He is Your Master Now Pt. 05

The malleable reality within Carcosa Manor, in concert with the uncertainty of Cassilda's plans for him, continues to unbalance Ambrose Sweet. Speculation as to the possible nature of an impending fate locks him in an inward battle against himself. Confused by a shifting kaleidoscope of lust, love, hate, fear and dread, all complicated by hunger, imposes upon the shallow young man an uncharacteristic level of introspection which might alter him forever.

He is Your Master Now Part 5: Degradation and Surrender

Carcosa Manor's dimensional oddities took a disturbing turn as Ambrose was led from the parlor up to the third floor.

Whereas previously his disorientation was attributable to the impossible interior dimensions of the domicile, he now had to also contend with impossible changes to the physical architecture itself as the grand stairway that led from the first floor to the second floor now featured an extension to a third floor.

This stairway, located as it was between the medical examination room and the parlor, was just too noticeable a feature to have escaped his notice before. When he was ferried from one room to the other, he had passed a long hallway lined with several doors on either side. On top of his humiliation, his forced submissiveness, his coerced feminine appearance, and his ever-increasing hunger, it was yet another mentally fatiguing element.

By whichever means this physical change to the mansion occurred, Ambrose was grateful that it didn't manifest before his eyes.

They walked at a far slower pace than seemed practical, the reason for which became evident when Governess Bishop began occasionally jerking at his leash in a flippant manner. It was obvious that she meant to flaunt his docility and highlight the contrast between their respective positions of power.

Intermittently, drafts of varying temperatures and intensities would whirl around his body highlighting that fact that his freshly exfoliated genitals and buttocks were exposed, making him feel wretchedly vulnerable.

With the probable purpose behind his feminization beginning to take shape in his mind, he couldn't help but increasingly feel like a condemned criminal being walked to the gallows with each step he took.

In a moment of sober clarity he thought to himself, "Cassilda is going to offer me up to a man" and was shocked that he hadn't realized this obvious possibility-- probability, until just then.

Once the realization hit him, he started to become dimly aware of indistinct thoughts swimming in the murky depths of his mind just beyond the perception of his consciousness. He could see only the small ripples on the surface that resulted from their frantic writhing.

His sudden awareness of their vague, whispery nature signaled to him that his subconscious had been trying to protect him from-- things; things that slithered deep in his psyche. Now that he was aware of his mind's defense, it would be impossible to keep from trying to peek at what was truly haunting him.

It would be as futile as if one were thinking about something-- anything-- other than butterflies, and then suddenly being told not to think of butterflies: one could not help but to then think of butterflies.

In Ambrose' mind, being offered up to a man wouldn't just be another humiliation. It would break him at the deepest level as it would certainly define him going forward. He would fundamentally be altered not just in definition, but in actual fact.

"Offered up." He hadn't simply thought he would be compelled to have sex with a man, but rather, that he would be "offered up" to a man as if he were some sort of trinket given to please some superior specimen of manliness. Why had he thought of it that way?

It was even possible that such a humiliation would not even be the central point of the act; that the man's OWN enjoyment of Ambrose' mouth and ass would be the true purpose of his debasement. Between himself (the gift), Cassilda (the gift giver), some as yet unknown man (the gift recipient), Ambrose' would be reduced from a living, thinking person, to a thing.

Would he be a valued gift? Or would he perhaps be given thoughtlessly, like a bottle of cheap wine purchased on the way to a dinner party in order to satisfy some outdated custom. He couldn't bear the thought that his debasement and humiliation would be relegated to an afterthought.

Governess Bishop jerked on his leash; a petty display of dominance that irritated him as it seemed to reinforce his loss of humanity.

Once back to his thoughts, it occurred to him that whenever he was in Cassilda's presence, he was the center of her attention, perhaps not at every single moment, but generally this had been the case. She was focused on either his fulfilment, punishment, or humiliation.

This man, whoever he turned out to be, would almost certainly possess a very large penis. Ambrose suddenly thought of a few times he watched porn that featured ass to mouth action.

There was one particular video that he had watched repeatedly before tiring of it. The actress, who up until the moment that cock was pulled from her ass and shoved in her mouth, was turning in a better than average acting performance. Her resistance to taking the cock in her mouth after it had been in her ass was fleeting. One had to pay close attention to even notice it. But Ambrose did notice it and it further titillated him. And even if Ambrose hadn't noticed it, he certainly noticed that whatever enthusiasm she had been putting into her performance had evaporated.

Indeed, it was obvious to him that her eyes had become almost lifeless as she proceeded to fellate the penis with less passion than when she had sucked on it earlier in the video. It was at that moment in the video, or soon after, where Ambrose ejaculated.

Alarmingly, Ambrose had just imagined that actress as bearing slight resemblance to himself though in reality, the actual actress looked nothing like him at all.

He know imagined himself, as he was now, decked out in striking yellow lingerie, on all fours, helplessly bewitched into compliance as some massive cock invaded his smooth pale ass and was then withdrawn and rammed down his throat coated with his own fecal matter. All the while, Cassilda would watch, not reveling in Ambrose' humiliation, but rather watching the man intently, hoping he'd be pleased with this new toy she had presented to him.

He could not bear the thought that some as yet unknown man could reduce his own significance in Cassilda's sight. In such a scenario it would hardly matter if Ambrose were substituted for someone else, such as Andrea.

Throughout this anguished reverie, Ambrose failed to notice two very important factors. First, he had equated himself with Andrea. Second, the notion of being reduced in importance to Cassilda rankled him more than being some man's fuck toy.

With a start, he become cognizant of a new, disturbing implication. He had so effectively been feminized in appearance, and so intimidated into submission that by his own definition, he was already considering himself as somewhat less than a man.

Nowhere was this clearer than how he semantically regarded his impending fate.

"Another." The word was missing from his thoughts. "Another," as in "another man."

He didn't see himself as being offered up to "another" man because he didn't see himself as a man. Ambrose was already, naturally excluding himself from the very definition.

He started scrambling around his mind for options; still holding on to the slim hope that even at this point, he could summon up the bare minimum level of free will necessary to refuse what awaited him. But this just opened him up to other concerns.

Would they give him back his clothes and ID and whisk him all the way back home to Long Island? Or would they point to the door and let him make his way to the nearest neighbor, wherever that may be, while he was all dolled up in full lingerie; crotchless panties exposing his shortcomings?

No matter where he went, the bright, canary yellow of the lingerie would stand out starkly. Suppose he ran into some immature teenagers or young adults who, while aiding him, possibly, would think nothing of posting videos of him captured on their phones while they taunted him. In that case, it was even possible that he couldn't find his way back to the mansion and relative safety.

What if rather than being immature, they were instead vicious and beat him critically or perhaps beat him to death? Ambrose had always been a bit of a homophobe himself and even now clung to those sentiments, hence his "gay panic", but regardless of his orientation, he knew full well that bigots on the verge of violence often overlooked details that would sap their aggression.

His stomach growled in urgency.

He was getting exponentially hungrier with each minute. Could he be enticed to suck a cock and get fucked in the ass in exchange for a meal. Surely Cassilda possessed the ability to amplify this hunger to his breaking point, so the answer to that question was: of course he would. But at least in that case, he could hardly be blamed.

Even at this point, the barrier in his mind that separated the person he believed himself to be and the person he actually was, remained intact, though it was now weakened.

He continued to dismiss the occasional, whispered doubts he had about himself simply as the result of his ordeal, even while sensing the stronger thoughts beneath the whispered ones: the thoughts that roiled with increasing vigor; disturbing urges, long submerged, that had settled into a thick sediment at the bottom of a muddy pond.

So lost was he in his worrying reverie, that he hadn't noticed they had arrived at their destination until Governess Bishop jerked his leash three times in rapid succession.

He stood before a massive oak door that, given its rustic straps, door nail heads, handle and hinges, all fashioned out of heavy black iron, seemed more fitting for an exterior main entrance rather than an interior room. Its imposing physicality daunted Ambrose. This was the kind of door found in popular depictions of castle where princesses were guarded and held against their will while awaiting rescue from some charming prince in some gothic fairy tale. Considering his state of dress and appearance, it was obvious which role he was to fill.

From her person, Governess Bishop retrieved a massive, black, iron key and put it Ambrose's hand. It was very weighty and still warm from her body. She surprised him by placing the handle to his own leash in his other hand, after which, all nurses took a step back in obvious coordination, as if following some ritual.

The implied symbolism was clear. Even at this point, he was being presented with a choice. At the very least, he could refuse to open the door and take off his choker/collar. It was certainly possible, he reasoned, that this gesture was just a cruel sham to provide him with the illusion choice, after which the nurses would just haul him into the room anyway. But even if that were to be the case, he could at least go on believing that he was being victimized against his will.

But still, the fear remained as to the details of his fate should he leave the mansion.

For the first time since arriving at the estate, his mind stilled to a blank, filled only with the psychological equivalent of white noise. Even his ravenous hunger was quelled for the moment.

He stepped forward and placed the key into the lock.

There was a momentary pause when, judging by the resistance he met in turning the key, he became cognizant of just how large the locking mechanism must be. With a click that echoed in his imagination like the crack of a bullet, he managed to unlock the door. But even opening the door was not as casual as opening a normal room door. So heavy was this door, that he had to put his shoulder to it to nudge it open and achieve the proper momentum.

In a way, the slight difficulty he had in unlocking it, then following through regardless of its weighty resistance, amplified the fact that he was making a choice.

Once momentum was achieved, the door swung open wide to reveal a massive bedroom with rounded walls. He was indeed in one of the towers he had glimpsed from the outside. The room's location made no earthly sense. The door was in the middle of the manor on third floor, while the towers had been at extreme ends of the building.

The peculiarities of the evening to which he had been already subjected, and the promise of more to come seemed boundless and through it all, the demands of his body, as evidenced by his stomach's grumblings, where the only things keeping him from completely losing himself. But even there, the unpleasantness of his hunger merely served to enhance a sense of foreboding rather than provide any distracting relief.

The white noise returned with a quickly rising crescendo almost to the point of pain, stopping abruptly only when he his foot crossed the threshold.

Ambrose, with his own leash in his own hand, had delivered himself into bondage.

When he had completely entered the room, his wits returned.

"What did I just do?" he asked bewildered and to no one in particular.

"That'll take some explaining."

He whirled around at the sound of Cassilda's voice.

She was completely nude, and all her strange symbols had been restored.

"But," she continued, "you'll learn everything in due course."

By now, he had become certain that what he believed he saw in the throne room, was actually what he saw, but he couldn't imagine how she could have become untangled from the others so soon. But then again, he didn't really know anything about the purpose or the process of what he saw and had no real reason to suppose it would have been a long drawn out act.

Whatever the purpose of the strange spectacle he had witnessed, it seemed to have caused a change in Cassilda. He perceived her shrouded in a faint bluish-white aura that pulsed with each beat of her heart. This new vibrancy gave her body and hair a vitality that made her seem like the "most alive" person he had ever seen. No matter what emotions or sensations he could ever feel, and to what extreme degree, he would always be dead when compared to such a creature.

She lingered there, allowing him to take her in until he had to tear his eyes away.

Was there any end to any of this strangeness? He wondered.

As if by some unseen cue, Governess Bishop took the room key from him and joined the other three nurses in grabbing him and walking him toward a massive bed, though stopping some few feet from the footboard. Whatever was about to happen, he had no will left to resist.

Leather straps were applied to his ankles, wrists, and his legs just above his knees. A leg spreader bar was fastened between his ankles. After being placed on his knees, the restraints on his ankle and knees were secured by ropes to iron rings flush-embedded in the floor that could be lifted and positioned to allow for such.

Once he was secured, Cassilda, in her new shining glory, came into his view when she retrieved an item from the bed and walked over to him.

It was a dildo that despite being modestly sized, was still larger than his own penis which was now shrinking. Had he possessed his full faculties he would have noticed a distinct diminishing of sensation in his genitals; almost as if they were no longer there.

As she neared, he noticed that the faux testicles at the base of the dildo were oddly shaped. It was in fact one large bulbous shape.

In full view of Ambrose, she widened her stance and placed the bulbous end into her vagina. For a split second, it seemed to Ambrose as if her vaginal lips quivered before opening like a mouth to grasp the phallus and fully hold it in place. He could almost swear he heard a loud sucking sound.

As she approached Ambrose, he could see that the phallus was almost hyper realistic, though the tip had rather sizeable hole in it. It was is if it were real and perhaps harvested from some hapless victim.

A, low, narrow, ottoman was placed before him. He was bent over it by Governess Bishop and held in place until his wrist restraints were secured to the floor.

As he craned his neck up, he saw Governess Bishop hand a small wooden bowl to Cassilda, who then disappeared behind him.

He jerked as he felt Cassilda apply a cool greasy lubricant to his exposed anus. It was aromatic enough for Ambrose to catch the scent of it and recognize it as some kind of animal fat. As the greasy mixture warmed to his body temperature, his mind nearly blanked with acceptance. At no point had he even attempted to test the restraints to see if they could loosen, not even reflexively, as one would normally expect.

Cassilda absentmindedly wiped her hand clean on his buttocks and slipped in behind him.

Ambrose jerked when she touched the tip of the phallus to his asshole.

Cassilda smacked his ass playfully.

"A little nervous, are we?"

Ambrose, eyes darting wildly like a captured animal, was too rattled to answer.

Just then, he heard the peal of a bell. Judging from the low pitch and the slight vibration emanating from it through the mansion's structure, it must have been large. He tried to recall if he had noticed a belfry from the exterior of the building. Perhaps it was located in the other tower? He pondered.

Cassilda drew in her breath excitedly.

"Do you hear that? It's midnight. Do you even realize what that means?"

Given the bizarre nature of his evening so far, Ambrose' mind could only default to mythical interpretations of haunted mansions and bells at midnight and feared that their meaning tonight signaled some evil portent.

"It's your birthday!"

His mind came to a screeching halt.

Since he had begun his "relationship" with Cassilda the days, weeks and months slid from one to the other with no concrete distinction, she could have been lying, but he knew she was speaking the truth.

"You know, people impart great importance to birthdays. But 'birthday' is somewhat of a misnomer, it should really be called a birth anniversary. After all, you're not born every year on the same date. And truthfully Ambrose," she smacked his ass playfully, "all this fuss given to someone over something in which they played no active role is quite insulting to the women who put their lives on hold for months and risked death, even in this day and age, to bring life into the world."

There was some point being made here but given what was to happen to him, Ambrose found it difficult to fully process.

"There are of course some birthdays considered milestones for whatever reasons, dictated by culture such as the 'sweet sixteen' or the decade markers-- twenty, thirty, forty-- you understand. But those are all culturally enforced notions or based on averaged-out biological milestones.

"But some people get it and instead try to mark the anniversary of their birth with some life changing event."

He then felt a distinctly unpleasant pressure as she leaned in harder against him and soon, he could feel the phallus begin to penetrate him.

"Happy birthday baby boy."

There was a repulsive incongruity to hearing a statement he had always heard expressed in merriment being associated with his violation.

And then a new intense panic seized him.

"STOP! STOP!

"I'M GONNA SHIT!

"STOP! STOP! STOP! I'M GONNA SHIT MYSELF!"

He finally struggled against his restraints-- fiercely so. But it was no use. Aside from some slight give, he was too securely held in place.

The four nurses began to laugh hysterically, contributing to his sense of helpless humiliation. What possible joy could they possibly get from watching someone shit themselves.

Cassilda stopped and slapped his ass much harder and provided an explanation.