Peter Goes Gay Sub for Daddy Ch. 08

Part 8 Petey Fresh Chance to Learn an Old Lesson

Author's note: apologies for the misdirection of the title. This is the conclusion to a story that got away from where I expected it go. So, the title no longer quite fits. This is not the ending I envisioned when I titled the story.

Between Noah and Ahn, the johns, and the occasional porn shoot, I have a busy, but truly happy sex-life. To an outside observer, the ease of my transition may seem strange; God knows, it does to me. But I came to understand: I had never been at peace with my body. Always shameful, it didn't work as it should for a man. Until Mistress and then Daddy, no one showed any interest, and that came from how I felt about it. I am much more comfortable with my body now—though eventually I want to fully transition, but that's up to Mistress.

Though she owns me, Marsha is not a true Domme. When she wants me disciplined, she has Ahn do it. We have very little direct sexual contact. She enjoys watching Ahn dominate me and sometimes having me placed in stress positions to watch her get fucked by Ahn, or just some man she's picked up. She used to peg me with a strap-on, but that proved disappointing to me unless followed by a real cock and to her for the similar reasons. But, again, she is not around much; so, even these are uncommon scenarios.

Ahn and I understand each other perfectly. If she were fully in charge, I would already be scheduled for the final surgeries (vaginoplasty and my facial feminization). But on this she has no say. Ahn knows when I need punishment and when I need pampering. She can be tender in her peculiar no-nonsense way and a heartless martinet, when I need it most.

Though I was jealous at first, Ahn and Noah's relationship is no longer a problem for me; I've watched them make love as a couple and had both of them fuck me as a couple. The resentment has been trained and fucked out of me. And, yet...

Sometimes, as hard as I work not to, I have momentary fits of petty jealousy. I couldn't say if I'm jealous of Noah for having her or the other way around. But sometimes I forget my place in the hierarchy; Ahn is great at sensing and curbing my slip-ups. But Noah, is more casual, and sometimes these feelings creep up on me and explode, without his notice.

When this occurs, I feel the most need and desire for discipline to be put in my place. My singular objective is always to be a good submissive slut for them. I understand we're in an asymmetrical relationship, but need to be reminded. Ahn recognizes this before it gets to be a problem. Noah forces me to beg, or worse to display disobedient and/or disastrous behavior, looking for true punishment. I think his feelings of guilt about working for Marsha cloud his ability to be an effective Dom to me. This led to a big tumult.

Besides direct sexual service, there are times when servitude goes beyond the sexual. Even dominants enjoy engaging in sexual exploration among equals, not just with sex-slaves, or sissy tranny whores, like me. Occasionally, they host orgies with like-minded acquaintances for the purpose. These usually involve couples of varying lifestyles and some submissives who serve not as sex objects, but as abject slaves as a demonstration of their power.

At one such event, in a rented playroom out in Queens, I was to serve as a urinal. Three other sex-slaves performed the same task. Each tied on two-by-two-foot plastic crates about eighteen inches off the ground discretely placed at the four corners of the playroom, heads immobilized by straps tilted slightly back, and mouth forced open by a gag with a funnel attached.

A metal frame stood next to the crate, holding up a funnel attached through a tube to an enema bulb buried in the sexslave's assholes. Our arms were tied to our sides at the elbow, keeping our hands out, holding out toilet paper and hand sanitizer. The ass end, with the frame and a toilet seat, was for the "ladies" and the mouth funnel for the "gents." We had to hold it in until scheduled bathroom breaks, to empty out.

Other slaves tended bar; Mary who I knew to be the property a friend of Ahn's, who titled himself "The Marquis," was at the bar strung up by her magnificent tits to the ceiling by cord on runners so she would tip-toe the ten foot length of the bar to serve the drinks. She was naked except for calf-length bondage boots. Sizable iron hooks poked through her enormous pierced nipples.

The guests totaled about twenty-four of varied genders; the champagne flowed freely so the urinals were kept busy the whole night. I was fine with the degradation; it was right up my alley. I had long ago become comfortable with swallowing piss and humiliation always turns me on. I didn't even mind the taste anymore.

The problem arose and was allowed to fester because Ahn wasn't there. She was out of town, and Noah brought Mrs. Dixon as his "date." Mr. Dixon was one of the other urinals. The fact that I had helped Daddy turn Mr. and Mrs. Dixon played on my mind, as I saw her mingle and chit-chat with the other guests. As though she weren't Noah's sex-slave just like me. My first critically bad thought was "why not me? Why couldn't I have the golden ticket?"

I, at least, had been married to Mistress before being turned, and somewhat "equal" partner. Why couldn't I enjoy a night of casual sex with strangers on a level-footing, for once? I managed to beat down these thoughts and focus on performing my assigned role to the best of my ability. I determined to focus, but my resolve was flagged.

I was barely holding it together, when Mrs. Dixon came over, pushed her naked ass onto the female urinal, and down it went, gravity rewarding me with her warm foamy piss filling my hole. I watched the level of the amber fluid slowly drain down the transparent tube and felt the subsequent filling of my hole. I didn't mind the act itself; the fresh piss was warm and comforting. She took the toilet paper from my hand, wiped herself, then flung the used paper toward the trashcan by me.

But she missed, and it landed over my left nipple. I could do nothing to remove it; she sneered at me with distaste, spat into the mouth funnel, as she sauntered away. I raged uselessly in my own head. If a dominant had done the same thing, I would have gladly accepted it as my fate, but I couldn't get over that her status and mine should be the same; if anything I should have seniority. I was seething and simultaneously trying to talk myself down.

"It doesn't matter who she is" I advised myself, "Daddy has put her in this role, and I should accept it with a glad heart, according to my training!" I repeated this as a mantra, as I waited for the next patron to feed me their piss at one or the other end.

Less than ten minutes later, Mistress came through the door with someone I, at first, only vaguely recognized, but could make out when they were much closer. It was my old college frenemy George. I was already struggling with my attitude, but when he inevitably came over, his significantly large cock in hand (I had no idea it was so big). Before the recent changes, I had always studiously avoided seeing men naked or them seeing me. And when I did see his, it was buried in wife's ass.

I was beyond any control. I felt frantic and sick to my stomach. Ahn would have sensed this instantly, if not, indeed, anticipated it beforehand and whipped it out of me. She would have whipped me hard the morning of and I would have the physical reminder to keep me grounded in my place.

But Daddy was not as good at foreseeing potential trouble. Had she not anticipated it, she would have checked-in to see that I was performing up to her standards. Noah more-or-less ignored me, as he paraded Mrs. Dixon around displaying her to his friends who would squeeze her gorgeous tits or feel between her legs, while she smiled and made moaning faces.

George being there was like my old life colliding with my new one. If I had seen him on the street, I would have done anything to avoid confronting his betrayal. Now, his rather large member dangled above my forced-open mouth, and he was about to drain his bladder down my throat. My head was inclined so I was forced to look up at my patrons; I moved my head the tiny range the straps would allow, vainly, attempting to stop proceedings, pulling on the tight collar attached to the crate. He cackled, as he aimed at the unsteady funnel.

"Fuck! Petey, I knew you'd turn out to be useless faggot barely worth pissing on!" He said with smirk as he finished pissing and shook the big cock dry on my face.

I stopped wriggling, but the spots of piss that landed on my face and chest when she shook himself dry were like acid burning my skin. I lay there trying to stifle myself, and not quite getting there, just brooding.

A while later, Marsha came over with a guy she had clearly just finished fucking, they staggard over in post-orgasmic fragility, casually making small talk, while he lit a cigar; his stubby fat cock poking jauntily out, like his cigar, as he walked toward me.

"Oooh, Petey, honey... Have you seen you're old friend... I think he's over there sniffing around that old lady Noah's with..."

She knew very well I had. She watched him come over when they first entered. I groaned in response, none to servilely, but she didn't notice, she was a dilettante Domme. I was trying to show disobedience, but was unable.

"Troy, this is Petey... sh-he's my sexy little tranny piss-slut. If you ever wanna fuck her or just use her for anything..."

"Hmm. Ain't tried one those, yet."

Her recent partner was then pissed into my funnel and flicked the ashes of his fat cigar into it, then passed the cigar to her for a drag. Which she accepted and tried to flick in my funnel too, but without really extending herself. She, of course, missed, and I got a chest full of hot ashes. Afterward, they hung out smoking and purposely flicked their ashes on my chest.

Had just one of these incidents happened, I would probably have been able to beat down the resentment and get into a different head space, but I was livid. Since training from Daddy, I had moments of small rebellions, usually cries for attention from him. This was beyond that.

Another sex-slave ("the janitor") was responsible for keeping the urinals clean. He came around every half hour or so to mop up the mess and to escort the urinals to the bathroom. Herman was large man with huge penis, but he was a submissive who belonged to one of the ladies at the party. When he was not busy with the urinals, his big cock was very popular with the ladies, so he was often late getting to us.

My next turn to empty my bowels and bladder and clean myself up finally came. I had been on the point of bursting and steaming mad. Herman untied me gingerly. I was a pissy mess. The cigar ash and piss left big black stains from my little titties to the middle of my belly. The bit of pissy TP had been removed at the last clean-up. I had been tied with legs wide and almost behind me for more than two hours, with only short breaks every half hour or so depending on Herman.

He escorted me slowly to the bathroom. Wanted to run; I could feel the piss swashing around in my guts and my bladder ready to explode. I went into the stall as the janitor left. When I had cleaned myself up, it was my responsibility to return to my post to be retied. Instead, I locked myself up in the stall and waited. At first, I felt suddenly liberated: "Sex-slaves of the world unite!" but just as suddenly I was very guilty and then frightened.

"I should just go back..." I thought. "No! I can't..." I wept.

I cried and cried, expecting any moment for Herman to come and haul me back to the crate. The longer I waited, the more I already wanted to be punished for failing my task. My resolve crumpled; I was remorseful of my resentment and longed only for discipline. I just wished I had been punished sooner.

The janitor brought another of the urinals, but I sat on the toilet with my legs up. He didn't really look. It was Daddy who finally came to get me. It was almost an hour later before I heard Noah's tenor voice call out to me from the other side of the stall door. I was now sobbing desperately. I had not feared losing my Daddy for a long time. My error felt enormous and irredeemable. Maybe it was too much. I was quivering with weeping.

At first, he put on his authoritative voice and shouted to "get my ass out there this moment... or else!" But I was crying so desperately and loudly that he switched to cooing to draw me out with sweetness.

"Petey, honey, it's okay. It was too much for you. I know. But, it's okay. Come out, honey. We'll work this out. Get your sweet ass out here, honey!"

I leaned in gasping and sniveling from the crying, nervously undid the latch, and the door flew open. Outside, the party was dying out. Just the last few hardcore perverts trying to squeeze out the last gasp of lust from the orgy. Marsha, George, and Mr. and Mrs. Dixon and Cigarman had just left. I leapt up onto Daddy like a lemur and began to apologize profusely. He held me up and kindly let me kiss him. He carried me out of the stall.

When we reached the main floor of the playroom, he sat me on a small leather bench. Then sat next to me.

"What happened, little sissy?!"

"Oh, Daddy. I'm soooo so sorry. It was so hard to serve you tonight. I failed, Sir. Please, please, please, punish me, Daddy! I want to be punished; I need it; I deserve it. Pleeehehease?" I wept and quivered.

"Sure, honey. Tell me why you should be punished. What happened?"

"Daddy, I forgot my place. I felt like I didn't belong where you commanded. It was Mrs. Dixon and George... with Mistress Marsha, and the guy with the cigar... sniff-sniff... I'm so sorry. I know it shouldn't have mattered. I know I'm here for your use and abuse. I welcome that; I want that, but I was confused by... by the... the noise. I want to be a good... a good sissy bitch for you Daddy, please!!"

"You're right, honey, you should be punished, but I'll have tell your Mistress."

This drained my resolve some, though I knew he was right. I had imagined a private punishment session with Daddy purging my sins away and giving me absolution through the pain I know longed for. I hadn't thought of Marsha's involvement. Noah would probably have just tied me up, beaten me, and marked me as much as I needed, but involving Marsha brought on a whole different level of sadistic psychological and emotional pain.

He texted Mistress, who had not gotten far from the venue, and decided she would double-back to oversee the punishment.

There were still two overheated men and a transwoman moaning and groaning in the far end of the room. They looked our way, as I we stepped out into the main room and listened intently when punishment was mentioned. They were sexually entangled in some form of three-way, but stopped mid stroke to gape at us.

The playroom had been rented for a "straight" (non-bondage) orgy, but it was a fully outfitted as a BDSM dungeon. While we awaited Mistress's return, Noah scanned the space for tools and devices for my looming torture. I had mixed feelings. I was looking forward to Daddy's attention, but I feared the rebuke and emotional humiliation from Mistress. I didn't fear pain; I craved it to eradicate my unwanted thoughts. Mistress's punishments would involve more than physical chastisement that might exacerbate these thoughts.

Noah called the three remaining partygoers over; they were all too eager to participate in whatever was to come. There was: Jack, a strapping young white guy in his late 20s, who had enough energy to go all night; Carla, a bronzed bombshell t-girl in her forties, with a fantastic body, a big set of silicone tits and a huge penis; Howard, a tall and wiry older black man, who even naked with his dick hard gave the impression an accountant, and who never (even now) removed his thick glasses.

Noah had them drag out and carry over a wooden sawhorse, about two and half feet in length and about crotch height. The legs were splayed so that straps on the sides for ankles and wrists forced the arms and legs far apart. I was mounted on face-down and strapped in.

My choke collar was then clipped to a winch descending from the high ceiling above. Daddy pushed a button on a remote control and the winch lifted my neck until I was just shy of choking. He took some rough rope and tied me to the sawhorse around my middle, keeping my back arched as my neck was pulled up.

Daddy collected a series of instruments of torture. A heavy leather flogger with rose shaped knots on the ends; a long thin riding crop with a heart shape strap, and a thin bamboo cane. He clipped weights to my nipple rings distending my delicate developing titties. The pain was harsh as the weight pulled on my pierced nipples, then clipped weight to my empty ball sack.

The three partiers groped and pinched me, then Jack put his thumb in mouth. I offered no resistance and just suckled on it to calm myself from nervous anticipation. I was thus engaged, when Mistress sauntered through the front door. With my evening's nemeses; George, who had his arm behind her and a hand on her ample ass; Cigarman followed with Mrs. Dixon on his arm, and Mr. Dixon trailing, like a lost puppy.

George and Cigarman were in a limo back to Manhattan with Marsha, and the Dixons, who, as it turned out, were being dropped off at home nearby and were brought back to add to my emotional humiliation. I suckled and groaned on Jack's thumb. I expected something like this when Marsha got involved, and feared the harshness of the lesson.

She was right, of course; it was necessary. I needed to feel the humiliation she was about to give me to truly learn my place. I was less than insignificant! I should be glad to be used as a urinal or ashtray for their friends or even other slaves. And yet, I howled bitterly in my mind against this notion; and this made me want the humiliation and punishment even more. I longed for it to be especially harsh, so I could definitively internalize the lesson.

They all approached, but she stepped out in front her entourage and tenderly caressed my whole body in its constricted state, as the others circled round and watched. She gracefully ran her hands down my back and fondled my butt. She pulled lightly on the weights suspended from my empty sack and my new-grown tits. Then she brought her face close to mine so our noses nearly touched and nodded over at Noah. The winch caught be my surprise as it drew my neck beyond its possible range and I began to gag, cough, and choke, drool oozing out of my retching mouth.

"Your 'Daddy' tells me you need punishment, bitch!"

The winch was lowered, and I caught my breath to answer. "Yegh, Mmmthtrszs!"

"Explain what you did to deserve punishment, fagslut bitch!"

Behind her, George glared at me bemused, with an air of derision and superiority. He was my downfall; this was what I need to get over. George and I had been friends only in the broadest sense of the word. Despite being "friendly," he never stopped teasing me about my diminutive stature, my bookishness, my lack of sexual prowess. He would tease me mercilessly, but then offhandedly claim, "just kidding, dude."

We shared a house on frat row with three other roommates, though we were not a frat; our other housemates were a lot like the jock/frat boys next door. To them, we were both nerds; but George was a big doofy math nerd, studying computer engineering, and I was a tiny and frail art nerd, studying Literature. The rest of the guys in the house didn't really care for either of us, and tolerated us only for our contributions to the rent.

George was an above average sized guy, just under six-foot and a bit chunky. He was bi-racial; his mother was black and his father a German. He then wore thick glasses and often draw on obscure math "jokes" to fill in conversation. Unlike me, George found easy female companionship by focusing on what he referred as "damaged chicks." They might be overweight, or had some unfortunate facial asymmetry. He was excited when he saw a woman with a hot body and a not-so-great face; a "butterface" he would say.