A New Life – Day 01


First Day

It was an odd feeling, not grogginess exactly, but a diminished sense of agency, of ability to resist, of the capability to disobey. They had given us the drug just before the auction, the “vending” as They called it, and it had done its job, on me at least. We had been warned that the vending would be difficult, here where men – sorry, old habits can die hard – here, in this world, males are not “men,” we are all “boys” … were treated as a decidedly different and a most decidedly inferior species. Where boys are pets, bought and sold several times on average over the course of our lives.

Indigenous boys are used to it, having known nothing else since birth, when they were “pups” or “kittens” or “tadpoles” or “guppies” or “cubs,” all terms that were used to refer to male children as they were raised, trained, sold and bought. Through sophisticated genetic combinations, the Women of Gynesis had created various “breeds” of boys. Some physically quite large; others “miniatures.” Some with fuller hair, some with thicker cocks. Some as thin as greyhounds; others more akin to mastiffs. But this inter-breeding had come at a cost, accentuating a recessive genetic sequence that had many negative consequences, among them a certain mental slowness, a tendency to disease, and a low sperm count across all indigenous “breeds.” Mistresses talked about it with the resigned, clinical tone that we would have used back home to lament a daschund’s back troubles or the deafness of white cats.

But, from what I’ve seen and surmised, I figure the Women of the Gynesis Empire also wanted more variety in Their pets. As they were called generically, native “dinks,” regardless of “breed,” tended to have one similar feature: while their penises varied in thickness, they all tended to be short with modest “heads.” Growing up, I rarely saw and certainly never really focused on penises, other than my own, of course. But here, I got used to it … and quickly. Pets don’t wear clothes, after all, though sometimes we are put in “outfits,” designed not to hide but to accentuate body parts. Captured boys like me are sometimes called “exotics” or more crudely “nicks” (a contraction of “new dicks”) and are valued for our variety. If you happened to be blonde and blue eyed (as I am) you went for a higher price, as did taller boys.

Women also valued the variety in our cock sizes and shapes, which featured prominently in our auction descriptions. As we were displayed for sale, the Auctioneer described our features … straightness, angle of erection, cut or uncut, head size, length, and girth … the latter numbers stated as normally, as casually as we might mention a bra size back home.

I first experienced this the day before my sale, when a dozen of us in my sales lot were brought up from our cages and walked through the auction process. We had all been freshly groomed, scrubbed clean and suffered through body waxes to denude our lower bodies of all hair. I’m sure that was intentional, to make us feel even more naked, more vulnerable as we saw the auction block for the first time. We were given instructions about carriage (heads bowed, eyes lowered, no smiles, no frowns), obedience (expected to be immediate), silence (unless, in the unlikely event we were asked to speak), likely poses we could expect to assume (mouths open, tongues extended, bowed from the waist, ass cheeks parted).

Then a Handler leashed each of us in turn and led us down the long catwalk, while an unseen announcer read off our vital statistics as well as any distinguishing marks that might add to our value (e.g., higher intelligence scores, uncircumsized cocks, high cheekbones) or detract from it (existing scars, tattoos, or piercings). To hear my penis described like this for the first time was certainly odd. Flattering, I guess, in a way, but also incredibly demeaning … but something I would get used to. The walk through ended with all of us kneeling as the lead Handler for our lot explained in no uncertain terms what would happen to any of us who caused any problems the following day.

Picking one poor boy at random, She touched an electric prod to his bare bottom, sending him into convulsing paroxysms of pain that She waited calmly to subside before continuing. “If any of you nicks show Me any attitude whatsoever tomorrow while you’re on the catwalk, that’ll be to your balls. And believe me, you won’t just howl, you’ll puke up every ounce of your kibble.” She paused for effect before continuing. “After I make you lick up your barf, we’ll continue with the auction, but don’t be surprised if your antics bring you added attention and higher bids from some of the rougher Women attending the audience.”

Her tone then softened, a speech pattern I was to observe time and again with the Women of Gynesis. “So do U/us both a favor and behave tomorrow. It won’t be easy, I know, but if you continue to accept your new lives and do as you’re told, I’ll promise you I’ll make it as easy on you as I can.”

And She was true to Her word, giving us a powerfully effective ısparta escort sedative that lowered my anxiety, increasing my pliancy as I was vended.

The entire process, how the Women behaved during the auction, how I was treated underscored fully something we were told right after being captured. They didn’t hate us, They didn’t fear us; They just didn’t see us as anything like Their evolutionary equals. By Their worldview, Their religion, Their philosophy, They had dominion over us. Period. By birthright, They were Owners; by birthright, we were chattel, pets.

And there was nothing we could do about that, other than accept it … or resist, and very early on we were shown that resistance would be punished severely, up to the point of being “put down.” The drug made all of this easier to take as I was displayed – nude (save for a collar around my neck and electronic hobbles about my ankles), freshly bathed and groomed, scented – bid upon, and sold.

Even with the sedative, by the time my turn on the catwalk was over, I was quivering as though I had a bad chill. One young bidder, maybe in Her late teens, had asked to see my tongue fully extended and how well I could “work” it. An older Woman, perhaps in Her 60s, asked about my ass, receiving assurances that I was an “anal virgin,” which prompted Her to raise Her bids several times. Other bidders asked to see my flexibility, enquired about several minor surgeries listed in the auction notes, and wanted more details about the profession (civil engineer) I’d held in my previous life. From the mundane to the intimate, each question, each pose stripped a bit more of my humanity away.

But as the Handler led me off the stage to the sound of polite clapping, She soothed me, with reassurances that I’d done so well, that I’d sold for well above the chattelry’s expectations, and that She was sure my new Owner would be very pleased with me.

Now, several hours later, the drug was wearing off, but still had some hold on me as my new Owner led me into Her home. Funny how memory works, especially when swirled around by a sedative. My recollections of the period directly after the auction are blurred or absent. I can’t recall or pull up my emotions when I saw Mistress for the first time as She collected me, and the images I have of that first drive to Her house are muddled, confused, and interwoven with so many subsequent images. But like a film that continues after an inexplicable interruption, my memories become crystal clear on arrival at my new home. Not giving me time to orient myself or get anything but flitting glimpses of the neighborhood, yard, and house, She yanked on my leash and brought me down to a cool, dimly lit, lower floor, decorated and furnished, but with a cold, hard, stone floor. In the corner was a cage built of sturdy wire mesh, roughly three feet tall but five feet deep.

Mistress opened the door and gave me one of the simple commands She used. “In” was all She said, an order that had me on all fours, crawling into the cage. “Turn, boy.” When I did so, I was looking Her almost squarely in the eyes, through the wire, as She had squatted down to look at me. Quickly, almost instinctively, I lowered my gaze, which brought from Her a gentle laugh and reassuring words. “Good boy. You have beautiful eyes, but you know better than to raise them without permission.”

She took a moment to attach a water bottle to the outside of the wire, its metal tube reaching into the cage. “Drink,” was Her mono-syllabic command, and I obeyed, sucking in the tepid water, grateful, until then not having appreciated how parched I was. “Good boy,” She said again. When I stopped, She asked, “Had enough?” “Yes,” I said, “Mistress” added just a beat and a half later. These were the first words I’d spoken to Her, since She had not until then asked me a question or granted me permission to speak.

Despite the slight pause on my part, She slid Her hand into the cage, raised my chin and lifted my face, rewarding me with a bright smile before gently pushing my chin and my gaze back down. Clearing Her throat, She said, “you need some time for the sedative to wear off fully and to reflect. Some quiet time, to think about what you are and who I am … to let all of that sink in. Lie down, sleep if you can, drink any more water you want. But I don’t want to hear a peep out you? Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, Mistress,” I replied, this time without the pause. “And,” She said, drawing out the words, “let’s not either of U/us pretend that at some level you don’t enjoy this. I have, after all, seen both your genetic report and psychological profile. We know Our business, boy … and you are not here by chance.” With that She rose, covered the cage with a heavy dark blanket that put me into near total darkness.

As Her heels clicked across the hard floor, I heard Her stop to turn off the room light, which made my darkness complete as She climbed the stairs and closed the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

In confined, total darkness, time kars escort passes slowly, or maybe oddly is the better term. In fact, i’m reasonably sure that was part of the lesson She wanted me to learn. That “my time” no longer had any inherent value; in fact, it wasn’t even mine, it was Hers. Finding the water spout again with my hands and lips, I sucked down a bit more, then curled into a ball on the padding that covered the bottom of the cage and drifted off to sleep, thinking about Her words.

I do not know how long I slept, but I was out cold for a while. When I awoke, I had a mild headache, probably a hangover effect from the sedative. It took me a few moments to orient myself, to remember where I was, to notice the faint rim of light on the floor creeping in under the blanket, to hear the tap of heels, and to catch just a whiff of Her perfume.

“Mistress?” my voice was tentative. Her response was not. The sound of Her heels were sharp, Her voice from the darkness above me was sharp. “I thought I’d made Myself clear that you speak ONLY when I give you permission to speak. And I did NOT. You clearly need some more time to internalize what being a good pet means. If I hear another sound out of you, boy, I’ll whip you until you’re too hoarse to speak.”

Her words echoed in the room and, stunned by Her anger, I didn’t move a muscle. After several long moments, I heard Her turn and pace back across the room, returning to whatever She had been doing before turning off the lights, heading back upstairs, and leaving me in dark silence.

Again, time slowed for me, as I dozed, drank the last of the water, and sat against the side of the cage considering my situation. It was clear that I had few options other than to accept and obey. Escape was probably impossible and possibly not survivable. Before vending, I’d been “chipped,” a location device injected into the back of my neck, which was still sore. Prior to taking me from the auction house, Mistress had scanned my code into Her portable computer tablet and once in Her car into the vehicle’s navigation device. If I ran, She could track me. And run where? I knew almost nothing of the place, other than chilling rumors of the harshness of conditions in the desert that surrounded the oasis on which the city was built. And i’d never make it out of the city, since i still wore the hobbles, which could be activated remotely, making any movement beyond crawling virtually impossible.

I was still pondering these thoughts when Mistress returned, descending the steps and after a few moments pulling back the blanket. Even the relatively low lighting took a moment to adjust to as Mistress ordered “Hands and knees.”

When I had assumed this posture, She unlocked the cage door and opened it, stepping back, saying simply “Out.” Crawling forward, I could tell that She had changed clothes since the auction. The dark skirt, the serious heels, the business look were gone. She was casual now; I could see sandals and jeans. “When I let you out of the cage, boy, you’ll kiss my feet … and I want to feel gratitude in the kisses. Do it now.” I obeyed, touching my lips to Her feet, noticing both that they were elegantly pedicured and that I did, in fact, feel a sense of gratitude to Her. I guess I’d taken another significant step toward accepting that I really was Her pet. “Good boy” was my reward.

“But you always kiss a Woman’s right foot first, then Her left. Do it again.” When I had complied and made a mental note of the proper way to express my submission, I was rewarded with another kind remark as well as a warning: “Much better, pet. Don’t make me have to remind you of that again.”

“I lost my temper earlier and I shouldn’t have.” Her tone implied not an apology, but a simple statement of fact. She paused. “Despite your age, you’re just a pup and need training.” She paused again; I could feel Her gaze on my form. “You are intelligent, which is good, because you have a lot to learn. I can and will be patient as I train you. But I will NOT be willfully disobeyed. Now, boy, forehead to the floor.” When I had bent fully forward, forehead to the cold floor, She asked me: “What did you do wrong earlier?”

“I spoke without permission, Mistress.”

“Even worse,” Her voice took an edge, “you spoke when I had explicitly demanded silence, didn’t you, dink?”

I shivered, cheeks flushing, nails digging at the hard floor as She used the crude term to refer to me for the first time. “Yes, Mistress,” came my meed reply.

“And you understand that speaking is a privilege, not a right?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Why is that?”

It took me a moment to understand what She was asking, but after a pause, I responded. “Because I am a pet, Mistress.”

“And a dink. Say it.”

“Yes, Mistress,” my mouth dry. “And a dink.”

“Whose pet are you?”

“Your pet, Mistress.”

“Whose dink are you?”

“Your dink, Mistress.”

“Do you have a name?”

This question and Her tone in asking it chilled me. It had been made kastamonu escort clear to us when we were captured that our previous identities were gone; like all of our possessions, they’d been taken from us. We were told that we’d receive new names that our Owners chose for us. I felt another bit of my humanity slip from me as I denied my name, my former name, and answered, “no, Mistress.”

“Why not?” She continued the catechism.

“Because You haven’t named me yet, Mistress.”

Above me, She chuckled. “Oh, but actually, I have … I’ve even registered your name … I just haven’t told You what it is yet.” She paused again. “Would you like to know what it is?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Kneel up,” She commanded. “Your name is ‘tup’ … t – u – p … a simple, easy name. Tup,” She repeated, then traced Her finger over my chest, above my left nipple, the first time She’d touched me. “And I’m going to have it tatted right here. You’ll learn that all the Women in My family like to mark what We own. Now … what is your name, pet?”

“tup, Mistress,” I said my name for the first time.

“Why is that your name, tup?”

“Because it’s the name You chose for me, Mistress.”

“Do you have any other names”?

“No, Mistress,” I swallowed hard at this admission.

“Good boy,” She said, ruffling Her fingers through my hair. “You’re learning.”

Turning, She walked across the large room and opened a door. “Come,” then, as I began to rise, added: “Crawl.” Arriving at Her feet, I saw that She stood at the entrance to simple, utilitarian bathroom. “Kneel up, tup. This is for your use. Do your business, then shower well.” Lifting a large bottle, “Then use this. It’s the scent that I’ve chosen for you and that I want to smell on you, and for Others to smell. You will get used to it. Apply it liberally anywhere I’m likely to touch: ass, balls, cock, tummy, chest, face. Understood, tup?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Then roughly She lifted my arm and took my left hand into Hers, Her grip surprisingly strong and firm. “And don’t chew on your nails, boy,” She said, running the pads of Her fingertips over my bitten nails and cuticles. It was a bad habit i’d had since I was a boy; it had been noted in my evaluation at the chattlery, and several of my Handlers had commented on it. “They look pitiful, and I won’t have it. I’ll have your nails done professionally tomorrow, and I’d best not catch you picking at them or biting them. I know it’s a nervous habit and that you’re very anxious right now, but you need to learn to control that. Understood, pet?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, cheeks flushing at Her words. Oddly perhaps, more than anything else that had happened so far, this truly made me feel like Her pet.

“Good. Get going and don’t dally, W/we have plans tonight. Come find me when you’re done.”

With that, She turned to leave, but stopped to add: “Oh, two things. One, never, ever close the door when you’re in the bathroom. You have no right to privacy. Second, you should know this, but don’t touch your cock except to clean it and perfume it. I own it, like I own the rest of you … and I’ll decide if it receives any pleasure. You want to feel my full wrath, tup, you cum without permission. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Get to it then.” With that She left.

As ordered, I showered quickly but thoroughly, luxuriating in the hot water after hours cramped in the cage. Smelling the perfume Mistress had chosen for me, I was struck by its rich, floral scent. Not a masculine scent at all. Surely as Mistress intended, though, it immediately became the aroma that I associated with my status, the smell replacing the clothes I used to wear, which had labeled me as an upper middle class professional.

Clean and scented, I climbed the stairs out of the basement, up to the main level of the house. Funny, I can still remember how odd it felt at the time for my half erect cock to jut out, swinging freely as I entered the kitchen. Of course, I’ve long since become accustomed to that feeling. Now, it is any sort of cover, of clothing that would feel odd. From the lighting, I took it to be early evening. Whether it was still the day of my vending, I didn’t know. This time, I took a few moments, taking in the good tastes that Mistress displayed in Her furniture and decorations. My observations were broken by Her voice coming from a nearby room. “I’m in the den, tup. Come.”

Following her voice, I entered the den, finding Her seated on a couch, putting a book down. In that moment, I got my best, fullest look at Her, this Woman who owned me. It was hard to tell, since Women of Gynesis aged so gracefully, but She was probably in Her early to mid 30s, as much as a decade younger than me. Like most of the Women I’d seen here, She was slender, with thick black hair, Hers was tied back. Her dark eyes were stunning, and She’d changed clothes, no longer in jeans but dress slacks and a silk blouse. She bore Herself with confidence, grace, and balance. She was fit, with the figure of one who had been an active athlete in Her youth and still worked out regularly. I had only a moment to absorb this before She snapped Her fingers and pointed to Her feet, shod now in two inch black heels. I knew this was the order to approach, kneel, and kiss Her feet. Right, then left.

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