A Good Master
(Meta note: this piece inspired by [Slavery Legalized](%5C), a fine work worth reading indeed. Randall is used with permission.)
A Good Master
Randall was in agony.
Down in the basement of his master's house, he was trying to be a good slave: just hold his bladder for 4 hours. He had done it for many days before -- but on those days, his master had allowed him to seek relief when he woke up in the morning, before he left for work. Today, his master was in a hurry, and just plain forgot. But Randall was the one who had to suffer.
Randall did everything he could: stared at the wall, closed his eyes, whimpered, and whined, even howled at the ceiling in case his master might hear him. Nothing helped. The only thing that could really help was to block out the pain, and that required him to relax -- and that tempted his muscles to relax.
Surely master will come back, he told himself. He always did. It won't be long.
The wolf knew not how long "it won't be long" lasted him; but after he stood, sat, rolled, lay, and howled from the concrete floor, he began to decide he was unable to take the stabbing pain anymore. Only now, when he considered giving up, did he get an idea.
He looked at the floor drain in the middle of the room, and knew that the only way his master would know about it if he failed was by the smell. If he could pee just a little bit to take the pressure off, and the smell had time to dissipate, his master would never know. He would have plenty left when his master made him prove he had held it.
As the pain and time went on, Randall found this idea more and more appealing. He held out as long as he could in restless agony, the idea giving him the choice to end it, and giving him another tiny shred of fortitude. But it was not sufficient; his body forced him to act on it soon enough. He stood up, walked quickly to the drain, took aim, and finally relaxed those muscles.
He sighed, feeling the sharp needle in his bladder be slowly removed, as the urine rushed from his body. The sparkling yellow stream splattered on the drain, as Randall just basked in the pleasure of release. He had never had to pee so badly in his entire life, having lived either outside, or considered "person" enough to use a toilet when he had to.
He let himself enjoy this sublime pleasure until the moment he could start to smell it, and then grudgingly, pulled the stream to a stop. But as he was enjoying his feeling better, he found a different pain quickly creeping in: a strange, almost burning sensation, an irritation deep inside. His body was telling him: finish.
He tried to ignore this unscratchable itch, but was not able to for long. With a whine, wishing for more self-control, he released the muscles again, sighing a second time. The smell now began to permeate the room, and the continued urine stream against the mesh of the grate splattered into more and more droplets.
It took him all of 20 seconds for him to finish his piss, for a total of almost 45, before he really, finally finished draining out. It was the end of an unwitting torture for him, and the return to what seemed a normal state, that made him uncontrollably smile. But he gave himself no time to savor the guilty pleasure, as his now crystal-clear mind began to berate him in advance of his master for his misdeed.
He immediately justified what he had done. It was simple: master never meant him to hold 12 hours of urine, only four. Every other day, he was allowed to pee every morning. His master would surely forgive him; he was a kind master, in spite of his occasional vicious streak. That vicious streak, Randall told himself, was all he had to get through. He would surely be punished for this. But once that was over, everything would be okay.
In fact, maybe better than okay. Once he was house broken, his master said, he would be allowed to move upstairs, out of the basement, and live a much better life. Just a few more days of proving he could hold it, and the world would be open to him -- a difficult task, but never so terrible as today.
He was comfortable enough, in spite of the looming punishment, that he enjoyed his last few minutes of freedom and relaxation with a nap. The smell of his urine in his nostrils was a persistent reminder of how good it felt.
Until, that is, he was awoken by a voice.
"Hello, Randall, how are y-- Randall! You peed, didn't you!?"
The wolf sat up, and upon seeing the familiar face of his master, a tall English Mastiff, folded his ears and whimpered like the dog he was supposed to be.
"Get up!" his master barked.
Randall got only to his knees, ears still back.
"No begging!"
Smack. Randall took the blow to his face with grit teeth, and stood completely to avoid another.
"Now, Randall! I told you to hold it! You didn't listen to me! What do you think should happen to you!"
It was not a question that Randall needed to think about. "I should be punished," he answered, looking at his feet.
"Right! So, you've had your pee, don't take another one. I'll be back home from work at the usual time." That meant nothing to Randall, as there was no clock in the basement.
He still thought that he could mitigate his punishment. After all, two thirds of his pee wasn't really supposed to be in him. He dared one try as his master got to the bottom of the stairs.
"M-m-master, I wan--"
"Shut up!!" Smack.
"Master!" he whimpered.
"I said shut up, pet!!"
Smack. Smack. Smack. Randall just started crying silently as he fell back to his knees.
Master left the basement, and Randall relaxed. It was over -- but then, he came back with two long strands of hemp rope.
"Alright, pet! Time for your punishment!"
Randall's eyes got big. "Please don't kill me, master!" he begged. But his master looped the rope around his neck, and pulled.
Even though Randall's airway was barely constricted, he was utterly terrified by the feeling of anything around his neck. "Master!" he yelled, "please! I'm sorry!"
"Up to the wall, let's go," growled his master.
Randall scampered as best he could, crying all the way. "I'm sorry!" he repeated, tears streaming down his face, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
After this short but terrible agony, his master released him. While Randall caught his breath and tried to piece himself back together, he barely noticed his master tying his wrists to two nearby pegs, which Randall hadn't really noticed while living in this basement.
"You've got too much alpha wolf in you," his master teased, trying to provoke the him. But Randall was still recovering and barely heard him. "We'll see how you think after I get home. Have a nice day."
It was obviously sarcastic. To Randall's horror, he then saw the mastiff take the hot air vent from the heater, bend it down into the basement, and turned it on full blast. He then walked up the stairs, and as Randall heard the clunk, the sound of blocking the door as usual with something heavy.
There was no escape. Even as his eyes teared up, Randall told himself not to cry, to just relax. He could get through this, if he could find some comfort on the brick wall and hard floor behind him. He had slept on it for days; surely he could succeed in finding the ability to sit.
First, he leaned his back into the wall, arching slightly, and easing against it, to find a compromise between his spine and his shoulder blades. The sweet spot he chose was to lower his shoulders, and lean on the muscles around his spine in the upper back. His butt on the floor was all the friction he needed to keep him there, and by rotating his feet to point at opposite angles, relaxed his legs.
Now all he had to do was solve him arms, and he would be okay. He carefully pulled the rope to be mosts comfortable on his wrists, and slowly, gently, carefully let his arms hang down. It took him a while to get the ropes not to pull on the bones, but he found a magic, precarious spot on the side of his hand, the rope half supported by bone, half by muscle, two thirds of the way around his wrist.
You'll be okay, he told himself, as he closed his eyes... and relaxed... deeper and deeper... leaving this reality, and going to a special, far-away place. It was beyond any description, deep within himself, yet far above the place his body rested. Up and away he went; out of the house, out of the city, higher and higher.
It was a very long journey for him, but he had plenty of time to make it. Flying through space, faster than the speed of light. Unaware of what a vacuum was, he breathed just fine. He felt the heat of starts as they went by, very, very hot things. The air he breathed was heated by them; everything was heated by them, so that was okay.
At least, it was okay until his fur started to itch. This place was not supposed to make his fur itch; he had no body here, at least not the same one he left suffering down there. Fur was not supposed to itch. A sudden, all-consuming desire to scratch his left ear broke him out. The moment he moved, he knew he wasn't in space.
The moment he gave in, and scratched it to make it feel better, his brain reconnected itself to his body -- and found it in anguish. His mouth was dry, his buttocks were numb, one of his wrists has slipped and was hurting, he felt feverish, and more and more of his fur started to itch. He started scratching his head, neck, and face with the hurting arm -- maybe moving it would make the pain to go away.
This was a fever to Randall; his body did not care what induced it. It made him feel more miserable than holding his pee; at least then, he was able to think straight. But his mind got cloudier and cloudier, as heat sapped his ability to concentrate. It trapped him in his uncomfortable body, keeping his imagination from working.
The more hot he felt, and the more trapped he felt, the more frightened and remorseful he became. As the tears supplemented the drops of sweat all over him, he whispered through his dry throat, "I'm sorry master... please let me out... please..." But no one would hear him, especially at that volume. He had no energy to add more.
Let me die, he thought. That will show master; show him how his "decency" does not comport with owning and punishing a slave like this. He looked up at the furnace, still grumbling away across the room, far out of reach. He stared at the wall, feeling the circulation drain from his legs as his buttocks completely went numb, and his aches got only worse.
He must die. He would be free at last. He would die, right here, right now...
But then, a commotion at the top of the stairs. And the door opened. Randall closed his eyes, and though it was hard, let his head hang forward most uncomfortably. Pretend to be dead, he thought. Scare his master. Scare him to the very core. Dig a wound so deep in his soul, that he would never be the same.
"Randall?"
He did his best to ignore the voice. It sounded apologetic. The perfect mood to scare his master.
"Randall? Rand-- oh Gods, my pet!"
Hurried footsteps, the presence so close to him. When he felt the left hand release, he leaned right. When he felt the right hand go, he flopped and rolled to the side instead, slowing down a little for the concrete.
Fortunately for him, his master remained fooled. "Randall! Randall! Talk to me!"
He felt his master's hands run all over him; shaking him, pushing on him, stroking his head.
"Randall!" he sobbed, getting Randall to flinch.
Assuming his master would see that, he cracked his eyes, only to discover that his master had his own eyes closed.
Randall, alas, was ill-suited for revenge when push came to shove. When his master put his head against Randall's and started crying, he held silent as long as he could -- all of five seconds -- before whispering lethargically, "mmmmmaster..."
"Randall? Oh Gods, Randall! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" he cried, "you'll be okay, alright? C'mon, let's go upstairs. You'll see the rest of the house, okay? C'mon. C'mon!"
Randall slowly got up, exaggerating very little in his tortoise-like motions. He slowly rolled to his stomach, gingerly placed one foot after another under him, got on his hands and knees, and finally stood up.
His master walked him over to, and then up, the stairs, and opened the door to a new world.
Randall knew the house was fairly large, but only saw a tiny piece of the inside on his way here. Now that he was brought to it, rather than through it, the effect was completely different. The basement door opened into a rather narrow hallway, toward what seemed to the back of the house, generally out of sight from anywhere except the back door.
He recognized the back door as where his master had taken him in, making him realize that he had seen nothing of the house at all. That opinion was further confirmed when the hallway forked into a much larger hall, lit by the refractive decadence of a rather small chandelier. His master took him toward the right, which revealed a long, 10-seat dining room -- but the only guests were giant binders of paper.
He took Randall past the table, to a couch in an adjoining living room beside a tall bookcase, and stretched him out on it. Randall laid down, and was unable to suppress the smile of feeling the soft fabric against him. His back, finally able to stretch completely out, suddenly relaxed.
"Master," he whispered, his throat still terrible, " water...?"
He saw his master leave and very quickly return with a glass of water. "Drink slowly, my pet," he advised, keeping Randall flat and slowly pouring into his muzzle.
Randall easily took mouthful after mouthful, and swallowed. It was hard at first, the water scraping his throat on the way down, but within a swallow or two, it felt better.
When the glass was empty, his master asked in a soft, gentle voice, the very opposite of the one he used earlier that day, "would you like anymore?"
"I'm fine, master. Thank you." But then, his stomach contradicted him by growling.
"Aww," he asked with a smile, "is my pet wolfie hungry?"
Randall didn't answer; he felt embarrassed about being so needy, even though his master seemed in the mood to fulfill every last one of them.
"Then I'll get you something later," he cooed, petting Randall's head.
When the mastiff sat down beside him, Randall decided that now would be the best time to talk about his master's error that let to his accident.
"Master?" he asked. The dog looked back attentively with soft eyes. "I'm sorry I peed, but -- you forgot to let me go this morning."
This made his forgiving master apologetic. "Oh Randall, I'm so sorry. I was in just such a hurry -- don't worry about it, okay? If you promise to be a good boy and hold it, I'll let you stay in the house now, okay?"
It was a task Randall didn't like, but was well within his ability to do. "I promise, master," he replied, even managing to smile at the thought of finally escaping the basement.
"That's my boy," the mastiff smiled, and kissed Randall on the nose.
Randall giggled -- something he hadn't done in a long time. He hadn't been so happy since -- well, since his last two masters, at least. Maybe this master would be better to him, after all.
The mastiff let Randall lay on the couch for a while, and then served him some uncooked spaghetti, three strands at a time. It was long, chewy, and not very flavorful, but his stomach didn't mind in the least. His master also seemed to enjoy feeding him, just watching him with affection -- maybe something stronger, too, but Randall wasn't sure.
After Randall finished, his master explained the rules of the house. Aside from holding it, they boiled down to "don't touch anything, except for sitting on chairs or reading any book in that bookcase." His master seemed to be an inventor, and had lots of books. Randall could read, and even taught himself math, his favorite way to pass the time.
But as he had his eye on an interesting book with a Latin name, "Single Variable Calculus," his master interrupted him.
"One more thing to show you," he directed, "let's go."
He pulled Randall gently to his feet, who now had the energy to stand on his own.
From the couch, they went through the attached living room -- all 25 feet of it -- and then up a flight of stairs. After selecting a door on the left, his master took him through what Randall presumed was his master's bedroom, and into the bathroom attached on the opposite wall.
"Now, Randall, this is important," his master directed. "If you have to go, do it now. If you don't, try hard. Okay? It's important to go."
"Yes, master," Randall answered, feeling nothing.
"I'll change out here. Be out in 5 minutes."
"Yes, master."
His master closed the door, leaving Randall alone with the toilet, large bathtub, and a giant rack full of towels.
Having been so hot and dehydrated, Randal didn't have to pee at all. He tried hard, as his master directed, and got the remainder of his dinner from last night. Deciding that was good enough, he flushed, and opened the door.
However, he was surprised to see his master naked for the first time, and with quite a large erection. Randall's heart went up in his throat at the sight of it. It was always the instrument that caused almost all of the worst moments in his life. He started trembling as he looked at it, wondering what this master would be driven to because of it.
"Randall? What's wrong?" his master asked gently.
But Randall didn't answer; this one had no right answer. He just folded his ears back and whined, and act of begging him not to do -- whatever he might have in mind.
"Oh, silly, get up," he teased, "and wash your hands."
Randall didn't understand why, as he had touched nothing dirty, but walked over to the sink, and washed them.
When he turned the water off, however, he felt his master come up behind him, and put arms around Randall's waist. When the hard cock poked him briefly, he yipped, "master!" before he could suppress it.
"It's okay, Randall... Good grief, you're trembling," he pointed out as he took Randall's wrists in his hands. "Please, my pet, tell master what's wrong."
Randall closed his eyes. He had to think of something. This master wanted to be nice to him. That was clear. It was good, but it meant he might not like Randall saying that he wasn't nice. He might get mad then, and when he was horny, there was only one thing that could follow. Think, Randall, he demanded to himself, as he took a deep breath to give himself time.
"I... I'm worried," he slowly stated, brain running in circles. "I'm worried ... I'm scared my old master will find me," was all he could think of. "You're a good master, but, I don't know if you can protect me." It wasn't as good as Randall wanted, but he hoped it would at least make master be more sympathetic.
"Aww, my poor wolfie. Don't worry. He doesn't know anything about where you are," he said, hugging Randall from behind. "He'll never find you. And I'll be a good master, I promise. You must have had a bad time, huh?"
Randall nodded, and started to relax. He didn't mention it was the falling erection, not the soothing words, that had the effect.
"Well don't worry about it anymore. Master will take good care of you, okay? You'll have things to do, but nothing too bad. When you get them done, you can read any book in the house, remember?"
Randal nodded. To calm himself down, he tried to tell himself this master was different. If only he could imagine this master wanting him for a different purpose than every master before...
"Now, let's you and I get clean, okay?" interrupted his master. "No more filth from that basement."
He walked Randall into the shower -- an area that made Randall uncomfortable, but he could deal with.
"Master... won't hurt me?" he asked to relieve his anxiety.
"You've been a good boy, Randall. If you don't do something wrong, master won't hurt you."
The tone of voice, and gentle hands guiding him into the shower, made Randall miss the caveat. He smiled.
His master turned on the faucet, and after doing no more than adjust the temperature, pulled a different knob, and the overhead sprayer came on. Only then did he let Randall walk under the water. The wolf found it a little cold, but only for a moment; the temperature rose a little more, to what seemed like an ideal distance between skin temperature and fever temperature. That finally relaxed him.
"My wolfie likes that, huh?" teased his master as he stepped in behind Randall, and then closed the glass door behind them.
Randall enjoyed the water -- and concentrated on forgetting the vulnerable position he was in.
"Time to get cleaned up, pet," he heard from behind him.
Randall got tense at first, but the shampoo-covered hands only started rubbing the fur on his shoulders.
It was important not to tip off his master that Randall was still not used to him, the wolf thought. He had only known this mastiff a week, and he did decide to keep Randall in the basement until now, which said something about him. It was hard to give him the benefit of the doubt after that.
The hands, meanwhile, just kept getting more intimate: down the arms, all over the back, gently around the neck -- which got Randall to flinch briefly -- and then down the legs, concluding with the feet one at a time. The only places left, Randall thought, were the big three: his face, his tail, and his crotch.
When he saw his master reach up to the water head and rinse his hands, he made a snap decision to try and get around this problem before it started.
"Master?" he asked.
"Yes, my pet?" he replied affectionately.
"I -- I would like to wash myself, just what's left."
He heard shampoo get lathered up on his master's hands, and tensed -- only to find they returned to his unrinsed shoulders.
"Oh come now, Randall, don't you trust me?"
Randall clenched his jaw, and looked at the ceiling, trying not to cry. The very asking of that question, knowing that Randall was a slave, was a form of coercion. He was now certain that his master would be taking something from him; the only question now is whether the slave was willing or not.
Since this master seemed nice, Randall decided to see if he could play on his empathy. "Well, -- I've been through a lot, master," he replied slowly, "it's hard for me to trust anyone touching me in -- some places."
"Aww, I understand. I'll make sure to be extra gentle."
Randall wet his face in the shower to hide the tears threatening to come out. His master had given the wrong answer.
He took shaky, deep breaths, as he felt the hands soaping up his tail. He was certain it was only a matter of time until something else started work down there. Why else would a well-off, white-collar master -- who seemed to live alone -- buy a slave? Especially one whose only outstanding attribute was "hole heals virgin tight?"
Slowly the hands soaped up the tail, and then disappeared. Randall kept taking deep breaths -- louder and faster than anyone relaxed -- as he silently dreaded the impending sensation that was the bane of his life.
"Okay, Randall, here we go," his master gently warned, "nice and slow."
Randall closed his eyes, and bent over to make entry less painful...
But only two fingers touched his tailhole. They rubbed it, slowly and gently. Randall arched his back and groaned, making his master slow down.
"Looks like you forgot to wipe," said his master, as they finished their work, and rinsed off in the water.
When they were clean, one returned there, and the other reached around to Randall's front, and started rubbing soap on his ball sac.
When the soap was all applied, and then rinsed, they kept going. The tailhole was gently teased, and the sudsing of his balls became fondling. Randall hated the back end, but liked the front; even a paw besides his own made all the difference.
As he got harder and harder, his master said in a soothing voice, "this shows my wolfie how much I love him."
Randall was almost ready to believe it -- he was certainly willing to accept the treatment. The tailhole touching made him stay bent a little awkwardly, but it still felt really good. It was so rare for a master to actually please him. But when he felt an erection reached full height, his master slowed down a little.
"Now, my pet, I love you. Do you love me?"
"Yes master," he answered without thinking.
"Do you want to consummate our relationship?"
Randall was so horny, he whimpered, "yes master." And that was the mistake.
"Aaaah!" he screamed when a cock shoved its way into his hole.
"Your master wants to FUCK, pet," growled a husky voice in his ear. "That's why he loves you so much!"
Randall groaned and yelled with every thrust of his master. It was a sensation too intense to process. All he knew was that his master howled after a while, deafening him, and then felt a familiar goop oozing in.
Then, his master started teasing him endlessly, returning him quickly to his former state.
"Come for me, pet," he growled.
Ignoring the dick of his master, still inside of him, Randall did get enough fondling to finally make him orgasm with a yelp, as his cum finally started pumping. His master let it splatter against the wall of the shower.
His master only withdrew when he felt the cum leaving Randall's penis, and then re-washed both areas all over again. Randall didn't care, as between an orgasm and a rape, he was almost catatonic. He didn't care what happened to him anymore.
His master rinsed him off, and then turned off the water. Randall shook behind the glass when his master got out, and then let himself be toweled the rest of the way dry.
"Now tell me, pet, wasn't that fun?"
The sing-song sweet voice was back. It was hard to resist, and his afterglow wasn't helping. "Yes, master," he answered truthfully, "but it was a little rough, master."
"Aww, you're so sweet and fragile. I'll be nicer next time, okay? Now, you take a nap, right here, I'll be in to join you in a moment."
Randall nodded, and pulled the silk sheets of the King-sized bed over him. In the end, Randall decided he might be able to like this new master -- but it would take quite a bit of getting used to.
The End.