I learned I was a slave during the summer between my sophomore and junior years at UNC. I was visiting my Dad for three weeks before I went home to my Mom's (since they split up when I was in grade school I spent most of the summer with him). This was the second year now I wasn't spending 6 weeks with him, but I had a summer job at home, and as much as I loved my Dad, I had friends to see, the beach to go to - I had things to do for me.
We had fought about it the year before - I had hurt his feelings by not wanting to spend a big chunk of the summer with him. I felt awful about that, but really, I wasn't a kid anymore. I was in college, dating, figuring out my career path - I would always love my Dad, but as I told him, one day he had to let go. I had to grow up and leave - still love, but leave.
He was better this year - no fighting, in fact he seemed quite content to see me, to let me do my thing. He told me with that cocked grin of his (my Dad has always been a kidder: witty, can make strangers at a party or on an airplane laugh - slightly extravagant facial gestures is part of his MO) that he was happy "To take what you choose to give, as you choose my dear." I always thought he was a little weird, a little goofy, but in a good way, like smarter than almost anyone I have ever met, and I know when he talks there are a hundred literary and historical references floating in his brain, vying to attach themselves to his most casual speech. He's as likely to toss in a quote from a classical or Victorian author, regardless of subject, as not.
He even had a little gift for me when I showed up - an advance DVD copy of X3 - I had missed it in the theaters and I really liked X-Men and X2. "Here you go pumpkin. I had to call in a few favors for this, but I think you will really dig this. In fact, would you watch it tonight? I think I found a pretty hip little piece of intertextuality in this one, and I would love the insights of my Media Studies Maven." It wasn't said mean, so I let it go - Dad had wanted me to get a classical, liberal education: history, English lit, poli sci - felt that was the only basis for an education. I wasn't turned on by that stuff - Media Studies is fascinating, and I'm learning, really learning what my generation thinks is important.
I watched it that night while he went out for a bit. Something was wrong with the DVD from the moment I put it in - the barest, barely audible hum and the slightest visual disturbances at the edges of the picture. I took the DVD out and washed it, but it didn't help. It wasn't so bad I couldn't watch the movie, and soon I didn't notice the hum at all, I was sucked in. I sat stock still for two hours, and then after the credits rolled I still stayed for a long, long time, and watching a random, abstract pattern on the screen. I don't know how long I sat there, don't really remember the movie (and now I couldn't give a rat's ass about it or any movie for that matter) - it may have been hours. At some point I simply got up, turned off the player and went straight t bed, so tied and heavy-lidded I could barely walk. I didn't change, just cast myself down into what Dad calls the "well of Hypnos," - deep, deep sleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
I dreamt that night, and my dream changed everything I knew or thought I knew before. Before, I saw as through a mirror darkly - suddenly I saw clearly. I was in a classroom. That meant, I knew, that I was here to learn, to be taught, to absorb instruction. Being in a classroom meant that I had to be a good student and learn. It was an antique classroom - those old liftop desks and chair combo numbers, fixed to the floor, and at the far end a long wall covered in blackboard. I was the only student - that meant the class was especially for me, and I needed to focus, and listen, and learn.
The teacher was there then, the way things come in dreams, without transition. She was me - that is, it was me up there teaching, an altered me, a fantasy teacher of terrible sternness and icy grace. The fact that I was the teacher, that I was teaching myself, meant I believed everything I heard. If you are the teacher for yourself, it means you can't argue, it means that whatever the teacher says is the voice of truth, your own, immutable truth you always knew to be true. The teacher me wore glasses, had her hair up in a severe bun, but was dressed provocatively: tiny micro black skirt, white blouse opened until lacy white bra showed, and 3 inch spiked heels. She carried a long ruler. I had to listen to her.
My teacher looked at me coldly, and said clearly, "You are a slave, Susan, a slut sex-slave." My cunt clenched then, a powerful spasm under the desk as that truth hit me. I was a slave, and not just any slave, but a slut sex-slave. "You live to serve your Master. Your holes are his to fuck and use, your body is his to hurt, you have no right to yourself, because your Master owns you body and soul. You love being a slave - you are pathetically grateful to be owned and used." Oh my God, I thought as I bit my lip, I'm a slave for fucking and being hurt. I knew this was true, and was completely grateful. It made perfect sense to me: if I was a slut sex-slave, then of course my Master could use me anyway he wanted, and I would be grateful. That's what slut sex-slaves do, is be grateful for use. "You are a fucktoy for your Master: you fuck and suck for his pleasure, and his pleasure is all that you care about." Yes, I didn't care about my pleasure at all - my Master being happy was all that matters - that's how grateful slut slaves feel. They live to please their Master. "You are obsessed with your Master's cock. He is your god, and his cock is the altar of your worship. You are an empty, yawning void - your asshole, cunt and mouth ache to be stuffed with your Master's cock. You only feel good, whole, and useful when you are in some way worshipping his gorgeous dick. The harder or more violently he pumps his cock into you, the better you feel, because you are serving him with more focus. You live to have his cock stuffed up your ass, gutting you until you feel like his cock will split you open." Of course. I had never been ass-fucked, but I could see how having his dick splitting me open in that way would be what I lived for. It would hurt, but it would please him, and I would have my guts hugging and worshipping my god's dick. My ass felt empty - I wanted him so bad in there, brutalizing me. "Sucking on your Master is a joy, and feeling him pump his come into your belly is a reward for your service. You don't deserve his glorious come, but it feels good to him so you ache to suck, and if he wants to pump your throat, you open up and relax and let him do that. Your mouth is a cunt for your Master to fuck." My mouth is a cunt, I thought. I understood it, suddenly I felt empty and wet there, waiting for the first time my Master's cock would slide past my lips and I would be allowed to suck and lick it. If I did a good enough job sucking my Master's dick, he would come in my mouth and I could swallow his come. Maybe he would fuck my throat and hurt me that way - rape my throat. The idea of my Master raping me sent another shiver of pleasure through me - in my dream I was soaking my thighs, dripping wet.
I, my teacher, me, looked down over her glasses, swinging her ruler back and forth. "You are so pathetically enslaved to your Master because he is so amazing, and you are such a worthless cunt next to him. He is incredible - you are nothing next to him, and your only worth comes from your service to him. You feel guilty for being such a worthless whore, and so you want to demonstrate your gratitude by acts of humiliation and degradation. You belong under him, sucking and licking his feet and toes. You would rather lick and rim your Master's asshole than drink or eat. You deserve to be pissed on." Oh my god I almost climaxed when I learned that, when I realized my Master should piss on me, piss in me, because I was that low. I learned then that it would be a fucking honor to be my Master's toilet and gulp down his piss, and my belly and pussy started to clench up, just on the edge of orgasm, just thinking about being allowed to be used that way. I was so close to coming; my thighs and the wooden seat of the chair were just soaked with slut juice leaking out of me. I had never, not in any of my heretofore fumbling explorations of sexuality known I could be this hot, this wanton, this fucking wet, just thinking about my Master. There was more I had to learn though.
My teacher-self made me get up, "Bend over your desk, slut sex-salve, and pull up your skirt." I realized then that I was wearing a "school-girl" get up - a midriff baring little red top with a braod white collar, plaid micro-skirt, white knee socks and high-heeled mule mary-janes - no panties. Of course, I was a student, here to learn what a cuntslave I was for my Master, so I had to wear a schoolgirl outfit, and of course slutslaves don't wear panties. They leak cuntjuice on their thighs to remind them of how nasty they are. I did what I was told, bent over the desk from the front, skirt pulled up on my back, and grabbed the dges of the desk. "You're a cunt, Susan. A dirty, nasty sexslave who gets used and fucked and treated like shit, because you deserve to be treated that way. You are such a whore you deserve to be punished." Her ruler, my ruler, came down in a whistling arc and crakced against my ass - it was like a line of fire across my ass and into my whole body. The pain was so intense my whole body stiffened, and as she berated me, as I lectured myself about how I yearned to be punsihed, blow after blow landed. It hurt so bad my eyes were leaking tears in seconds - but my cunt was leaking faster. I never moved, never tried to get away, because I knew I deserved to be punished for being so bad. My ass was on fire, the crack of the ruler on my butt shocked me with each savage blow, and it hurt worse than anything I had ever experienced.
I deserved it though. I just wished it was my Master hurting me - I was on the edge of climax, riding that wave, thinking my Master should whip and hurt me because I am such a dirty, nasty cunt - I should suffer. It was over eventually though - my ragged breathing replacing the sound of the ruler coming down to beat me. I still didn't move, my ass and cunt blazing, my stomach churning with lust, guilt and desire, when I felt my teacher lean in, a few issp of her hair brush my neck and the side of my face, and whisper: "You deserve to be hurt and punsihed for the rest of your life bitch, because you are such a cunt." YES, I thought, crying quietly, I deserve to be punished for being so dirty. "You feel guilt for being so dirty, for being such a worthless, nasty slut, and you will spend the rest of your life making up for it, making it up to your Master." I sobbed quitely now, thinking yes, yes, I need to make it up to Master, show him how sorry I was for being so worthless, and how grateful I was he owned me, fucked me, used me, humilaited me and hurt me. I would do anything. "You're going to spend the rest of your life serving, obeying, pleasing and suffering for your Master: your Daddy."
That was it! The orgasm was blinding, convulsive - my legs and back and gut clenched so hard I hurt myself coming as I realized who my Master was. Of course: my Daddy, the only man I had ever loved or ever would love, My God and Owner and Master. I was Daddy's little girl, little fuckslut, little sexslave and bitch. I wasn't good enough for him (and admitting that to myself set off another ripple of orgasm throguh my body) and so I would serve him fanatically for the rest of my life.
That was the lesson I had learned. I was crying and cumming and my legs were wet to my knee, my breath coming in gulps, but I was joyous: I knew who my Master was. My Daddy was my Master.
I woke up the next morning with a surety of purpose and a calmness that other people, those who aren't slaves, will never know. I didn't lounge in bed - as soon as it was light I awoke, knwoing I hade work to do. My morning ablutions were a pleasure, because as I washed my body, I knew I was washing his property. My hands shook with excitement, sick lust, as I shaved my pussy - it was clear to me in a very basic, gut-sense way that my pussy needed to be little-girl smooth for Daddy. He should be able to run his hand over my mound and find it smooth and silky. I almost came as I finished shaving the light, dirty blonde hair away. I knew how to dress too - I had a short skirt, a little white button-down blouse, white socks - I would need to get new shoes, but this was good eneough, with my hair done in two pig-tails. It was so fucking hot to put makeup, to put on just enough to show I was making myself pretty for him, but not too much to be tacky - to put on makeup that said, "I woke up and wanted to loo hot for you Daddy. I was happy to make myself a walking wet dream for you, Master." Eye-liner, mascara, pink lip gloss - cock-sucking lips for my Daddy. My legs were soaked, and I could smell myself.
My stomach was doing flip-flops as I padded down the hallway to Master's room. I paused at the door, almost stunned by the enormity of what was about to happen: I was going to be allowed to fulfil my purpose and function. I was going to get my Daddy off with my fuck-pig mouth, cunt and ass.
I didn't deserve him - he was too good for me - what if I failed him? Didn't please him?
I pushed the door open quietly. I knew, in that non-ratiocinative, gut level grokking I had all this mroning that my Daddy should be welcomed into the day with my soft lips wrapped around his dick, waking him up until he blessed my mouth with his seed.
He was sitting propped up; awake, looking at the door. Waiting for me. I walked in, unsure for the first time that day, looking at him.
I had always admired him. He is the smartest man I have ever met - he is brilliant, funny as hell, and so masculine. He taught me that men didn't have to be either nerds or goons; that a man could be thickly muscled, powerful and masculine, but also thoughtful and intellectually gifted. He was always going on about post-slavery fracturing of the male image vis a vis Cleaver in Soul on Ice - he was determined neither to be Over Manager or the Animal. He succeeded. He had the covers up to his waist, his powerful shoulders and chest exposed, his biceps still large and powerful even though he was at rest, and relaxed. It suddenly came to me at that moment, one of those random, split-second epiphanies: I had dated skinny gothy guys at UNC because they were the opposite of my Dad - I was revelling some. Now all I could do is stare at him with butterflies in my stomach. He was beautiful and scary, like a lion or a panther.
He looked at me, I at him, a tableau, and he smiled at me. My heart soared, and then I saw his eyes track down to the floor. I understood. Shaking with excitement I sank to my knees, then forward onto my hands, and crawled to my Master. Across the berber carpet, up to the edge of the bed, my stomach doing flip-flops. I knew what I was supposed to do. I got on my knees then and pulled back the covers. He was naked.
Covers at his knees, his cock assaulting my vision at the junction of his body. Thick, throbbing, with dark brown pubic hair surrounding it, his legs, massive, weightlifter legs splayed out, his balls between them. My cunt pulsed. I was looking at my father's cock, erect for me, about to suck him off, and I was a nudge away from coming.
I will never be able to get across to a non-slave what it was like to slide my hand forward for that first touch of his cock - the electric shock of touching that hot flesh, feeling his living pulse throb in his manhood, pulsing in my hand. His daughter's hand - his slave's hand. He tensed under me, pushed his hips slightly forward, and I let my head fall forward, mouth open to engulf his cock. It was so hot in my mouth, so alive, and hearing him make a small "Oh," of pleasure as my mouth started working him made my heart soar. I was sucking my Master's cock finally. I could have cried, tears of joy, this is what I was for. I began to move my lips up and down the shaft of his beautiful cock, moved my left hand up also to gently touch is balls; they were heavy, full, I knew they made the come that would fill my mouth soon. I stroked him, cock and balls, and ran my mouth up and down. "My mouth is a cunt" went through my head over and over again as I let spit flow, made sure my tongue was spread out and my upper lip curled over my teeth to make sure I made a smooth, wet, warm hole for him to fuck. I experimented with pushing down to gag myself with his cock - the pain and discomfort of his big cock pushing to my glottis made my cunt spasm with excitement - I was soaking my thighs again. He pressed my head down several times, choking me, making me gag and cry, cutting off my air, and I wanted him to choke me off. Shove my head down and blow off into me, make me hurt so he could pump into my throat. All that mattered was that my Daddy, my Master, feel good and come in me.
When he called me "Good cunt," and told me to keep on sucking I felt so proud of myself. I was a good cunt. I was a slut sex-slave, and slut sex-slaves are good cunts for their Masters. My throat was aching, my jaw on fire, snot running out of my nose and tears streaking my face when he backed off, told me to jack him off into my mouth. My forearm burned by the time he came, spraying, and it set me off. Just my thighs pressed together, having my Daddy's hot cock jerking and pulsing jets of come into my mouth made me come - jarring, stomach clenching orgasm as I swallowed his jizz. "Come up here cunt," he told me when he had come down from his high and I had cleaned him off. "Did you like that baby? Did you like sucking Daddy off?" I crawled into his arms, buried my face in his neck, crying now not from the joy of being his slave, or the pain of being throat raped, but the violent catharsis of having gotten my Master off for the first time. "Oh yes Master. Thank you for using your slave, that's what I'm for. Use me, fuck me, hurt me Master, please!" I kissed his neck, kissed his jaw, felt the roughness of his morning beard against my lips. We made out, kissing frantically, and then at one point he pulled my head back with his left hand in my hair, looking at me with the calmness and beauty of an angel. His right hand flew out and cracked me across the face, the pain bright and red and throbbing across my left cheek and that side of my face. He did it not because he was angry, but because he could. Again and again we would make out, and then he would slap me on one side or the other until my face felt almost numb, throbbing and swollen like my cunt was, leaking and mashed up against his leg. I think I came again while he hit me. All I knew was that I was his property, to fuck, hurt, kiss, love on, spit in - anything.
He was hard again. "How do you want me Master? How do you want your little slave-daughter? What hole do you want to pump that big cock into Master?" I asked as I pumped his cock in my hand.
He wanted my ass. That morning, the first day of my slavery, the first real day of my life, my father sodomized me in his bed. I sucked his cock to get it wet enough for him to feel good, and then he pushed it into my bottom. Lying with a pillow under my hips, that big dick prying my cheeks apart, splitting me open - the pain was awful.
I loved it.
Every push forward of red-hot agony meant I was closer to being a good anal whore for my Daddy. I wanted it to hurt - it should hurt - a filthy cunt like me should suffer and get ass-raped by her Master. And then somewhere in my haze of lust and pain I realized he was in, all the way in. It was stunning - I could never have imagined what it would be like - I felt split open, felt like there was a tree stump inside me - my internal anatomy had been deranged. It felt like his cock was actually up in my guts, nudging my stomach, an incredible fullness that was both agonizing and insanely erotic.
I was soaking the pillow below me, leaking like a faucet, as I pushed back to make sure I was as open and fucked and anally stuffed by Daddycock as I could be.
I was surprised as how fast he came - maybe the way I shoved back to hug his dick into my intestines, the noise I made of obvious lust, the way I begged him to hurt me more and never stop using my ass - maybe that, and the tightness, and the wrongness (rightness) of sodomizing his daughter did it. He came in me, grunting, spraying jizz in my ass while his right hand under me crushed my greasy cunt. The pain and the knowledge that I gad gotten Master off made me come in sympathy.
What could be more wonderful than knowing your Master is satisfied? That you have got him off, he is exhausted and content to lay back and let you suck his filthy dick clean? I had gotten his gorgeous cock dirty, and so I had to clean it now, lick and suck every bit of it until it was pristine again. I licked and cleaned him until his cock was soft, no longer stank of my ass slime. I liked the bitterness of the taste of my ass - I deserved to do things like suck my shit off his cock. Anything he needed, anything he wanted, anything to please him. I would always do what he needed of me, his slave and daughter, fuckslut and cunt.
That was the first day of my slavery, and I know few people would get it, would understand how happy I am now. I was lost once - now I am found. I was blind, but now I see. I am my Father's slave. I will never leave him, never "grow up" and move away. I will plan my life around being near him, available as his slave for use.
Daddy has told me he is getting another special DVD made for me. I get wet thinking about that.