous eyes, my body which is so lovely, so muscled, so toned and lean - that's due to my lifestyle now under Paul. He criticises everything. He points out where I'm going wrong. He tells me, Less legs, more abs... or stuff like that. He tells me when I need to run more or swim more to work off bulk, or do more squats if I need that, you know, in my glutes.
Paul it was gave me my first butt-plug. I got used to having it in 24/7, if I wasn't being used or shitting. I never thought about it unless it got to be uncomfortable, which it sometimes did if I left it and didn't adjust it. Sometimes I was on display or working and I couldn't adjust it; then it could become uncomfortable.
My balls were strapped, and my cock tightly harnessed - like a horse's head - so that it stood out vulnerably from my balls and legs, even when I wearing clothes. So I was usually conscious of it.
I'd never worn stuff like that before Paul met me. He put it on me. He said it made an improvement. He said I'd get used to the discomfort, and I'd hardly be aware of it - not because it got comfortable, which it never did, but because I'd got used to it, and I'd miss it if it wasn't there.
I usually tied my own cock and ball strap when it needed retying, but then Paul checked me to make sure I had done it tight as necessary, you know, to make it good. His hands on my genitals - this usually made me hard, if I wasn't hard already. Paul liked that. He'd strap it so that it got even harder, and that made it more painful, and that made it harder. But I couldn't cum. And when I was nearly crippled he'd say. "Right. You like that?" And I'd say, "Yes Sir. Thankyou Sir." He'd like that, and he'd laugh, "Right. You're so transparent."
The army is different because of death. You might not think about it, as a soldier, but the army is after all predicated on death: You are willing to die. You are willing to be killed. The relationships you build are based on this imminent fact. That and the ultimate aim, in the end, of avoiding it.
Squigger didn't die because he wanted to. He wanted to live. He told me so, few days before it happened. He said we'd leave the army and make a home. He said it when I brought him food. He said it when he fucked or played with me. He had a plan. He wanted to live. But he was killed, and I think, well, he didn't have a choice. What he wanted was to take his payment and just get a job, 'in civvy street', with me as his ... well, his I don't know what. But he wanted to look after me, I thought. I'm pretty sure of that.
It's when I'm running I often think about it. It's complicated, but Paul makes me wear these small white running shorts. Usually I wear a narrow sleeveless top which gets wet - who needs a shirt when you're running hot and sweat runs down? Even my shorts are wet pretty soon and the water in them makes them like nearly see-thorough. People can see me, if they look. And they do look. They look at me like I'm a piece of shit. That's what reminds me of Squigger and what he said. Here's the story:
Well, for one thing, it was a dry sandy desert, so that was one thing. And plus, in the tent, we were covered, so we were in the shade obviously, but that retained the heat, and we couldn't have the walls off to let a breeze in, for one thing there wasn't a breeze of much sort, but even if there was we had to be careful or grit got blown into the food, which wasn't nice. And then, cs it was the mess tent, well it got pretty hot anyway from the heat of all the cooking. And the guys coming in and out all hot.
So it was like a sauna, so they said, Take your shirt and trousers off. It might not be very hygienic, but we had to keep cool somehow or other and the sweat was dripping off. So the guys in the kitchen habitually stripped just to their shorts or underpants. We wore flipflops or went barefoot.
Even on the food counter, being heated, we often went with just the bare minimum of clothing. That was accepted, even encouraged. No one wanted the mess-sluts (that's what they called us) fainting before they'd served up the grub! We had these little plastic pinneys to wear, just to protect the food and stop getting scorched with splashes. But most of the guys didn't bother. So I was told, just take everything off.
But I had these little briefs and everyone joked cs they were so tiny. Squigger told me he liked it. And I used to wear the little plastic pinney when I was serving on the counter; it was just this thin see-through plastic sheet that you could see I was naked underneath. The guys joked cs everything was see through.
And everyone joked cs it was like I was this piece of shit.
They had these stupid menu cards. Stupid cs the food was all there to see and there was never any difference. The cards had been laminated so they wouldn't get messed up, but they were often on the floor cs that's where the lads threw them. They threw them about like frisbees. So this once when it was really hot, I came out of the kitchen area and I was wearing just my little pants, no plastic pinney, cs it was so hot, and the heat was stifling, and I honestly didn't think anything of it. I saw Squigger notice, though, and as soon as it was seen the guys were laughing in mock disgust, as if it was so unusual as all that.
Then, when they all got their food and they'd woofed it all up and were starting on these little custardy creamy tart things for afters, some of them, I didn't realise, did something. Greggs was probably one. They were up to something for ages but first thing I knew was when they they were pointing to this menu card that was on the ground and said to come out from behind the serving counter and pick it up, cs it was on the floor and getting dirty.
Naturally, I said why didn't they pick it up and everyone laughed, and said that they were not picking it up cs it was disgusting.
Instinctively, I looked at Squigger. Squigger was looking at the card lying on the floor. "Squigger?" I said, like to find out what he wanted. He looked up at me for a steady moment and then he nodded and waved his finger like, yeah, I should come and do like they said.
So I wasn't sure what all the fuss was, but I came out anyway, but only cs Squigger told me, and I knelt down to pick up the card. I was near one of their boots and I thought they would probably kick me, sort of thing they would do. But that wasn't it. I picked up the card and then I saw it was covered in this kind of phlegm - of course it was cum but from several different soldiers, cs there was a whole lot of it and no one shit that mich, to my certain knowledge. Plus, it was all different textures, runny, thick, lines and gobs, etc.. I'm sure they just handed it round and wanked onto it whilst everyone was distracted with getting their food and sitting down and eating.
I was still kneeling and one of them said, "Eughh, that's disgusting, clean it up, Cuntface." And they meant lick it up, these soldiers' cum, and eat it.
I looked at Squigger.
"Do as you're told, Cuntface," he said.
So I did as I was told, but only cs Squigger said, and licked the cum wads off the laminated menu card like they wanted me to and they thought that was really, I mean really funny. And they called me cum-dump cs that's basically what I was.
Cuntface cumdump.
And afterwards Squigger told me he was so pleased cs I'd only done what they said once he'd told me it was ok, and I made sure he was ok before I did anything, and he really liked that. He told me he was proud of me and that everyone could see that I belonged to him fully. And that's when he told me about his plans for the first time, to settle down and so forth.
And so that's what I think about when I'm running and my shorts are so wet cs I've been running and they are filled with sweat, until they are see-through, like my underpants were in the mess tent. So transparent.
[quote] Chapter Title : Return to the Wild.
When you are finished with your slave you may or may not have a problem.
If you can ditch your slave without recourse to any extreme measures, that is obviously the best route. Otherwise the process can be messy and there is no way round it. This chapter is advice on how to manoeuvre the situation to your best advantage. There is no reason why you should be inconvenienced.
Firstly, make sure that your slave relationship is truly exhausted. There are obvious signs: Persistent disobedience that cannot be corrected; sluggish morose behaviour; and so on. But the main sign is your own inclination. Once you no longer wish to be burdened with your property, you have the right do whatever you wish with it.
Return it to the wild, and be done. [unquote]
Oh Christ. I'm so stupid.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
END OF Even The First - PART NINE ^^