Chapter 2: Things Change

The room was big! The hole I’d lived in for so long was comfortable and I felt safe. Now mistress had me standing in a huge place where I couldn’t touch the walls on either side no matter how much I stretched out my arms. And the ceiling was so far above my head that not only did I not need to keep my head bowed, I could stretch up on tiptoes and still not be able to touch it. I remembered the rooms inside mistress’s house had been like this room, but even then, nothing like this. The room scared me. I wanted my hole back.

With mistress there was a man that I thought I should know. Like I’d seen him before. I wondered if he would like me to suck his cock or bend over so he could ream my ass. The answer came to me out of nowhere. It was Sir Paul, mistress Mary’s son! I remembered how much I’d loved the taste of his cum and my knees trembled. I wanted to drop to the floor so badly and suck him that if mistress hadn’t told me to be still when she’d brought me here, I wouldn’t have been able to help myself.

“What the fuck! Mom, how could you do such a fucked up thing to him!” I didn’t know who Sir Paul was talking about but he wasn’t asking his mom – he was accusing her of something. Even I could understand that.

“I know. I warned you,” mistress admitted to Sir Paul. “But he would have done the same to me.”

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Sir Paul said. Then he turned his attention to me. “Will you do it? Even after what mom’s done to you?”

I looked blankly at him, then my eyes watered. I knew he wanted an answer but I didn’t even know what he was asking. I would do ANYTHING for mistress but she didn’t seem to think I could do whatever this was. I was so confused that I just wanted to cry and apologize for being such a failure. I wanted to ask a question so bad but I knew I’d be punished if I did. Mistress hated it when I asked questions. I needed a beating to remind me to be better. A beating would remind me to not be so ... so anything. I’d learned to enjoy the reminders that I’m no good for anything except being mistresses stress relief.

“Well?”

Sir Paul needed an answer. I needed my hole. Mistress needed me to be gone. I cried. I think I fell to the ground. I know my head hurt like mistress had punched me on the back of my head again but that might have been when my head hit the floor.

It was daytime. I was laying straight. Like on my back with my back and legs straight. My neck wasn’t even bent. And my hands were beside me. I wasn’t even bound. I felt naked before I even opened my eyes. There was a sheet over me but I felt naked because there were no restraints against my skin. I wanted to cry but there was something wrong and tears didn’t come. Sir Paul saw my eyes flutter open and he told me I was drugged and to go back to sleep. My last thought was that I could feel something soft under me. A bed.

Sir Paul was there when I woke up again. I was still on my back and I was still in a bed. He was talking as I came to. He was saying stuff but there was no one else around. I would have heard them. I closed my eyes again.

Sir Paul was there the next time I woke again. Before I could stop myself, I asked in a really croaking voice where I was. Sir Paul didn’t even correct me for asking a question. In fact he seemed delighted that I’d asked, which confused me. He told me I was in my bed. I didn’t understand. My bed was only 3’ long and wasn’t soft like this. My head wasn’t pushed against any bars and it was wider than my body. I knew this as soon as I moved my arms away from my body and there was more softness under my hands than I was willing to explore. I realized Sir Paul was talking to me - or rather, at me. This was something I was used to. This time he wanted me to actually listen though. He kept saying, ‘Please believe me,’ after each sentence. I couldn’t help it. I dozed off again.

I think I dreamed. Sir Paul was talking to me in my dream. He kept saying things like, “You’re a person. You’ve been fucked over and fucked up but the real you is still inside. Remember before. Remember when you used to call me Pussy Boy? Remember when your mistress was just my mom, or Mary? Remember you used to date her?”

He was saying stuff like that as if he was reading it from a book. After what seemed like hours, he’d begin to repeat himself word for word. It was on the third go-though that I realized I was actually awake again and I was listening to Sir Paul actually saying these things to me. His words suddenly stopped for a moment then he said instead, “Fuck dude, you’ve shit yourself again, haven’t you? You’ve got to please stop doing that! It’s not okay anymore, dude.”

I felt the sheet lift and Sir Paul started to roll me onto my side. I think he was surprised when I helped him.

“Hey dude, welcome back to the land of the living!”

Sir Paul seemed actually excited that I was awake again. “Where’s mistress?” I asked in the same croaking voice that I could hardly believe belonged to me.

“Mom’s not allowed in here and she’s not your mistress any more.” He seemed upset.

I began to cry. My mistress wasn’t mine anymore? I needed her! “Please!” I croaked.

“Fuck!” Sir Paul said, then a moment later, “Dude. She fucked you up. But I’m going to fix you. Mom went too far this fucking time.”

Over the next few days, I learned a lot. A lot about myself. Things I’d forgotten. I learned that I hadn’t always been Mary’s toy and I learned that I was an actual person once. I learned that Sir Paul wasn’t actually Sir Paul, but just Paul. I learned I had a name. A real one, not Piss Breath or Dildo Face or Assfuck. My name was once Mikhail, but people called me Mike. I learned that once upon a time I was in charge and didn’t have to rely on others for everything from food to clothing. I learned that the bed I was in I’d actually bought with my own money! I was in a house I owned! At first it was too much. But Paul kept insisting it was all true. I began to believe him.

I spent a week in the bed, recovering from what Mary had done to me. Paul had removed all my piercings and the cock cage. He massaged me and moved my joints all the time until I was able to help him myself. There was one thing he did that began to embarrass me. Not at first, but after a while. He massaged my cock. I began to realize doing it made him uncomfortable but he did it anyway.

I don’t know when it happened but I suddenly realized I’d been asking a ton of questions and he’d patiently answered every one of them. It was like a turning point for me when I felt anger for the first time. Mary had fucked me over. I know he’d said it himself, but the first time I realized it myself was like a curtain being drawn open. That was when the memories came flooding back. Mary had thought she’d found someone to buy me. Actually BUY me! Like I was a thing. That had been the beginning of the end. People were looking for me. The guy Mary had talked to was just a poseur but he’d talked to people that’d talked to people and it had come to the attention of authorities. Mary needed me to go to the police and explain to them that the offer to sell me had only been a joke. If Mary was found to actually be guilty of slavery and human trafficking, she’d go to jail for a long time and Paul wanted me to save her from that.

I’ve never felt so many conflicting emotions. On one hand, Mary was still, ‘mistress’ to me. Infallible, god-like. On the other, I wanted her to never ever see the light of day as a free person ever again. Still another option eventually came to mind. Revenge. She’d turned me from a regular, heterosexual male into a cum-loving feminized slut with fucking pounds of metal piercing my body in every place imaginable. She’d even considered operating on me. Herself! She had seriously considered castrating me but the thought of me with balls hanging while dressed as a girl was too exciting for her. I had a number of derogatory tattoos on my body that identified me as a toy to be beaten, sodomized and throat fucked by anyone willing to do it. Paul said my ass would probably never be completely healed after the regular fisting it’d received but at least I could hold my own bowels now.

Another point came, which is specifically different than feeling anger and a disassociated feeling of wanting revenge. It was the late morning of my 8th day of recovery. I was making Paul lunch, or rather getting lunch ready. Paul had begrudgingly allowed me to make him lunch as a thank you for bringing me back. To say that Paul felt guilty was an understatement although I felt absolutely no anger towards the guy myself. Shit, he was only 17 and he was acting more responsibly than his mother. Anyway, he didn’t want me to have to do anything except recover. I’d had to talk him into allowing me the ‘honor’ of doing something nice for him. Admittedly my first thought was to give him a blowjob but I’d kept that to myself. I had to remind myself I’m not gay anymore.

While I was getting lunch ready, I saw a salad in the fridge and I baulked. Mary had taken a shit in an old store-made salad that was, before I’d ever seen it, past its used by date – all brown and sticky by itself before she did that. She’d had me eat the whole thing, feces and all. That had been the last meal I’d eaten before I’d been brought out of my hole. Suddenly my anger was razor sharp and focused like a laser at Mary. I didn’t want her going to jail. I wanted her to atone to me personally for what she’d put me through. I’d eaten her shit and not only that one time. I’d survived by drinking nothing but her piss – I didn’t even know how long I’d been doing that. The salad came out of the fridge and hit the wall on the other side of the kitchen before I even realized I’d touched it, much less thrown it.

At lunch, I talked with Paul and was completely open with him. I expressed my feelings of not wanting to kill his mother but instead to put HER through every single thing she’d done to me. I practically had to beg him to not be angry with me for not wanting to go to the police. He’d been having his own internal struggle. He loved his mom and didn’t want her spending the rest of her life in prison either but he knew something had to give; there HAD to be some kind of justice. I also admitted that some of what had been done to me was my own fault.

Paul had tried to insist that I was the victim and was suffering survivor guilt. I carefully asked him if he remembered who’s idea the whole thing had been. I asked him how much I’d resisted what his mom had asked me to do when this had all begun. I explained that I’d planned to give myself fully to his mom so she could see by example that someone could be submissive and even enthusiastic while serving so that she could do the same when her turn came. It had never occurred to me that Mary could go power crazy like she had. I had sorely misjudged her and now it was payback time. We spent a lot of time just eating lunch, not talking, each lost in thought.

The next day, Paul asked me what he could do to facilitate payback. I asked him how far he’d go and he assured me that he’d do anything short of enslaving his mother permanently.

“Paul, you don’t mean that. There are probably a lot of things you wouldn’t do.”

“I don’t want mom to go to jail but she’s got to ... you know ... pay ... for what she did to you. I also know that I was a nuisance before too ... you never had kids then getting a teenager dropped in your lap? That had to suck, dude. I’m real sorry. I didn’t have much of a choice though. I really did try to stay out of your way as much as I could.”

That statement made me feel bad. I’d always thought of Paul as a wimp and a ‘mommy’s-boy’ because he spent so much time withdrawn and quiet. Now he was telling me that he was merely trying to not be a nuisance to me.

“As I said. There are things you wouldn’t do, though. Your mom made me suck your dick. She made her boyfriend slave suck another guy’s dick and not just any guy. Her own son! What if I asked you to let her suck your dick? You’d probably run a mile. THEN you’d call the cops and have me arrested.”

“No ... no I wouldn’t. Run, I mean. Mom’s real pretty,” he said in little more than a whisper.

I didn’t know what to say to that so I said nothing. “Your mom kept me prisoner for years. I feel like it’s my turn to do that to her. I’d like to make her understand as much as I can, what I went through and how it feels to know her existence is tied to how pleasing she can be.”

“You will NOT kill my mom! I love her and that’s why I helped you.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Paul. I’m not recovered from this shit. Even I know that. I won’t BE recovered for years. I wanted to do something nice for you and preparing lunch was not my first thought. What I’m saying is that I know I’m screwed up and I’ll probably always be. You don’t want your mom going to jail. It’s up to you, as the person that saved me, to decide how far you’ll let me go, to get revenge.”

“Shit. I suppose taking my mom and disappearing isn’t what you want me to do?”

“I’m alive. I should be grateful. Yet I’m not. Your mom was always a bitch and you know what worked years ago? I smacked her ass. It worked for as long as she had bruises to remind her not to be a bitch. Then I gave her free reign to treat me as she wanted and what did she do? She fucked up my head more than I ever imagined possible.”

“I know my mom’s a bitch. I’m okay with you giving her a taste of her own medicine. What’s to stop you going just as power crazy as she did? Permanently damaging her like she tried to do to you?”

“You. If you’ll be my conscience. You can BE her safe word. She kept you from seeing the worst of what she did to me or had someone else do. She whipped me until I looked like nothing more than a mass of welts from the chest down. She put things in my ass. Huge things like wine bottles, until they were completely inside me. I’d be dead if the bottles had broken. She did untold other things to me too. You removed how much ‘jewelry’ from me? You think she would have cared if I’d died?”

“I cared. I thought you’d walked out on her years ago. That’s what she told me. Until I found her freaking out about a visit from the cops. Are you saying you’d really stop if I told you to?”

“No, I wouldn’t completely stop everything. But I would stop what I was doing that threatened her life. I owe you mine. Don’t underestimate the power I’m offering you. Will you do it?”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I remember telling you two, years ago, that you’re both weird. So no chance of forgiveness? I need to think about this shit. Can I do that?”

Paul came back to me 2 days later with his answer. “Neither of you would have started this shit if you weren’t into it. Mom’s scared about what’s going to happen to her. It’s sad really. She’s not scared of you. She’s scared of going to jail. Don’t worry, I haven’t talked to her about you wanting revenge. She wouldn’t have listened anyway. She’s too stuck up her own ass to worry about you. I have an offer for you. Want to negotiate?”

We came to an agreement that Paul said he’d fully support. The 3 of us would go to the police to show them that I was alive and well and make sure they closed their file. Then he’d help me turn the tables on his mom. Paul had stumbled across something that he reluctantly shared with me and that only fueled my anger at Mary.

I had spent years as a prostitute. Mary had sold my services as both a couple of fuck holes and as a punching bag for sadists who paid for the privilege of degrading me and torturing me. She’d used that income to support a lifestyle that her factory job by itself could never begin to do. Even so, there was still tens of thousands of dollars in her bank account. Money that should have been mine. Money that also paid for her current condo.

Paul’s only non-negotiable stipulation was that I would only be allowed to put his mom under my control for a month then he’d have the power to set her free of my control or allow me to ‘keep’ her. I’d have to accept I’d gotten my revenge within that month and move on. Get a job and return to the real world.

A month’s retribution for more than 3 years of abuse. I decided that I was fine with that. I found that I was able to negotiate well with Paul. The day before our planned visit to the cops, Paul asked the question that gave me pause.

“Can you do this?” He asked.

I thought he was talking about our upcoming visit to the police. “Of course! I promised and I accept your promise as well. You saved me. If I can’t trust you then who can I trust?”

“I mean mom. You’ve spent years agreeing with everything she wanted. Then you accepted my demands too. You became a pushover and that lasted for years. I know you want your revenge but can you actually take it?”

For days and days I’d fantasized about what I was going to subject Mary to for a month. I’d even whacked off a couple of times to the fantasy images in my head. Could I actually dominate Mary as she’d dominated me? I had no idea any more. Was I still too broken?

“I really don’t know, Paul,” I admitted. If I can’t, I’ll never be ‘me’ again.”

I hadn’t seen Mary in weeks. The last time, she’d still been my ‘beloved mistress’. Would I drop to my knees the moment I saw her and beg to serve her? The thought that it could actually happen depressed me.

I needn’t have worried so much. When Paul took me to Mary’s condo and reintroduced me to her, she was absolutely the same woman she’d been weeks ago. She greeted me with contempt. She seemed to think I was the same guy as I’d been a couple of weeks earlier. I allowed her to believe that.