(This story came about because I wanted to compliment a particularly superb, and famous dominatrix, who happened to “own” a muscled slave. This same versatile guy, with her permission, submitted to me. Given the exaggerations occasioned by ambitious dirty thoughts the three principal characters are true to life.)
The yard was its usual self. Exertion, and sweat, mostly male. Powerful men, some mature, some in their teens, but mainly men who were gloriously aware that they were at their prime, manhood celebrated. As he entered he was aware of his singularity in this company. He had lived a long, very long, time, and desire, dirty, selfish lust had grown with every passing year. He felt really good. That is to say he felt really bad, fucking, nasty, vicious and voracious. He had no concern for anyone or anything except satiating his extraordinary capacity for sex. Of course there was one exception, and he casually glanced upwards to see if she was watching. This muse, this priestess, this human goddess, was so extraordinary he hardly dared to think rationally about her. His carefully disguised searching of the upper stories revealed nothing obvious. Perhaps she was already absent on business, or as equally likely she was enjoying the early morning thrusting of one of the favourite males. His very existence depended on her, and since coming into her service, half a life-time ago, self-preservation had taught him how to organise his thoughts and tastes to fit in with his brief. For example, his pride and his testosterone absorbed mind never consciously focused on her at all. She was just there, the reason for all this pushing and pulling of weights, the running, the lifting, the fighting, was this amazing and dominating female. He behaved and thought, regarding Milady more like a trained animal, reacting on instinct. He was a master of the double think, he could despise all women, and the same time fear and respect her, even appear to worship her. He would never admit or even register to himself a hint of his submission to a “fucking cunt”.
This latter understanding was deeply, deeply submerged. Had she known he harboured a sneering misogyny his life would have been a toy to her. Fortunately for him he managed a perfect front of respectful male subservience. Having neither friends or family unconnected with her establishment gossip or boasting never presented opportunity for speaking his mind. All his thought went into the joy he derived from hurting beautiful males. And believe it or not, so successful was he at arse-licking a powerful woman, she had put him in charge. He had to provide objects, male objects, a few isolated young big-titted slutty women, but mainly, former gladiators, boxers, fighters, etc. As Chief Handler in her household, he was required to present these, and anticipate what new muscular male would elicit a compliment such as... “this is delightful, Handler, you’ve surpassed yourself again.” The now elderly, homosexual dissipated, sadist as I said did not like being the servant of a woman, a wealthy, young sexual abuser of men, but needs must when the devil calls, and by the gods, the devil called loudly in this household. To say she was an “an abuser of men” is somewhat like saying an apple represents an orchard, she drove men to the limits of endurance and sanity. She whipped, she caned, she tortured them with a venom that had to be seen to be credited. Her assistants, seasoned in her service, had been known to faint (or vomit) while witnessing her at work. The Handler prepared them, and repaired them. He wouldn’t be able to afford a stable of staggeringly attractive young muscular studs of his own, his modest stipend prevented even a thought of independence. So, while he was branding a beautiful muscle slave, and relishing his screams of agony, he did it for himself, conveniently forgetting she might be observing from one of the many spy holes, or simply be waiting to use this specimen herself as soon as the Handler had done his job.
Today’s work was on a familiar, tough, huge-chested, big armed, fiercely handsome ex-gladiator. A marvellously masculine object. However this man mountain would keep challenging the Mistress. So far, and in the many months he had been captive, neither fear of any amount of pain, or degradation could subdue his spirit. It was as if he was a fiercely loyal agent of a foreign country determined never to betray fellow spies, he would go to the grave in screaming agony but never yield. Even more irritating was that this object’s defiance was not obvious, he didn’t waste his energy in verbal contempt of his torturer. He neither spat in the face of the guards or cursed under his breath. To an inexperienced Master or Mistress he might appear a compliant object, one who knelt without objection, who placed his magnificent arms and legs in position for the shackles, who extended his glorious backside conveniently for the marathon caning sessions, but this one never let go of his pride. While the Handler found this rather exciting, the Mistress found it boring. She was near to admitting defeat and getting rid of him, something rare in this establishment. The Handler and those in the know, which was all but the lowest in the place, all feared the consequences. It had never happened before. She needed a submissive, not the near laughter and “do your worst” attitude that came naturally with his phenomenal physical strength and alpha male personality. The Handler had thought long and hard about this uppity fucker and had a few ideas up his evil sleeve. Yes, boy, he was going to enjoy your body, your sexy, muscular, totally fucking dominant male body.