He is Your Master Now Pt. 01

Deceptively guided through a garden path of ecstatic sexual exploits by a preternaturally mysterious woman, a young man's journey to sissyhood reaches a defining moment.

He is Your Master Now Part 1: On the Precipice.

Six months ago, Ambrose Sweet's body wasn't completely shaved, and he had never worn women's lingerie.

Six months ago he was barely aware of the complex depths of cosmetology; he would have scoffed at the very notion that there was an art and a science to applying makeup, now he could apply women's makeup on himself with the subtle expertise of an entertainment award winning professional.

Most assuredly, six months ago he had never had a butt plug firmly lodged in his anus while his small, circumcised penis lived in a cage more often than not.

Six months ago he was a regular young man of no significant achievement with a somewhat bland personality, except for a slight penchant for the kind of rude assertiveness, often adopted as a cover for a lack of self-worth that he carefully hid even from himself.

Today, he was on his knees. Not that he had a choice as they were held far apart and firmly in place by four thick, black leather restraints, two located just below his knees and two above his ankles. Each restraint contained a stainless-steel ring to which were attached chains hooked tautly to black iron rings embedded in the floor. When not in use, these rings were ordinarily flush with the dark wooden surface. The rest of the floor was similarly studded with all sorts of hardware and one had to be mindful of these features to keep from tripping or stubbing a dragging toe.

He was in an enormous bedroom in which could be found all sorts of gothic furniture, within which were located all manner of erotic accouterments of both a light and dark nature. The more humorous of these items were among the cruelest. This was the case with the butt plug currently lodged in his ass. The visible outer portion was a flat disk upon which was affixed an enamel picture of some cutesy, Japanese-style, cartoon bunny; the type that might grace the backpack of a preteen girl.

It was one of the newer butt plugs that had been specially made just for him and impossible to shit out. He could pull it out; his hands were free, but there would be some significant discomfort in doing so. It was always best to pull these out when he lay on his side and had a few minutes to work it out. Plus, he dared not pull it out at this moment.

The massive four-poster bed at the far wall could easily accommodate six adults. It too was studded with restraining hardware. It was ominously explained to him that the dark wine-colored canopy, made of a thick cloth, held LED stage lights housed in ornate lamp fixtures.

Someday, something would be done to him on that bed. Something of such import, that he would have to be clearly displayed during the process, act, endeavor-- whatever it was to be, he could only imagine, before snuffing the possibility out of fear that it might burn his mind.

Less than a hand's width from his face, perhaps three to four inches, was a massive, uncircumcised, erect penis extending from an expensive, exquisitely tailored pair of trousers.

Naturally, he had seen plenty of monster cocks in porn, as well as the occasional, and of course accidental, glimpses of non-erect penises in restrooms throughout his life, but he had never before seen a real man's erect penis in real life. In fact, he had expected to go his entire life without ever seeing one live.

As he began to get past his initial shock, the jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions began to subside to the point where he could better regard it. Aside from its size, he couldn't settle on what was most disturbing.

If one saw this man naked in a photo, you could never assume that his penis had been deceptively enlarged by use of some software trickery because of the foreskin, which was so-- absurdly thick. Even the veins were off-putting. They were so massive and starkly pronounced that they almost seemed like cables fastened to the outer shaft. There was one knot where two came together in a sort of junction point; he could almost see the blood throbbing there with his naked eyes.

The entire thing would have been at home amidst the mad, jumbled, collection of instinctive, primordial, sense-memories of an HR Giger painting. It was truly a monster cock and surely, deep within the foreskin, hid a sharp toothed mouth, just waiting to rip itself into tender flesh. His tender flesh.

It pulsed faintly with each heartbeat; the movement of which was nearly lost whenever the possessor of that instrument of mass destruction shifted his weight ever so slightly.

The thing was so massive that it seemed to possess an inertial drift separate from the owner. Whenever the man shifted his weight ever so slightly, there seemed a split-second delay before such movements were imparted to it. And when the man stilled his movements once more, the monster's own movements decreased at its own momentum.

The word "schlong" jumped into Ambrose's head as the most appropriate noun.

Ambrose couldn't bring himself to lift his gaze and look the man in the face for fear of what he might find there. Pity? Amused derision? Contempt? What he feared most, was a mirror reflecting back at him his own sense of inadequacy and inferiority.

The man, whoever he was, had just showered, as evidenced by a soapy smell that lacked the typical floweriness of most soaps. This man had no use for such things. This man used a basic, no frills, no nonsense soap that got the job done and did little to cover the scent of male musk exuding from his trousers.

The next thing that struck Ambrose, though somewhat lost in the sensory overload that battered his consciousness was not too insignificant. Though the "schlong" was perhaps three to four inches from his face, an intense body heat bridged that gap and spilled its warmth onto his nose and lip area. He suddenly became aware that his lips seemed dry and before he could stop himself, he parted them slightly and wet them with a quick pass of the tongue.

They mustn't think he was salivating at the prospect of taking that-- thing-- into his mouth. They wouldn't, would they? His lips had felt chapped. It was only natural to wet them. As soon as he thought that, he began to doubt they were dry after all.

Though still hidden within the man's pants, the image of the gargantuan set of balls that surely must accompany that cock came unbidden to his mind. He imagined rivulets of sweat sliding down the curved surface, randomly diverted here and there by thick, springy pubes.

Try as hard as he might, he could not prevent himself from imagining catching one on the tip of his tongue and letting it roll down his throat, leaving a salt deposit trail of bold, acrid manliness.

Regardless of what he did next, the state of his mind as he did it, would determine whether or not he saw it as his salvation or damnation.

If he had found himself in this predicament six months ago, Ambrose would be raging until his voice blew out and his throat was nothing more than a mass of raw, bloody hamburger. There was no doubt that he would cause harm to himself as he pulled against his restraints with all his might.

To be continued.