As I always did, when He came home from work and I wasn’t locked away, I met Him at the door on my knees, head bowed, eyes pointed downward, mouth open, and hands behind my back. He walked in and, ignoring me, slipped off His shoes and sat in the easy chair. He motioned for me. I unzipped His fly and He pushed His stiffening cock into my mouth. He sat back and let me suck. I knew He could let me do this for hours; my mouth, throat and neck would be sore if I didn’t take it slow and easy. Surprising me, He pulled me off him after only a few minutes. He pushed me down to His feet and told me to take off His socks and lick. I did so eagerly, cleaning His smelly feet with my tongue. Satisfied, He pulled me back to His dick.

I knew what He wanted when He said to show Him the ass. I dropped to my hands and knees and faced away from Him. I arched my back to point the hole up toward Him. Of course I was naked—I almost always was. The hole was clean and moist, the way I had been trained to keep it. My buttocks were red and bruised, the way He always kept me. In fact, there were welts, blisters, and scars across most of my body. He had used me hard.

I could not know what would come next; I never really did. He might rest His bare feet on my back, lean back and jack off. He might kneel behind me, shove His big dick into the hole and pound me full of His cum, slide His dick into me and loose a stream of His piss, or maybe both. He might slide His wet toes into my ass. He might stand and kick or stomp or spank or slap. He might stand on me and jump up and down.

It made no difference to me, really, because the idea of “me” had by now practically vanished. I would serve Him as best as I could at all times in all ways. I was not merely submissive, I had in fact surrendered completely to Him and merely existed however He wanted. For Him, I was part pet, part furniture, part appliance, part toy. I was His property to use however He wanted to bring Him pleasure or ease His life. When He didn’t want me, I was locked out of His way.

He certainly didn’t converse with me. He would bark orders, point, snap His fingers. He would scream at me, yell at me, belittle me, and humiliate me. The tiniest deviance from His stated order would be met with a fusillade of whipping and beating. The slightest hesitation in my actions would cause Him to release a mad punishment. I knew better than to question or second guess. I had been trained to respond, which I did unfailingly. To the extent I had an opinion or a desire; it was the same as His. I certainly still felt pleasure and pain, but they had become mixed-up and turned inside-out. I knew He derived pleasure from hurting me, and so I somehow felt joy in showing Him my pain. I was never happier than when I was sore and bloodied. On the other hand, when He used me sexually, I was to concentrate completely on His pleasure. I couldn’t touch my own genitals—if they weren’t locked up they were probably being tortured. I did like getting fucked, even as His cock ripped me apart, but that pleasure was inseparable from Him and came only from concentrating completely on Him.

So, I lived only to serve Him. Of course, I could never understand His need to hurt me, and I didn’t doubt that He couldn’t fathom my need to serve a superior Man. We were separated by this chasm of understanding. I couldn’t escape if I had wanted to, and I certainly did not want to. Knowing that there was no way out provides clarity of purpose. There is an odd freedom in being reduced to a sub-human.

I kept His home maintained and clean, His meals cooked, His clothes laundered. I licked the dust off His boots and kept them shined. I drank His piss, licked His dirty ass, and pleasured Him with my holes. In return, He fed me table scraps from a dog bowl on the floor, beat me senseless, and kept me away from the rest of the world. I wasn’t allowed to read, watch television, listen to the radio, or touch a computer. The outside world came to me only through Him. On the rare occasions He took me out to the local leather bar, He did the talking for me. I was always naked, at least inside the house, and always shaved smooth. I cleansed my ass and kept it lubed. I opened my mouth and sucked. He could use me whenever He wanted, and often did.

My ass was still pointed in the air as I awaited His orders. I felt Him kneel behind me. His dick touched the hole and I loosened involuntarily to accept Him. He pushed into me with all His power. I was used to this, felt the pain, and tightened around Him. He started fucking, slowly at first, then with greater speed and force. I held my back arched upward to take all of Him, and tightened and released with His rhythm. Suddenly, He slowed and stopped, holding Himself fully inside me. He reached under me, grabbed my balls and soft penis, and squeezed. I yelped with the unexpected pain. My genitals had been punished and tortured almost constantly, but even numb balls were no match for His powerful hands. My penis would once have been rock hard when being fucked by a Man; He had conclusively beaten this reflex out of me. With considerable effort, I could barely muster an erection, but the thought of actual ejaculation filled me with dread. He had never allowed it and would have been violently aghast at the idea.

He squeezed harder and resumed His fucking. I tried to concentrate on His dick, not on the new pain in my balls. His breathing increased, He grabbed my hip with His free hand to pull me tightly against Him, and I heard a little moan as He ejaculated inside me.

He kept squeezing my balls, even as His body relaxed.

“Might be time to get rid of these,” He said as He pulled His dick out of the hole. He released my balls and sat back in the chair. He snapped His fingers. “Fucking faggot doesn’t need any balls. One little misstep, fuck-face, and I’ll rip them off and stuff ‘em down your little cum-hole throat.”

I didn’t consider too closely what He said, instead I kept my ass tight to hold His semen as I quickly pivoted and turned to face Him. He pointed at His softening dick. I gently licked Him clean. When He was satisfied, He held my head against His thigh and I relaxed around His leg. He would have to piss in a minute or two, I knew, and would probably hold me there until then.

His toe found my genitals again, and gently rolled them around. “Yeah, We probably don’t need any of this shit down there.” He had started saying things like that in the last few weeks. In my earlier life, I had fantasized about being castrated, but I knew now that if He did it, I would have no say and it would be done as painfully and brutally as He could imagine. I had no feelings either way, I realized as His foot continued to play with them, I was delighted to serve Him, even if it required giving parts of my body to Him. After all, I had already given Him my mind and soul.

He stood, forced me on my knees, and put his soft penis into my open mouth. I closed my lips around Him, sucked the length into my throat, and immediately felt the warmth of His piss in my throat. The secret to being a good urinal was not to swallow at all, but to surrender to the stream and let it flow uninterrupted into the gullet. I had learned to hold my breath and wait for every drop.

At last He finished. Once again I licked Him clean as He pulled out. “Into the cage, faggot,” He said as He replaced His jeans and zipped up. I rose and walked down the hall to the enclosed space in His garage that served as His dungeon. The room was connected to the central heat and air of the house, but unless He was in the room it didn’t get turned on; it was blistering hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Around the room was a medical examination table, some shelves filled with torture tools and devices, and a wall with hooks at various levels. There was a cold water hose and a floor drain. And, in the corner was a cage of metal bars, a cube of about four feet on each side. The bars of strong, tempered steel were screwed into the floor and encased in concrete at the base. The entire piece was welded together. Once inside, I knew, there was no way out without His key.

I was afraid, when I first became His slave, about being left in the cage unattended. What if He were gone and there was a fire? I would surely be burned alive. I imagined Him lamenting the loss of slave property in a fire, the way a farmer might mourn the loss of livestock in a barn fire. “That’s too bad,” His friends would say, “slaves are hard to replace.” What if He were to die in a car accident? or to die of a heart attack in His sleep? Would I perish too, of thirst or starvation, before anyone found the pitiless slave? This thought still crossed my mind, I admit, but it was no longer of concern to me. If there was no Master, there was no need for His slave, either.

My time in the cage varied from an hour or two to several days. Thinking only of Him, time disappeared. I was locked inside at night sometimes, and during the day others. He sometimes shackled my arms or legs or neck to the bars, sometimes He attached a chain. Sometimes I was completely immobile, sometimes completely free. I might be gagged, blindfolded, plugged in the ears or ass. Sometimes He would simply lock the door and leave; sometimes He would sit and watch. If I was to be left for a long time, He might catheterize me or wrap me a diaper, or He might not. There was no dependable rule, other than that He would be creative, that I had no choice, and that He would never tell me what was to happen. I was simply to serve Him when He returned for me.

As I crawled into the cage, I heard Him close the door behind me. I turned around to see Him walking from the room. I wasn’t the least bit tired, but I laid down on the cool cement floor, put my head on my arm, and like the good dog I was, closed my eyes and fell asleep. In a half-awake state, I heard Him walking about the house, the TV in the den was on and off, and later, the front door opened and closed and his car drove off.

When I awoke again it was dark. The house was quiet, but I heard His car in the driveway. As He stepped up to the front door, I could already tell he had been drinking. It would be a long night, I knew. Liquor made Him even more violent than usual He came from the front door directly to the cage. Wordlessly, He opened His fly, pulled out His dick and pushed it between the bars of the cage. I knelt before Him and opened my mouth for the piss I knew would follow.

Waiting in the cage those hours, I had to piss myself, but I had been trained well to consider only His needs, not my own. His piss streamed into me. I knew that the piss from His night would be laced with alcohol and possibly, recreational drugs. I would have a headache before long, but on the other hand, I would be lucky to get through the night with only a headache.

He finished and closed His zipper, then unlocked the cage door. “Out,” He barked. “Piss in the floor drain,” He said as I crawled out. Staying on my hands and knees, I positioned myself above the drain and started to piss. I wasn’t allowed to touch my penis to aim; I could only move my hips as best I could. The piss splashed around and onto my arms and legs. “Hurry up faggot,” He growled. It felt good to release my bladder and I pushed as hard as I could.

I was still dripping urine when I felt the first strike on my ass. It was His cane whip, which burned a quick incision across my buttocks. I tensed up and the stream of my piss stopped abruptly. The sting was incredible; I felt the blood begin to flow. “Against the table, you moron,” He shouted. I rose to my feet, leaned over the examination table, and held on to the far edges. I knew that He wouldn’t stop until He had satisfied whatever violent urge drove Him.

He caned my back, buttocks, and legs, then turned me around and attacked my chest and thighs. I was crying in pain when He finally stopped, covered in raised, bleeding welts. Still, I knew that He was just getting warmed up. He stepped back from me and glared. “You’re a worthless piece of shit faggot, aren’t you?”

“Sir, Yes Sir,” I meekly said between my sobs.

“Tell me, fucker, tell me what you are.”

I knew this routine well. “Sir, it’s a cock sucking idiot who lives for Your piss and cum, Sir. Sir, please punish the slave more, Sir.”

“You want some more, don’t you faggot?”

My heart sank, but I mustered, “Sir Yes Sir”

“Don’t even start, fuck-face. I really don’t give a shit what you want. I’m the Master here, I decide, get it moron?”

“Sir Yes Sir” I said as eagerly as I could.

He walked to me, His right hand in a fist. He put His left hand on my shoulder to steady Him and punched me as hard as he could in my balls. I doubled over in pain. He followed up with a knee to my face and then a downward elbow to the back of my skull.

I sunk to my knees in agony. “On your feet, faggot.” He was calm. He punched me again in the balls, which were rapidly swelling. I felt the throbbing pain building.

“Stay there, cunt,” He said as He strode from the room. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. He was back in a second holding two long pieces of thin leather string and several aerosol cans of something. “Now kneel over the drain,” He ordered as He removed His clothes.

I stepped forward and watched Him disrobe. When He was naked He stepped nearer to me and started pissing onto the strings and into my mouth. The splash landed on my torso, adding a burn to the pain of the open wounds.

When He was done, He ordered me back to my feet. He pulled on my balls, then wrapped the piss-moistened strings around my scrotum. One was higher than the other, leaving a short space between them where the skin was visible. He pulled the strings tight, looked into my submissive eyes with a devious smirk, and then pulled them even tighter to cut off any remaining circulation. The pain was instant and more intense than anything I had ever experienced, like I had just been stabbed through my balls. He tied tight knots and let the loose ends of the strings dangle between my legs. He stepped away, found His jackknife on the shelf, and cut off the ends of the strings. My scrotum was already turning purple. He gave them a squeeze, and satisfied Himself that they were secure.

I stood over the drain, still dripping. I realized the wet string would contract as it dried, making the knot even tighter. He was going to take them, I saw. In pain throughout my whole body, I longed for a release. The only question now was how He would do it, and how much more painful it would be.

He ordered me to stand up straight while He reached for one of the cans He had brought with Him. He grabbed my tied off scrotum and trapped balls. He held them in front of the spray can in His right hand, and pushed down on the nozzle.

I heard the sound of the aerosol before I registered what it was and what was happening. For a split second I thought He might be spraying me with insecticide, or spray glue, or deodorant. And then I felt the stinging cold of the compressed air. He was going to freeze my balls off!

Short-lived frost appeared on my skin as he kept spraying. The cold stung and my balls ached. I felt them cool and try to contract inside me, but they were being held tightly by the string. He sprayed around, pointing directly at the balls. He stopped for a second, touched the cold skin, then kept spraying. After a few minutes, the spray began to sputter. He threw the can in the corner, grabbed the second, and started spraying again. He looked at my face and tapped my frozen balls. I felt nothing but the pain of frostbite. He told me to hold the can and keep spraying while He left the room.

He came back just as the other can was sputtering. He held a small, insulated cloth bag with a drawstring. Smoke escaped from the top. “Dry ice, faggot,” He said with a smile. “They’ll be dead in no time.” He grabbed the second can and tossed it in the corner. Then, He opened the sack, opened it around my frozen balls, and tightly tied the drawstring right about the leather strips. The burning in my crotch was suddenly far more intense. I was suddenly dizzy and felt myself fall to my knees.

He slapped me hard on the face as I kneeled before the Man who Owned me and who was destroyed my balls. “Suck your Master’s dick while your worthless balls freeze and die,” He said to me deeply. He leaned against the table and directed my head against His groin. “Keep your mouth on My dick and suck.” I kept His penis down my throat, pleasuring Him.

After several minutes, I could tell He was getting close. “Keep it up, eunuch,” He ordered as He pushed my head against His groin. His dick was halfway down my throat when I felt Him squirt His cum into me. He moaned in His ecstasy, made all the more delicious for Him knowing that He had forever taken the possibility of ejaculation from me.

“You like My cum in your throat don’t you, eunuch?” He said accusingly. “It’s the only cum you’ll ever get now, fuck-face.” He was softening as I licked Him clean. My body ached, my groin burned in pain.

He rose and pushed me onto the floor. He kicked my ice-cold balls as He left the room. I rose and picked up the empty cans and put them in the trash can. I liked having chores to do in order to forget the pain I felt. I turned on the water hose and carefully washed the piss and blood into the floor drain. I could feel the frozen weight of my dying balls rubbing against my legs.

He came back and ordered me to crawl into the cage. He had me place shackles around my wrists and ankles, told me to get on my hands and knees, and locked the shackles to the cage. From behind, He pushed a large plug into my ass. My dying balls hung below me, encased in dry ice. He turned off the light and went to bed.

I managed to sleep only fitfully. The pain gradually lessened. By morning, the ice had evaporated. When He came to see me, I sincerely hoped He would release me from the cage. From behind, I felt Him remove the now empty bag of ice. I looked down as He did and saw my blackened, dead scrotum. He tossed the bag toward the trash, and then unlocked my shackles.

“Lay down on your back on the table, eunuch,” He barked.

I backed out of the cage and gingerly climbed onto the table. It felt good to stretch my limbs. The big plug was still in my ass, making movement difficult. As I laid down on the table as He commanded, I saw that the Master had prepared a tray of gauze, some liquid disinfectant, and a needle and thread. He held a thick knife in His hand.

“Hold still, piss breath,” He ordered. With one quick slice, He cut through the scrotum between the two leather strings, removing the dead tissue. I screamed from the new pain and gasped for air. He dropped the black scrotum and balls, and working quickly, rubbed disinfectant on the area, gathered up the skin, and sewed me back together. Then, He pulled loose the other leather string. The wound bled slightly as He squirted more disinfectant over the wound and taped gauze over the top. My limp dick hung over the new, smooth scrotum.

“As long as I’m down here, I might as well fix the piss problem, too,” He said to himself. He disinfected around the perineum, and using the tip of the scalpel, incised my urethra to create a new piss slit. Above the new hole, he sewed the canal shut.

“From now on, you’ll have to squat and piss like a girl,” He laughed to Himself. “Turn over, eunuch,” He said.

I turned over, my crotch still mostly numb. I hurt like hell everywhere, but as always, I tried to concentrate on what He might want.

“Get the plug out of your ass, clean everything out, get ready.” He left the room. I knew what He wanted: clean my ass out and get it lubed for Him. This I did—carefully—with the hose. In a few minutes I was clean and ready for Him to use.

“Faggot, get the fuck in the kitchen.”

I ran to Him. “Where the fuck is my coffee? How many fucking times do I have to tell you, you miserable fucking faggot idiot? Cutting off your balls hasn’t made you any smarter.” He was back to His old self.

“Very sorry, Sir,” I said as I started the coffee maker. He was still naked, I saw, and His penis was hard. He stepped behind me and slid a finger inside my hole, doubtless to make sure it was clean. “Good eunuch,” He whispered in my ear. As the coffee began dripping, He pumped His semen into His property’s ass.