The One-Way Voyage (Day One)

DAY ONE

Even worse.

I awoke, lying on my side, but not on a bed; more of a soft cushion with hardness underneath. Some kind of mat on the floor?

I had to guess because I couldn't see. My entire head was covered with a black hood. The fabric was soft, but I could not see the faintest of light through it. Maybe the room was dark.

I tried to pull off the hood and discovered my wrists were bound together behind my back. I didn't know how long I'd been out, but the muscles in my arms ached and my mouth felt dry, so I guessed several hours at least.

"Hello?" I asked, tentatively.

I could sense the room was small and there was no one else in it.

"Can anybody hear me?" I asked, in a louder voice. I seem to be tied up, I wanted to add.

Nothing. "I have to pee," I said in a louder voice, and it was no lie.

Still nothing. I wriggled around until my fingers found the edge of the cushion, and beyond it, smooth floor just a couple inches lower.

Ever try to stand up without using your arms? It wasn't easy, but I managed. The floor was cold and hard against my bare feet. No shoes or socks then, but I was still wearing my clothes from last night, as far as I could tell. My nose told me I'd been in them too long.

I had no idea where to find a toilet and even if I did, I wouldn't have been able to use it.

Standing made the urge to pee worse, so I lowered myself onto the mat again. "Help!" I shouted.

It felt like hours, but probably it was more like minutes, until I heard footsteps and the sound of a door opening. Someone entered the small room. "Hey, you're up. Good morning, sleepyhead." The voice was familiar.

"I have to pee," I said again.

"I'm not surprised. You drank a lot of beer." He removed the hood and helped me to my feet. It was my companion from last night, who, I now realized, had never given me his name. He was dressed in a different outfit: yellow polo shirt, khaki pants, white sneakers. Some kind of black rod, like a big flashlight, hung from his belt.

He looked sharp. He must have showered and shaved since last I saw him. I wished I had.

The guy steered me to a door. Behind it was a small powder room, just big enough for a toilet and a tiny sink. "I can't reach my fly."

"No worries." The guy reached for my crotch and unzipped my pants. His fingers found their way through the opening and searched for my dick. They found it, drew it out, and aimed it at the toilet. "Go ahead."

"I can't pee like this!"

"Then you must not have to go very bad." He stuck my dick back into the fly and zipped it shut again.

"Hey!"

"Hey, yourself. Come on. It's your first day, and you've got much to learn." The guy took hold of me by the neck, turned me around, and led me out of the powder room. I got my first good look at where I'd been sleeping. It was a nice room, with a wood floor and paneling on the walls, but it was very small, smaller even than a college dorm. The futon where I'd lain took up nearly half the floor space.

He led me out the only other door, which opened into a narrow hallway. I had just enough time to glance left and spy a stair at the end of the hall, leading up, before he turned me to the right. I walked unsteadily; the floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. We took just a few steps, then made a left turn through another door and into a larger room. This room was dark, with walls painted black. The floor was covered with some kind of rubber padding, also black.

An exercise room, I guessed. I saw a set of dumbbells, and other pieces of equipment, not all of which I could identify. Some kind of bench, a low table covered with black carpeting, and a few even stranger furnishings. One wall was a pegboard, from which hung a variety of tools I didn't recognize. A short, wide wood cabinet stood along the wall opposite.

A shining steel chain hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. A leather strap dangled from its end. The guy led me there, and the next thing I knew, the leather strap was around my neck, like a collar. I heard the click of handcuffs opening. He released my left wrist, but instead of unlocking the right, he raised it above my head and locked the handcuff onto the chain. I watched dumbly as he buckled another leather strap around my left wrist.

I had had about enough of this. I yanked my left arm free and took a swing at the guy's face. He pulled back, just far enough that I missed.

We glared at each other for an moment, then I took another swing, but I couldn't reach him, restrained as I was.

He smiled. God, he was cute. "Bad boy." He grabbed the black rod out of his belt and thrust it at my arm. Where the tip of the rod touched bare skin, my flesh exploded in electric pain. I yelled.

"Next time, I stick it into your mouth. Understand?" He hung the rod on his belt again and finished the work of binding my left wrist above my head.

I did not resist. "What is that, a cattle prod?"

"If you like. I call it a hot stick." The guy strode over to the wall and thumbed a red button. I heard a winch begin to turn. The chain rode upward, drawing my wrists up with it, stretching my arms higher over my head, uncomfortably. The guy only stopped winching the chain when I was standing tiptoe, dangling by the neck. I could barely move.

"You're probably wondering what's going on." The guy went to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and retrieved a pair of scissors. "I have good news for you: there's nothing to worry about. In fact, you'll never have any worries again. Ever."

I had serious doubts about that.

"No, really," he went on. "You no longer have to think about silly things, like getting a job or paying bills, or where your next meal is coming from. From now on, I'm taking care of you. Everything you need, I will provide."

"Fuck you."

The guy gave me a disappointed look. "I'll overlook that vulgarity, this once. You only speak to me in this manner because you don't yet understand your good fortune. It's my job to prepare you for your new life. The transition may be difficult, but I promise you will come out of this happier than you never dreamed you could be. Let's begin." The guy grabbed a fistful of the fabric of my T-shirt. I watched helplessly as he raised the scissors and began to cut. Soon my shirt was scraps of blue cloth littering the padded floor.

"What did you do that for?"

"Slaves don't wear clothes. This is part of your new freedom. No more washing clothes, or worrying about how to dress or how you look. Those aren't your problems anymore." The guy's eyes ran up and down my body as he added, "You are one cute little fuck. All right, I'm going to take off your pants now."

I took hold of the chain with my hands and lifted myself off the floor, raising my feet defensively. "Come near me and I'll kick you in the nuts." The guy shook his head and went back to the pegboard. He plucked a long, red leather bull whip off the wall, holding the handle in one hand and the tip in the other. He raised both arms above his head, circled around me, staying out of kick range. Then he struck.

I screamed. The slap of the whip was a fiery sting across the bare flesh of my back. Unlike the cattle prod, this fire didn't stop.

"Twelve lashes for disobedience. You count them for me. That's one." The guy looked at me expectantly. I said nothing. A second stroke of the whip. "That's one," he prompted.

"That was two!"

"They don't count unless you count them, so it's in your interest to get to it. Say, 'one.'"

"One!" I spat out the word.

"Very good. Now say, 'Thank you, Master.'"

"Fuck you!"

Another lash. I screamed with pain and rage. "One...," the guy prompted again.

"One! Thank you, Master!" I said it with as much contempt as I could put into it.

"You don't sound sincere. Still, I'll accept it. There's only so much we can accomplish in one day." He lashed me again. The pain was not only terrible, it was exhausting. I gasped for air, wondering how much more of this I could take. "Two! Thank you, master!"

Another lash, and another reply. It went on like this until the eighth lash, when I lost count and called it number nine, so he made me start over at number one. The second time through, I was super careful and got all the way to twelve, though by then I could barely muster the breath to whisper, "Twelve. Thank you, Master."

My back was on fire and my body trembling in agony. Sweat poured off me, stinging the places on my back touched by the lash. I no longer had the strength to stand, so I hung by my neck and hands.

"I'm going to remove your pants now. Problem?" Master raised an eyebrow, but I lacked the strength to object. " Good boy. That's better. See how easy it is? Obedience is so much easier than resistance. The sooner you learn that, the better it will be for you." First, the guy went through my pockets. He found my glasses, wallet, and phone and pocketed all three. Then he undid my belt and pants and unzipped the fly. He stopped for a moment to put his hand inside and run his fingers over the contents of my underpants. Then came the scissors. A few minutes later, my jeans and boxers joined my shirt as more shreds of fabric scattered across the floor.

I hung my head, ashamed. The guy grabbed a handful of hair on the back of my head and pulled, forcing me to meet his gaze. He ran his other hand across my chest. I trembled.

"You've got goose bumps." He grinned. "Are you feeling scared? Feeling vulnerable? It's important for you to understand: I don't do this to punish you. I do it to educate you. You need to learn who and what you are now."

He raised the whip once again. "Now, twelve lashes on the chest. You will count them for me."

"No, God, Master, please—AAAHH!" I screamed as the first blow struck, but remembered to say, "One. Thank you, Master," without being prompted.

I counted every one of the following eleven blows as I was supposed to. When it was over, I felt as if I had been dipped in liquid fire and hung out to dry. Tears ran down my face. I was too scared and exhausted to hold them back any longer.

Master watched me sob with detached interest. "Do you still have to pee?"

I nodded, unable to speak. Master went to the cabinet and fetched a piss bottle, the kind they use in hospitals. He stuck the opening over my dick and said, "Go ahead."

I peed. It took a long time. It was hard to get started, and then I had more in me than I realized. After I finished, Master closed the bottle and set it aside. He brought his face close to mine and said softly, "So we know this cock can piss. What else can it do?" He ran his fingers lightly over the underside of my ball sack.

I shivered.

"Does that feel good?"

I looked away.

"I said, 'Does that feel good?'" There was menace in his voice. He took hold of my balls and began to squeeze them.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Master."

He glanced down. "You're getting hard already. I'm proud of you." I looked down, saw that he was right, and felt a flush of shame. Master leaned close and put his mouth over one of my nipples, sucking on it as he flipped the tip back and forth with his tongue. He checked my dick again. "And that made you harder still. Good boy. I think you'll do just fine." Master raised his hand and made a lavish show of licking his fingertips. Then he put the wet fingertips on the underside of my dick and stroked softly. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I admitted, hastily adding, "I mean, Yes, Master."

The gentle touch ended as the guy crossed the room back to the cabinet. By now, my dick stuck out almost horizontally, as if it wanted to follow him.

He returned with a bottle of lube, waving it in front of my face before he made another show out of slathering a generous amount onto his right palm. "A slave's life consists of two things: pleasure and pain. First you must learn to endure them. Then you will learn to enjoy them. Finally, you will learn they're two sides of the same coin. Now, let's see what this thing can do." Master's hand wrapped around my dick, but his grip was loose, the stroking slow, smooth, and gentle. I gasped. He leaned close and whispered, "I'm going to make you come, slave."

I swallowed hard and looked away, willing my dick to go soft. Don't give him the satisfaction.

It was no use. This guy knew his way around a penis. He didn't just keep stroking the same way; he changed it up, playing my dick like it was a musical instrument. One minute he was running his fingertips along the sensitive underside, then a thumb drew caressing circles across the tip, then he would stop and let me throb for a moment before running a finger lightly over the top. My traitorous dick was loving every minute of this, getting ever harder and sending me shots of pleasure with every touch. I tried to draw away, but couldn't move far enough. My heart pounded and my breath grew ragged. I could feel drops of sweat trickling from my armpits.

I couldn't take it anymore. My hips began to thrust, my face contorted, and then I groaned as the fire of orgasm swept through me. I cried out. A second later, my dick was shooting globs of come onto the floor.

The guy didn't stop stroking, or even slow down. After two or three squirts, I was empty, but my dick was still hard, and exquisitely sensitive. I writhed from the over-stimulation and pleaded with him to stop.

After a few more strokes, he finally released me. His hand went to the back of my head, grabbing my hair and forcing me to look at him. "That felt good, didn't it?" He kissed me. His lips were soft against mine. "Didn't it?"

"Yes," I gasped, because it did.

He laid a hard, stinging slap across my belly. I grunted. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, Master."

"That's better. Now it's my turn." The guy moved toward the winch button, but just then my phone pinged. I hoped he wouldn't notice, but of course he did. He looked at me. "What was that? It sounded like a phone."

"My phone."

"Not anymore. Slaves don't own property; slaves are property. Let's have a look." He pulled my phone out of his pocket and frowned at the screen. "A text message," he said. "You know a guy named Matt?" He held the phone close to my face so I could see the notification on the lit screen.

The phone promptly unlocked itself.

"Face recognition. Excellent." He flicked his finger around the screen, searching for the message, then read it aloud to me. "'Sorry I was such a dick yesterday. Of course you can crash at my place. Hope you're OK.'" The guy looked up. "That mean anything to you?"

I nodded.

"Should we answer him?"

"Please."

"All right, then." Master held my phone in both hands, typing with his thumbs, reading his reply aloud as he went. "'Fuck you, Matt...I'm leaving town...and I never want to see you again...Go fuck yourself, asshole.'" He pushed send and looked up in triumph. "That'll teach him to treat us like that, eh?" Master saw the look on my face and added, "A guy who acts like a dick doesn't deserve you." He took the phone over to the cabinet and set it down on top, next to the bottle of lube. Then he chose a ten-pound dumbbell from the weight rack, raised it, and brought it down on the phone. The sound of breaking glass and crumpling metal made me wince.

"I hope Matt learned his lesson," Master said as he tossed the remnants of my phone into a wastebasket. "Such a hard cock, and he let it get away. Not to mention that cute little ass of yours. Which reminds me: time to check out the other side of you." Master went to the winch controls and lowered the chain, granting my aching arms relief at last. I stood before him, still trembling from the whipping.

The guy pushed a piece of equipment in front of me. It looked like an over-sized sawhorse painted black, with black leather padding on top and metal rings attached to its four legs. "You know what this is?"

I shook my head.

"It's called a 'fuck bench.' You know why they call it that?"

I could guess.

Master detached me from the chain and pushed me down until I was lying on the bench, chest pressed against the padded leather. In a quick and businesslike way, he clipped my collar to the end of the bench and my wrists to two of the legs. He spent the next few minutes tying me into more leather straps: one around each arm, just above the elbow, one around my waist, each ankle, and each leg, just above the knee. These last straps he clipped to the sides of the bench near my armpits. I was in a cramped position now, feet dangling helplessly. I had no contact with the floor; I couldn't lift myself. I could feel my bare ass sticking out behind the other end of the bench, my dick and balls dangling.

I tried to picture how ridiculous I must have looked.

The guy fetched a paddle. It was shaped like a ping-pong paddle, but made of black leather. "There are ten rules that come with being a slave. You will memorize all ten. Today, I'll teach you the first."

I could feel the paddle gliding lightly over my butt. Then a sharp strike. "Ow!"

"That was to get your attention. Now listen carefully and repeat after me. "'The slave is the property of the Master. The Master may do as he likes with his property.'" The guy waited.

I took too long. Whack! Whack! Two sharp blows, one on each ass cheek.

"'The slave is the property of the Master,'" he repeated gently. "'The Master may do as he likes with his property.'"

"'The slave is the property of the Master...'" I began, then tapered off.

"And...?"

"I forget the rest."

Whack! Whack! "'The slave is the property of the Master. The Master may do as he likes with his property.' Every time you make me repeat it, it's a smack on each cheek. If I become sufficiently annoyed, I might start whacking your balls." He emphasized the point by tapping the paddle against the bottom of my dangling scrotum, just enough to make me wince. "Kindly keep that in mind."

I tried again. "'The slave is the property of the Master. The Master can do whatever he wants with his property.'"

"Close, but no." Whack! Whack! "'The slave is the property of the Master. The Master may do as he likes with his property.'"

"'The slave is the property of the Master. The Master may do as he likes with his property.'"

"Very good. I knew you could do it." He patted me on the ass with his hand, as if in congratulation, but it stung like hell.

Master stood before me as I watched him undress. He kicked off his sneakers, then placed them, his socks, and his other clothes neatly atop a nearby table. He had an good body; muscular, lean, with tufts of black hair. Once he was naked, he put away the paddle, collected a handful of lube, and approached me from behind. I could feel the sensation of cold lube against my asshole. Then something penetrated me, firmly and painfully. A finger. I cried out.

"That's just my thumb," Master said. "Jesus, you're tight. Well, we both know the cure for that."

The second penetration was far worse, deeper and more painful. Master's dick was inside me. He grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head back. His other arm went around my throat, the crook of his elbow squeezing my neck. I felt the dick move inside me. I moaned with each stroke.

"Good," Master lay on top of me, bringing his lips close to my ear. I could feel his breath. "Louder," he whispered. "It makes me hot."

He took just a few minutes, but those minutes were an eternity. Master's strokes came fast, and they hurt. His chest slid easily against my back, greased by our mingled sweat. Finally, he came, the two of us crying out together as he plunged deeply and shot his load into me. After a few final rough strokes, he collapsed on top of me, breathing hard. I lay beneath, uncomfortably aware of the weight of his body on top of mine. The salty pressure made the welts on my back cry out in agony.